Chapter 5
Harry stirred from sleep, his eyelids heavy, as the distant clatter of pots and pans reached his ears. The noise, faint but persistent, drifted up from the kitchen below, pulling him reluctantly from the warmth of his blankets. He blinked in the early morning light, feeling the soft rise and fall of Ron’s snoring from the bed across the room, a sound so familiar that it had become part of the background—comforting, even.
He shifted on the small cot he had been sleeping on, the mattress creaking quietly under his weight. For a moment, Harry just lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the house waking up.
He let out a small sigh, dragging a hand through his untidy hair, already knowing that breakfast was being prepared.
Harry stood up slowly, the cool air hitting his skin as he left the warmth of the camp bed behind. He gave a small stretch, yawning as he began to tidy the cot quickly. The blanket, slightly crumpled from his tossing and turning, was neatly smoothed out, the pillow fluffed just enough before he stepped back to survey his work.
The morning drifted by in a flurry of activity, with Harry finding himself in the kitchen alongside Mrs. Weasley.
He helped with whatever task was handed to him—peeling vegetables, stirring pots, and setting out dishes. It felt good to be busy, his hands moving almost instinctively under Mrs. Weasley's watchful eye, her gentle instructions peppered with affectionate comments.
Ron, on the other hand, had been dragged into the kitchen rather reluctantly. He had complained at first, grumbling about how it was Christmas and he should be relaxing, not working. But after a sharp look from Mrs. Weasley—and the very real threat that there’d be no lunch if they didn’t help—the ginger-head begrudgingly joined in, sulking as he chopped carrots.
Their movements eventually brought them close enough that their shoulders brushed gently.
"You want to join us for a game of Quidditch later?" Ron whispered, "Ginny’s coming too."
"Sure," Harry replied, shrugging as if he had nothing else planned. "Same place?"
"Yeah,"
Harry was truly enjoying his Christmas holiday—he really was—until Rufus Scrimgeour, the Minister, showed up and soured everything. By the time he returned to the Burrow, his mood was distinctly worse, the cheer of the season all but evaporated.
Ron was waiting for him by the staircase, holding out a scarf. "You left this behind," he said, and didn't press for any details, which relieved Harry since he wasn’t eager to discuss it either—but to his surprise, the ginger-head wrapped the scarf around his neck instead. "It’s a bit chilly in here, well, since Percy arrived, anyway," he added, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Right then, let’s head back to the kitchen. I’m absolutely craving some mashed potatoes."
Harry hummed, feeling a bit of warmth return despite the earlier tension. "You and your appetite. Always the same, isn’t it?"
"Can’t help it," Ron grinned, "it’s like there’s a bottomless pit inside me.”
"Fair point. Let’s go before you start dreaming about gravy too.”
Returning to Hogwarts felt like slipping back into a well-worn routine, though the chill in the walls remained stubbornly persistent. That evening, after the hearty meal in the Great Hall, Harry settled into a corner of his bed, the Marauder’s Map spread out before him.
Ron had plopped down next to him, peering at the map with keen interest. “Blimey, look at all those names,” he murmured, eyes darting over the intricate web of dots and labels.
Harry nodded absentmindedly, his thoughts torn between the Marauder’s Map in his hand and the erratic thumping of his heart. It pounded so heavily in his chest that he half-expected the ginger-head, sitting so close beside him, to hear it too.
“Oh, I’ve got him,” Ron added eagerly, jabbing his finger at the parchment.
Harry leaned in closer, and sure enough, there was Draco Malfoy, his name drifting across the parchment. The distraction was immediate—whatever suspicions he had about Malfoy faded into the background, because Ron’s presence seemed to fill the space, making it difficult to think about anything else.
Things had been like this since their awkwardness at Slughorn’s party. Harry had done his best to move past it, but he couldn’t help replaying the events in his mind. He kept wondering what might have happened if they hadn’t held back earlier that evening. Each time he thought about it, the ‘what ifs’ weighed on him more heavily.
The only thing that managed to distract Harry from these odd feelings was Dumbledore’s private lessons—which provided him a much-needed break, and the Apparition class, allowing him to momentarily occupy himself.
“I haven’t found anything about Horcruxes,” Hermione said exasperatedly, dropping into the seat opposite him in the library. “I’ve searched through all the shelves, for hours on end…went to every corner of the library that’s accessible, but there’s nothing about Horcruxes in the open sections. It’s as if the information is being deliberately kept from us!”
Ron, meanwhile—was working on his essay, struggling to make any progress. The ginger-head had given up on pleading with Hermione to let him copy her homework.
It was like this every time they had a chance to get together, and their messed-up schedules were giving them that rare opportunity. They spent hours skimming through books (mostly Hermione), hoping to find something useful. There was even a moment when Harry asked Professor Slughorn about it, only to have the dungeon door slammed in his face.
The next time they were together, Ron excused himself, and Harry had a pretty good idea where the ginger-head was headed—probably off to discuss whatever it was Dean had been privately teaching him. He wanted to be mad about the fact that Ron was still hanging out with Dean, but his best friend assured him there was no romantic involvement.
Hermione had confided in him about it and wasn’t keen on Harry brooding over it.
“You need to let him be,” Hermione scolded. “He’s got his own interests,”
Harry groaned, he already told himself he had to keep his mind off the ginger-head, anyway Even though he was trying to keep his mind off things, he still decided to head to Hogsmeade alone that weekend—he bought the quidditch gloves as a birthday gift for Ron, but he resisted the temptation to get more. He’d hoped to buy something new, but he only had enough money for the gloves and a few treats from Honeydukes.
Next time, then.
He watched Ron unwrap his birthday presents, and saw his face light up with excitement. Alongside the gloves, there was another present from Harry—a scarf he rarely used—a yellow one he thought would suit the ginger-head.
"The gloves would’ve been enough," Ron said, blushing.
"It suits you," Harry said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“So green doesn’t suit me, then?” Ron snorted, trying on the scarf, which actually looked quite good on him.
“No,” Harry grinned. “You looked like mustard and tomato ketchup, though.”
“Bugger off,” Ron grumbled, tossing him a Chocolate Cauldron, which Harry narrowly dodged with a laugh.
Harry returned his attention to the Marauder’s Map he was holding, his eyes scanning the names in search of the same person.He'd been keeping track of Malfoy’s whereabouts, noting where he kept vanishing, but the Slytherin was nowhere to be seen.
“Are you seriously going to eat sweets before breakfast?” Harry asked, keeping his eyes on the map.
Ron shrugged, chomping on a chocolate cauldron while unwrapping another present. “Woah, look at what Dean got me!”
“Not interested,” Harry muttered, he was about to glance down at the castle grounds, checking if Malfoy was there, when suddenly a pair of hands turned his head to the side, and before he could react, he felt something pressed against his own lips, and what—
Harry's body went rigid, his entire focus consumed by the chapped lips against his, and the sweet taste of chocolate cauldron filled his senses, making it hard to think of anything else. He found himself thrusted onto his back, landing heavily on the mattress. The bed creaked under him, with his breath coming in quick, startled gasps.
Ron straddled him by the waist, his expression was one of disorientedness, before kissing him again.
Harry’s hands hovered hesitantly at Ron’s hips, fingers barely brushing the fabric of his shirt, as if he needed something—anything—to anchor him to the moment, to stop his mind from gyrating.
Before he could even process what was happening, the sudden closeness between them overwhelmed him. His body acted on instinct, and before he knew it, he was kissing back roughly.
"Romilda," Ron moaned desperately between kisses. "Touch me."
Harry’s eyes, which had been tightly shut, suddenly snapped open as if a brick had just smacked him square in the forehead. His heart gave a startled lurch, and for a moment, he felt as though he’d been jolted out of a dream, or worse, reality had just slapped him awake. What?
His attention immediately drifted to the ginger-head's face, noticing a smear of chocolate across the cheek, right next to the mouth. “Hold on, did you just fucking eat my chocolate cauldron?”
Ron, who was still trying to lean in for another kiss, whimpered in response.
“Oh, fuck!” Harry muttered, then he saw it—the box Romilda had given him before Christmas, the one spiked with love potion. Nope. Nope. Nope, his mind screamed, this wasn’t happening—not like this.
Before he could fully comprehend what was happening, he found himself half-balancing, half-carrying the ginger-head like some ridiculous, oversized bride out of the common room, heading straight for Slughorn’s office, and Harry despite the absurdity of the situation, couldn’t help but marvel at how he hadn’t dropped Ron yet.
It was absolutely mortifying.
Ron kept planting sloppy kisses on his cheeks as they made their way through the corridors, and Harry could feel his face burning with embarrassment. By the time they reached the office, he was half-hoping the floor would swallow him whole.
Professor Slughorn opened the door, his expression one of sheer surprise—more perplexed, in fact, than Harry had been when Ron had kissed him for the first time.
“Professor,” Harry winced, when the ginger-head nuzzled into his neck. “I think we’ve got a bit of a love potion situation on our hands…”
Ron was forced to drink the antidote, his face quickly returned to a distressed one, the dreamy, lovestruck look fading away in an instant. The ginger-head staggered slightly, and Harry pulled him to a nearby chair, making sure he was settled comfortably.
“Just look at him, poor lad.” Slughorn said, checking Ron's condition. "His temperature’s through the roof, we’ll need to get him looked after right away—fetch Madam Pomfrey, we can’t have him getting any worse."
"How was that possible?" Harry asked, "He’d already taken the antidote!”
"Likely overwhelmed," Slughorn hummed thoughtfully. "The antidote may have worked for the potion itself, m’boy! But the body can still react strongly to the residual effects.”
"Great," Harry groaned, his head twitching. “Just great.”
"Well, off you go then," Slughorn said cheerfully, "I’ll sort your friend out with a drink! Let’s see...I’ve got some beverages here—some wine, I believe…" He muttered to himself as he began rummaging through the assortment of drinks on the table.
Harry made his way through the door, his mind still reeling from the events. Before he could even close it behind him, a sudden, loud crash came from within the room. He immediately stopped in his tracks, and when he turned back, his eyes widened.
If Harry had been inclined to throttle someone this unpleasantly, it would have been the ginger-head, that infuriatingly bloody prat.
He wasn’t sure if it was the love potion, the antidote, or something else entirely, but the idea that the ginger-head had been pretending to be asleep whenever he was around, left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Harry wasn’t in the mood to deal with anyone at all, especially when they’d lost a fair number of points in the Quidditch match, all because that insufferable Mclaggen had to step in for Ron's position. Then again, who was he to complain, when he was the one in the Hospital Wing?
Ginny had just visited him, while recounting every detail of the match. A cracked skull, all thanks to that Mclaggen...oh he was going to murder him.
"I'm sorry," a voice said, coming from the bed next to him.
Harry's jaw tightened, and he turned his head slightly, recognizing the voice immediately. "Oh, now you're talking, are you?"
Ron shifted uneasily in his bed, fidgeting with the edge of his blanket before tugging it up around him. "How am I supposed to face you after that..." he murmured shamely.
Harry remained silent. Sure, the kiss had been...well, great. But being called Romilda in the middle of it? That stung more than anything. Not to mention Ron had been under the influence of a love potion at the time. He’d rather sit down and eat that bowl of maggots he’d been sent at Christmas than go through that again.
“It’s fine,” Harry said, his voice striving for a casual tone. “Let's just forget about it, yeah?”
“You might be able to, but I can’t!” Ron exclaimed thickly from beneath his blanket, “People who’ve been under its influence often remember everything that happened, and it was absolutely dreadful!” He shifted the blanket tighter around himself as if to shield his entire body from the memory. “It’s not just the awkwardness of what I did, Harry—it’s knowing that I was so completely under the potion’s spell that I can recall every single moment. It’s like I’m replaying the whole thing in my head over and over, and it’s just horrid!”
A heavy silence settled between them, and after a few seconds of contemplation, Harry sighed. “Alright, let’s talk about it.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” The ginger-head said, convinced that his behavior was inexcusable and that Harry had every right to be repulsed.
Harry gingerly lifted himself from his bed, he shuffled over to Ron’s bed, reaching out to tug the blanket away.
“Harry, what on earth are you doing—”
“I’ve had enough of this silent treatment,” Harry snatched his wand from the bed and muttered, ‘Muffliato’ casting the spell to drown out their voices. “If you won’t come to me, then I’m coming to you!”
“Geroffme!” Ron shouted, as they tumbled onto the floor, with limbs flailing in all directions, now devolving into a full-on wrestling match.
“Will you just listen to me!” Harry hissed, narrowly dodging a wild swing from Ron and grabbing his foot as it was about to connect with his shin.
"I’m not listening to you—"
"Yeah, right, you are!" Harry said sharply.
Ron shoved him away, his breath coming in short gasps. “No, you’re not thinking clearly!” he spluttered urgently. “You’re not—blimey, you can’t be serious! You’re not like me, Harry! This isn’t right, it’s not you. You’ve got to see that, this whole thing is mad—you're not yourself right now, you're—”
Harry seized the ginger-head by the front of his pajama shirt harshly. “I am what, Ron?” he demanded
“You don’t get it,” Ron said, strained. “I’m gay, Harry. You knew that!”
“Tell me,” Harry pressed, “Tell me why, when it comes to me, you think it’s some kind of forbidden thing.”
“Because you’re my best mate,” Ron said, his face twisting as he turned away, struggling to hold back tears. “I’m a mess, and you’ve got every right to hate me for what I’ve done. I’m all over the place, and you… you’re just not supposed to be part of this. It’s wrong, and I’ve made a right hash of it!”
Harry leaned back, rubbing his hand across his face in exasperation. “Listen,” he said, “if I told you that I actually liked it when you kissed me, would I still feel disgusted?”
“What?”
Harry took a shaky breath, gathering his courage. “I…I liked it, alright?” he admitted. “The kiss, you, everything about it! Honestly, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to do it again.”
“But you’re not...” Ron's voice wavering with doubt, then frowned. “Wait, what did you just say?”
Harry, with his thoughts tumbling about in his mind, stared at the ginger-head beneath him. "What? That I liked the kiss?"
"No, you git!" Ron exclaimed, his cheeks reddening. "After that.”
"Oh," Harry said, "Er, yeah, I thought you’d already known about that?”
"What?" Ron blurted out, too stunned. "No, no, hold on a minute," he said, "You’ve got to be joking, right? I mean, you can’t be serious—”
“I kissed you back, remember?” Harry said, factually. “When you were under the love potion, not before you mentioned Romilda. I assumed that—"
“No, you're not!” Ron shot back, his face going an even deeper shade of red, as if the very idea was somehow preposterous.
Harry stared at him, “Yeah, I am,” he replied firmly, there was no humour, no teasing in his voice—just pure honesty. “We’ll figure it out together, alright?" He continued, leaning forward. "I want to work this out with you, Ron. I really do.”
Ron didn’t say a word, his mouth hanging open for a moment before he clamped it shut, his jaw tightening. They sat there, frozen in place, neither daring to move or even breathe too loudly, as if the weight of what had just been said could shatter with the slightest sound. Their eyes remained locked, searching each other for something—an answer, an explanation, maybe just a sign of what to do next.
Harry’s heart hammered in his chest, each thump louder than the last, as they began to slowly, almost instinctively, lean closer to each other. It was a pull neither could quite resist, as if something beyond them was guiding their movements. Just as the gap between them was almost gone, with lips only inches apart, the ginger-head jerked his head to the side.
“I'm not going to kiss you, mate,” Ron said, tightly.
Harry blinked, his brow furrowing. “Wha—why not?”
Ron’s ears turned bright red, always a dead giveaway when he was flustered or embarrassed, and he rounded on Harry with an expression that hovered somewhere between frustration and incredulity. “What do you mean ‘why’?” he exclaimed, the indignation rising in his voice. “You're not gay, Harry! You’re only saying this because you’ve cracked your skull, or—or Merlin knows what else! Maybe you’re just trying to be nice or—no, wait, it’s definitely the head injury!”
"Oh my god," Harry breathed, leaning back. "Ron, no—"
"Yes and yes!" Ron interrupted, his voice climbing in pitch as he frantically scrambled out from underneath Harry, wriggling like his life depended on it. "I've had enough, alright? I can't bloody do this anymore! I'm tired, I need to sleep—I'm off, So, goodnight! Sweet dreams! See you tomorrow!"
Yeah. If Harry had been inclined to throttle someone this unpleasantly, it would have been the fucking ginger-head.