Chapter 3
Harry tapped the shaft of his quill against the blank parchment laid out before him ceaselessly.
The blotchy ink had already begun to seep into the paper, darkening it with smudges that seemed to cling stubbornly. He watched, somewhat infuriated, as the once-pristine surface of the parchment was slowly overtaken by the inky stains, as though the page itself was reluctant to give up its emptiness.
He had to get his Transfiguration homework done, but the task seemed nearly impossible. How was he supposed to form a coherent sentence when every time he tried to concentrate, Ron's image kept cropping into his mind?
Hermione wasn’t much help either. He couldn’t exactly tell her what he’d just witnessed—he didn’t want to upset the ginger-head or risk shattering their friendship, which was the last thing Harry wanted. The thought of causing a rift between them was almost as troubling as the scene he’d seen behind the tapestry.
“Merlin,” Harry groaned, yanking the quill away from the parchment and dipping it back into the inkpot.
“Oh honestly!” Hermioned hissed, when a tiny speck of ink splattered across the parchment that she had been diligently working on.
“Sorry,” Harry flicked his wand with a practised hand, murmuring the spell for a cleaning charm.
Hermione regarded him with a look of incredulity before shaking her head, “The library will be closing any moment now, Harry. I hope you’re very well aware that you haven’t even written a single word,”
“I’m fully aware of that, Hermione,” Harry said, glaring at his blank parchment. “Fully aware,”
"Well, get on with it then," Hermione said briskly, her quill scratching furiously across her parchment once again, with Harry barely managing to scribble down a couple sentences before Madam Pince swooped in and shooed them out of the library with a snippy dismissal.
Harry hadn’t caught sight of Ron the next day—or the day after that. It was only after two whole days that the ginger-head finally made an appearance, brandishing a bag of sweets from Honeydukes with a grin that suggested he’d been having a rather splendid time.
"Harry!" Ron exclaimed, plonking himself down across from him at the Great Hall. "I’ve got your favourites,"
Harry didn’t bother to respond, instead ladled out a creamy broth into his bowl apathetically.
"Oh, and I've got meself a new quill," Ron said enthusiastically. "Been savin' up for it, you know, the one we spotted last year at Scrivenshaft's? The one with the red feather?”
Harry stuffed a spoonful of broth into his mouth.
"It was nearly all gone, but then they had one tucked away in the back, and the shopkeeper managed to dig it out for me!" Ron went on, shoving a fudge into his mouth with equal enthusiasm. "And Dean tried to get me a new scarf, reckon’ green would suit me, but I told him no, though—I'm not about to let him waste his money on me. I’m just not that sort of person. Besides, green? I’m no Slytherin, thank you very much.”
He couldn't quite understand how much eagerness someone could muster after vanishing for two days without a word and not bothering to explain where they'd been. "Okay," Harry answered.
“You really should try these new flavours I’ve got as well,” Ron said, completely unmindful to the fact that Harry was on the brink of strangling him.
Ron seemed to rebound with avidity for the rest of the day, chattering on about everything, with Harry trailing and nodding along absentmindedly. Though he’d never admit it out loud, this was far better than being stuck with Hermione in the library.
As they meandered down the corridor, Harry had a sudden realisation: Harry had never been directly behind the ginger-head before, or at least, he’d never fully appreciated how tall Ron actually was.
Harry’s eyes drifted to the ginger-head's ill-fitting robe, the fabric was stretched tight across his shoulders and down his lanky arms. The shoes, too, seemed to be strained at the seams, barely containing his feet. And as for the socks—one was a garish yellow, while the other bore no resemblance to it whatsoever.
He glanced upwards and noticed how Ron’s hair bobbed in sync with every stride, each bounce as perfectly timed as if it had its own rhythm.
How had Harry missed all these details before?
"Stop staring at me like that," Ron mumbled, the blush deepening across his freckled face.
Harry, who had been staring absent-mindedly, could feel his own cheeks growing warm in response. “Sorry,”
"S'alright," Ron muttered, shrugging a bit, "Just...made me feel a bit self-conscious, you know?" He glanced away, fiddling with the ends of his hair as if noticing its length for the first time. "Was thinking about trimming it next summer anyway—getting a bit long, isn't it?"
“Err, yeah…”
Ron gave him a funny sort of look, one eyebrow raised as if to say, Really? But he didn’t press the matter further.
That evening, Harry dreamed he was back in the Great Hall, surrounded by a lavish spread of food and drink. The tables groaned under the weight of rich dishes and sparkling goblets, with the whole place bathed in the warm glow of the floating candles above. Ron sat beside him, looking as though he belonged there just as much as the enchanted ceiling overhead. They shared a silent glance, their hands slowly edging towards each other until, at last, their fingers intertwined.
Suddenly, the scene shifted. Harry was now on his Firebolt, slicing through the air around the Quidditch pitch with effortless grace. He flew in wide, sweeping circles, the wind whipping through his hair. Every so often, he’d glance towards the stands where Ron sat, his face glowing with admiration. Just as Harry was about to dive forward, feeling that familiar rush of adrenaline, the dream shifted again—this time, he found himself in the bathroom, greedily biting into a large slice of treacle tart, his cheeks stuffed with the sweet treat.
The bathroom door flung open with a loud crash, and Mrs. Weasley stormed in, her voice rising to a piercing screech as she berated him, "You’ve no business being with my youngest son!"
It had been a strange series of dreams, and Harry awoke just when a beam of sunlight broke through the curtains and landed squarely on his face.
He dragged himself upright, his hair a complete mess. The dream had left him with so little energy that he couldn’t even muster the effort to smooth his dishevelled locks.
Ron was in the midst of brushing his teeth, shirt flapping loosely halfway down his chest, so when Harry walked into the bathroom and took in the sight, he almost stumbled backwards, his breath catching in his throat as he narrowly avoided banging his head on the doorframe.
"Blimey!" Seamus’s voice came from just behind him, clearly startled.
“What’s all this about?” Dean asked groggily, he shuffled right up to Seamus and, with a sleepy smile, planted a quick peck on the nose. “Morning, ba-a-be,” he yawned.
Harry blinked several times, trying to process what he was seeing, before finally opening his mouth, only to snap it shut again, still stunned.
Seamus swatted Dean’s arm aside with a quick, dismissive gesture before settling himself down next to Ron. The two of them carried on as if this was just another everyday occurrence in their dormitory.
“Excuse me,” Neville said, causing Harry to snap out of his reverie and realise that he was inadvertently blocking the entrance to the bathroom.
Harry braced himself, thinking Neville might be about to kiss Dean or any of them, but thankfully, nothing of the sort happened.
"You didn't know?" Ron exclaimed, as they jostled their way through the bustling students to claim the last remaining seats near the entrance of the Great Hall, right at the edge of their house's table.
"How would I—" Harry blurted out, still visibly stunned, "I thought he was with you!”
"They only came out two days ago," Ron muttered, stuffing a piece of bacon onto his plate, "Not exactly subtle, are they? Even Neville was shocked, poor bloke, but he'll get used to it, eventually." He continued through a mouthful of bacon, his words muffled but still clear enough.
"But..." Harry began hesitantly, "What about you?"
Ron looked up, a bit puzzled. "What about me?"
"Well, you two kissed?"
“So?” Ron remarked, "Just 'cause we kissed, mate, doesn't mean we're dating,”
Harry was feeling thoroughly disconcerted by the whole affair. His mind was racing with questions—how had this happened, when did it all begin, and was it even possible? The kiss behind the tapestry was suddenly far more significant than he'd ever imagined.
His stomach twisted with a nervous flutter, as if a hundred butterflies were flapping their wings all at once. He felt a rush of emotions, his mind raced through every possibility, each one more bewildering than the last. Shaking his head in a bid to clear the confusion he thought, No, what on earth am I thinking?
He was restless throughout the entire day, though he managed to attend his classes with some semblance of focus. The silver lining was that Ron wasn’t spending his time with Dean anymore; perhaps whatever had passed between them had finally run its course.
"So, I heard about Slughorn’s party," Ron said as they lounged in the courtyard. The ginger-head was sprawled on a bench while Harry sat nearby, absorbed in his Advanced Potion-Making book.
Harry glanced up, his attention momentarily shifting from the intricate potion instructions. "Yeah? What about it?"
Ron leaned back, a grin spreading across his face. "Well, apparently it's going to be quite the event. You know how Slughorn loves a good gathering.”
"Yeah?" Harry replied, his eyes glued on the pages of his book as he turned another. He was acutely aware that he needed something to focus on other than the ginger-head, who had an unnerving way of making him feel flustered.
"Well," Ron said, "I heard it from Seamus, who got a scoop from Parvati, that she got it from her sister." He looked at Harry with a knowing glance. "Do you know anything about it?”
"Yeah,” Harry groaned. “Hermione’s been dragged into it as well.”
"Alright," Ron said, steadily. "When's it happening?"
"Christmas," Harry shrugged. "We’re supposed to bring guests, but I haven’t asked anyone yet.”
“What? But you’ve only got four days left,” Ron said, a note of worry in his voice. “Have you thought about asking Romilda Vane?”
Harry’s face contorted with distaste. "No way," he said, slamming his Advanced Potion-Making book shut with a thud. "Hermion warned me about the sweets she was peddling.”
“What’s wrong with Romilda? I thought she fancied you.”
“She does,” Harry said, shaking his head. “But those love potions she’s been pushing are nothing but trouble. I’m not about to get tangled up in that mess.”
Ron raised an eyebrow. “So, what’s your plan then? You need someone to come with you, don’t you?”
“I know,” Harry replied with a sigh. “I’m just not sure who to ask. I’d rather not deal with more complications.”
Ron pondered for a moment. “Well, maybe you could just ask someone who won’t make things awkward.”
Harry rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of the decision. “I suppose I could try that. I’ll think about it.”
“Just don’t leave it until the last minute, mate. You’ve got enough to worry about with everything else going on.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Harry said, his heart pounding. “I’ll sort it out.”
The conversation left him agitated for the next two days. Harry found himself obsessing over what it might be like if he asked his best mate instead. No, that was preposterous—he couldn’t possibly do that. He wasn’t—he wasn’t interested in Ron in that way.
But then Ron had mentioned someone who wouldn’t make things awkward, someone he could ask as a friend. Maybe, Harry thought, he could consider asking anyone after all. As a friend, it might not be so strange.
That evening, Harry found himself in the library, as usual, inevitably ending up at a table with Hermione. They were seated at the furthest table in the library, tucked away in a corner. From their secluded spot, they could faintly hear Madam Pince’s distant muttering as she busily stacked books left scattered across the tables.
Hermione was scribbling away on her parchment with a fervour that left her looking rather scruffy. Ink had splattered onto her bushy hair and stained her left cheek.
"What'd you know about queer people?" Harry asked, despite the fact that they were alone in the library, he leaned in and lowered his voice as if the very walls might overhear.
Hermione looked up from her parchment, her brow furrowed in curiosity. "What do you mean?" She brushed a stray lock of ink-streaked hair from her face and gave Harry her full attention.
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Err, I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately. You know, I’ve been wondering about...well, about people who might be different in that way. I’m not really sure how to understand it all.”
“Hm,” Hermione said, dipping her quill back into the inkpot before resuming her writing. “Are you one of them?”
“What, no!” Harry exclaimed, “I was just—I was just curious!”
Hermione regarded him with an odd expression, her eyebrows raised. "The term was used to describe all sorts of sexual and gender identities, Harry, It's not really talked about in Wizarding society, but it’s not unheard of either.”
“So, uh…would you call it ‘queer’ if a man kisses another man?” Harry asked.
“Well, I suppose it could be,” Hermione replied thoughtfully. “If they’re romantically interested in each other, then yes, it would fall under the queer term. It’s about their feelings and identity rather than the act itself.”
“Okay,” Harry cleared his throat, trying to steady his nerves. “How do you…how do you deal with them?”
“Harry,” Hermione said, looking at him with concern, “Are you sure you’re not—”
“No!” Harry interrupted, his face flushing. “Why would you think that?”
“You asked me out of nowhere!” Hermione said, slightly defensive.
“Alright, then,” Harry said, lifting his hand as if to emphasise his point. “What if I am? How would you handle that?”
“Well, of course, I’d treat you the same,” Hermione replied earnestly, setting her quill aside. “I’m your friend, Harry. I wouldn’t ever think of hating you for something like that!”
Harry let out a deep sigh of relief, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. That was a relief—very reassuring, actually. But then again, it didn't really matter because he wasn’t queer himself. He was just speaking on behalf of Ron, though he kept that part to himself.
“So, do you, err, have anyone invited to Slughorn’s party?” Harry asked, trying to shift the conversation.
“Well, I do,” Hermione said. “I was considering about asking Ron—”
“No,” Harry cut in abruptly, surprising even himself with the firmness of his response.
Hermione stared at him, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Harry, you’re not hiding something from me, are you? You don’t have to keep secrets—”
“For the last time, Hermione,” Harry interrupted impatiently, “I'm not queer—”
"I'm not saying you're queer or anything, but if you don't want Ron around, you should've had it out with him—"
"We're not having a row—”
"Hush!" Madam Pince's crisped hiss startled them both, making them jump slightly in their seats. The librarian glided past behind them, unnoticed until that moment, casting a condescending look.
"Look," Harry hissed, "Just—just don’t, alright?"
"Fine," Hermione snapped, "What about you then?" she pressed, not willing to let him wriggle out of the conversation so easily.
Harry explained, a bit wearily, that he hadn't asked anyone since she'd first mentioned the party. It hadn’t really been Hermione’s problem to begin with, after all. She could’ve asked anyone she fancied, and Harry was fairly certain they would’ve jumped at the chance to say yes, well—who would turn down an invitation to one of Slughorn’s exclusive parties? No one was exactly keeping it a secret, either—it was plain for anyone with half an eye to see.
They both made their way back to the common room, and Harry found himself offering a hand as Hermione struggled with five absurdly thick volumes, each one looking like it weighed as much as a small cauldron. Together, they probably weighed more than a dozen ashwinder eggs, though Harry didn’t dare ask what on earth she needed them for. Frankly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
As they stepped through the portrait hole, Harry’s eyes caught sight of two figures standing rather close together, just by the entrance. The moment they moved nearer, Harry’s expression darkened.
"What d'you think you're doing?" Harry growled, his eyes boring into Dean.
"Whoa, hey—" Dean responded, startled, raising his hands defensively.
"Harry, what's going on?" Hermione asked, stepping closer. Her gaze shifted between Ron and Dean, catching their awkward expressions. "And why, exactly," she added, "are you two still up at this hour?"
"We could ask the same of you, couldn’t we?" Ron muttered defensively, "We’re just talking, for Merlin’s sake!" His ears were turning a shade redder by the second, but he managed to stand his ground, though not without glancing nervously at Dean.
"I’m off to bed," Harry muttered tersely, "Goodnight, Hermione." With that, he turned on his heel and stalked towards the dormitory, clearly put out by the whole situation.