to yearn
Cho. Cho. Cho.
Harry kept the mantra going on in his head as Hermione continued on about something he wasn’t paying attention to, despite how vital it probably was.
Cho. Cho. Cho.
That was who he liked, who he wanted to date, and hold, and do everything with.
Cho. Cho. Cho.
Maybe if he kept it up long enough, he could convince himself that that was the truth; because Cho was pretty, smart, witty, a Quidditch seeker, and most importantly, a girl. It was right but it wasn’t. She didn’t have any freckles, her hair was too long and dark, her voice too high, and her hands too slender.
Hermione snapped her fingers in front of him and Harry blinked, startled. “Harry? Are you alright?”
Attempting to hide his grimace, Harry said, “Uh, yeah. I was just thinking about everything that’s been going on, you know? With the tournament and everything.”
She narrowed her eyes at him and Harry knew that she didn’t believe him.
“Did you hear anything I said?”
“Um…”
“Right,” She replied, sighing. Perhaps she felt a little sympathetic for him because she didn’t ask anything else about it. “Speaking of, have you figured out what the golden egg was saying?”
“Yes,” Harry answered. “I got some…help.”
He ignored the memory of Cedric leaning in to whisper in his ear about how good the Prefects bathroom was, and how some of his friends had laughed. He especially ignored the sick feeling he felt as he thought about how attractive Cedric admittedly was.
Harry knew there was something wrong with him. Well, there were a lot of things wrong with him - what with the whole Boy Who Lived thing and Voldemort coming for him the past four years - but this was different. This was nothing magic related. Boys shouldn’t like boys the way he did. Boys should like girls but no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t make himself like them, and he’s been trying really hard. They were nice, don’t get him wrong. But they weren’t boys. And most importantly, the most messed up thing of all, they weren’t Ron.
Just another thing about him that was freaky. It was quite sickening. He has been quite sickening lately and either everyone ignores it or they know too.
Hermione scrutinised him for a moment longer before sighing again. “Well I suppose that’s better than nothing. So what’s it about?”
“Er…I think I need just a little more time to properly figure it out? I just need to make sure of something. I’m going to check it again later tonight,” Harry lied, cringing inwardly as he did so. He hadn’t been to the Prefects bathroom yet, not sure if he was prepared for whatever it was waiting for him in there, but he can’t just not go tonight after what he’s told her.
“Oh. Do you need some help?” Hermione questioned, furrowing her brow.
“This is something I need to do alone.” He didn’t want to imagine Hermione being with him in the bathroom, in case something mortifying happened.
“Hmm, alright. Oh look,” Hermione said suddenly. “Cho.”
When he turned, there was Cho, giggling with her usual group of girls and occasionally sneaking glances over at him just to giggle some more. Harry raked his eyes over her hair and complexion, the shape of her eyes and lips, the way she said “Hi Harry” as she went past, trying fruitlessly to feel any sort of attraction, and the horrible sickly feeling rose inside him once more.
“Hey,” Harry greeted lamely far too late; she had already gone around the corner, chatting with her friends.
Watching him carefully, Hermione asked, “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”
“Yeah,” Harry replied, glancing over at the bushy haired girl for a second. “She is.”
“Though, I heard she asked Cedric out the other day.”
“Yeah?”
“He said yes. Apparently they’re dating now.”
Harry tried to feel bothered about it but he wasn’t. Who didn’t want to date Cedric? He was good looking, kind, and everything you’d want in a boyfriend and friend. Perhaps he’d feel more inclined to feel jealous of Cho for being able to date him so freely if his mind wasn’t already so occupied.
“Oh. Great.”
Ignoring the look Hermione gave him, Harry continued onwards and instead asked, “What do you think the twins wanted to do with Ron?”
She merely shrugged and responded with, “Hopefully not another prank. You know he doesn’t like it when Fred and George gets him involved.”
Yeah. Harry did know.
Harry stared at the ceiling as he laid on his four-poster bed, listening to Ron rustle about his own bed and talk about what the twins had pulled him over for. Dean, Seamus, and Neville were still at the Great Hall, happily eating dinner. He had left early, too nervous and ill-feeling to force anything else down his throat, and Ron had accompanied him up to the dormitory even though Harry knew he would much rather continue eating downstairs. Hermione, too, had followed but Harry had convinced her that he was just going to go to bed and that she shouldn’t worry too much about it. She had stayed a bit in the boys dormitory, the three of them just talking, before saying her goodnight and leaving to her own.
In the corner of his eye, he could see the golden egg glinting under the robes Harry had thrown over it, and when he turned to lie on his side, he could see Ron from beyond the maroon curtains. Harry watched the way the candlelight casted a light glow on his best friend’s hair, causing it to mimic the colour of the slow setting sun, and how that slight orange glow was carried down onto his face, softening the angles of his cheeks and allowing his freckles to stand out. Harry bit the inside of his lip, feeling nauseous, and pushed his feelings away.
“But I reckon you’ve got it handled,” Ron was saying. “I mean, what could be worse than being hunted by an angry dragon?”
'Not having you.’ The thought made his skin crawl as he remembered the two miserable weeks they weren’t talking. It was a ridiculous thing to fight over - Harry was certain if they’d just talked it out properly rather than being so stubborn, it wouldn’t have happened - but at least they were good now. More than good. He hummed in response when Ron shot him a questioning look, and Harry memorised the way the low flames danced in his eyes and the subtle downturn of his lips. Content, Ron returned to beating his pillow to make it more comfortable and continued spouting out ideas of what the second task could be while all Harry wanted to do was count every single freckle on his skin, trace them with his finger, and make up a constellation just for the two of them.
It was strange how Ron and him were so so close but still so far. Ron could be in arms length to him but he would still feel the distance. Sometimes the urge to just reach over to lightly graze the pale boy’s skin or to casually hold his hand was so strong that all Harry could do was stuff his hands in his pockets and think really hard about how terrible his Potions test mark is going to turn out or try to make up scenarios about how the latest Defence Against the Dark Arts professor will probably attempt to kill him again. Anything to get his mind of off how welcoming he knew Ron’s arms were and how he could stay in his furnace-orange room for ages, both just lying on Ron’s bed, talking about everything and nothing.
Those nights at the Burrow, the ones where the two of them just stayed up late, whispering to each other and quietly giggling about past adventures or just laying in silence together, were Harry’s favourites. Once in a while, he even gets tempted to imagine a future for the both of them; where no one wants him dead and everything will be alright. The daydreams always left him with a sharp pain in his chest, knowing that it was something he could never achieve.
“Harry? You alright, mate?”
And Ron was staring at him with concern written all over his face - ginger brows pulled to the middle and his head tilted just a little to the right - and Harry swallowed hard, thinking of an appropriate way to respond.
“I- Yeah, I am,” Harry said breathlessly. “I am.”
Ron didn’t believe him. Of course he didn’t - he’s been his best friend for the past four years. He knew Harry better than anyone. Harry hoped that he wouldn’t push it, because what was he supposed to say? Supposed to admit? That he liked him more than he should? That he liked him like a girl likes a boy? That he wanted to hold his hand over and over until his own hand changes just enough so that Ron’s can settle into the shape of his palm? That even though he was possibly going to do more life threatening things, the only thing he can think of was his best friend and the fluttery feeling in his gut? Facing Voldemort again was much more preferable than seeing the look of disgust on Ron’s face directed right at him. Harry doubted he could survive that.
Ron stared at him for a few seconds but ultimately decided against asking anything about it. Instead, with a set face, he resolutely stated, “You’ve got this. I believe in you.”
Harry wasn’t sure if Ron was talking about the upcoming task or if he was talking about whatever internal problem Harry was going through so he just nodded.
“I’m going to check on the egg stuff later,” Harry said when he couldn’t handle the silence any longer. “When everyone’s asleep.”
He saw the quirk of an eyebrow, and Harry had to bite the inside of his lip to stop himself from asking Ron to follow him there because even he knew that was pushing it.
Pursing his lips, he requested, “Cover for me?”
“Of course.” The words left Ron’s mouth like it was the most obvious thing in the world, as if there wasn’t a universe where he wouldn’t have Harry’s back, and Harry took in a shaky breath, rolling away from the redheaded boy and eyeing the awaiting golden egg. Neither boy said anything more.
Eventually the other boys stumbled into the dorm, happy and full and excited for the next task. Harry could feel Ron’s gaze on his back, unwavering, and pretended not to notice; closing his eyes before the other boys could ask him anything. Minutes passed like hours and Harry supposed his back was just really interesting to look at - maybe some shape made by the blankets or a few loose hairs making the image of something nonsensical - because, though he couldn’t know for certain, he was sure Ron never looked away.
After about five minutes of listening to Neville snore and straining hard to make sure Dean and Seamus were no longer whispering to each other, Harry slowly got up and peered off the side of his bed to where his invisibility cloak was sitting patiently in front of his spilling trunk. Silently, he picked the egg, cloak, and the Marauders Map up, pocketing his wand and almost dropping the rest in the process, and crossed the room on tipped toes. Just as he reached the door, he looked past his shoulder to make sure no one was watching him sneak out during curfew, and ended up meeting bright blue eyes peeking past red and gold.
Once again, the question lingered on the tip of his tongue and it took every ounce of willpower Harry had to not let it out. Swiftly, he broke away from the other boy’s gaze and left Ron watching from the darkness, draping the cloak over himself.
It was a surprisingly easy journey to go from the Gryffindor tower to the Prefects bathroom; many of the professors being on the other side of the castle, allowing him to pad down corridors in socked feet like he owned the place. Soon enough, he was whispering “pine fresh” to the door and entered the most luxurious bathroom he’s ever been in.
Now he had work to do.
Harry let out a breath and sunk into his bedsheets. The trip had almost been a disaster, and the only reason he wasn’t in major trouble was because of pure luck, even if he did have to lend his map to Professor Moody at the end of it - suppose that was the most he could do since the professor did help him out of getting in trouble with Snape. Realising his cloak was still clutched tight in his hand and his wand feeling quite uncomfortable where it had jammed itself between his hip and duvet, Harry shoved his father’s cloak under the covers by the foot of his bed and placed his wand next to his glasses on his bedside table.
Suddenly he heard rustling coming from his right. A messy head of red hair poked out and Harry held his breath, waiting. There was no new sound for a couple beats until he heard Ron’s voice whisper out to him, sleepy and slow.
“Harry? You alright?”
Harry thought back to his stuck leg, the egg wailing at the bottom of the stairs, and the close encounter he had with Snape.
“Yeah,” he whispered back, shifting his position slightly so that he was leaning more towards Ron’s bed. “I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”
There was more movement on Ron’s side and Harry saw a blurry version of him sit up and rub at his eyes with his fists.
“You can tell me now if you want,” Ron supplied, careful not to wake the others. “We can sit in the common room, by the fire. Or, you know, you can come over here.”
Harry blinked. “Are you sure?”
“Course I am.”
He squinted. “Aren’t you tired?”
“No.” Though the yawn he tried to stifle broke the effect of his resolution.
The covers on Ron’s bed did seem a lot more comfortable, most definitely warm rather than cold like Harry’s own covers. All Ron had to do was scoot over a bit and pat the space beside him, and Harry was sitting next to him in an instant; his heart beating out his chest. He almost felt nervous, no matter how ridiculous it was for him to be so.
Frowning at him in concern, Ron muttered, “You’re all jittery. What happened?”
Harry opened his mouth, grasping for something to say, which turned out to be more of a struggle with his best friend pressed tight against him. It wasn’t like they weren’t typically close - it was just that, well, his face was equally close this time too.
“Haz?”
A hand landed on his arm, rubbing up and down in a comforting manner, and Harry was glad for the darkness lest Ron saw the blush appearing on his cheeks. When the hand landed on his own and gave his a squeeze, Harry ignored the parts of his brain screaming at him that it was wrong, and squeezed back, soaking up the small moments like a plant that hadn’t been watered in days. Ron’s easy affection never failed to amaze him. How could he do it without breaking a sweat? Without thinking about it or treating it like it was a punishable act?
“Almost got caught by Snape,” was what he managed to get out, and Ron simply continued holding his hand and furrowing his brow.
“Almost?”
“Professor Moody saved me. He was a little weird when we talked afterwards, but you know.”
The light chuckle from Ron brushed against the base of his neck and Harry shivered, gripping onto the pale hand and letting out a small smile.
“Yeah, well, he’s always a bit weird, innit?” Ron breathed out, not noticing anything. “Constant vigilance and all that.”
Harry just grinned at him, remembering the questionable classes and the bouncing white ferret and the warm hand in his. The subtle moonlight had crept across Ron’s face and Harry could see his drowsy smile and tousled hair clearly. He was so close, he could practically count each eyelash. Harry wanted to run his fingers through the red locks on Ron’s head. He was so close and it was so wrong but he didn’t want to be far away again if he could just stay there, by Ron’s side, for the rest of his life. Then Aunt Petunia’s voice appeared in his head, sharp and high and full of loathing, retorting, “Have you seen how disgusting they are? Kissing another boy…what a bunch of freaks. There’s nothing natural about it. God may be forgiving but even He won’t forgive those kinds of sins.”
Pretending like he was perfectly peachy, Harry asked, “Did I wake you up?”
Ron hummed. “No, I was kind of waiting for you. I mean, I thought to myself ‘it wouldn’t take too long unless something went wrong.’ I almost fell asleep right as you came in, I think.”
“Oh.” Because of course Ron would wait for him. Harry’s chest ached behind his ribs and a large rock had seemingly apparated into his stomach just as Uncle Vernon’s voice came echoing into his head, talking about how if his son came back home and announced himself gay, he would immediately get a serious beating. If he himself got beat just for existing, then Harry didn’t want to imagine just how much worse he would’ve had it if they could read his thoughts and know his feelings.
“Think m’gonna sleep,” Harry told Ron, who was slowly drooping onto his shoulder.
“Mm? Oh, okay.” Harry missed the warmth of his hand already. “Goodnight, Harry.”
He let out a quick “Goodnight” and, without missing a beat, got into his own cold and lonely bed, hiding under his blankets as if that could protect him from whatever was going on in his mind and whatever was happening in his chest.
Blankets settled in the bed next to him and Harry stayed still, squeezing his eyes shut. Maybe if he rummaged through enough library books, he’ll end up finding a spell or potion that could help cure him and make him normal again. Perhaps there was a plant out there that he needed to find. Or it could be in one of those scary textbooks from the Restricted Section. Wherever it was, Harry wanted to find it and have it turn him into any other teenage boy crushing on pretty girls in school. At the same time, he didn’t really want to.
Falling in love with Ron started out as an accident. For a while, he even confused it with feelings of friendship. Now that he’s had a taste of it, however, he couldn’t stop. How could he? Ron was the easiest person to love, to the point that Harry didn’t even feel like he was falling because falling would’ve felt incredibly scary and breathtaking in all of the worst ways. In fact, it felt more like he had tripped on his way into the Gryffindor common room after dinner and that someone had been there to catch him before he hit the ground, and all he did was smile at him and ask what he wanted to do after this. Harry craved it. He craved it so badly, it tingled and crackled under his skin like lightning - every nerve ending screaming in want.
The shame ate him up inside and when he laid in his bed late that night, kept awake by thoughts of fiery red hair and blue eyes, he let it swallow him whole. It was so stupid of him to fall for someone unobtainable and forbidden. Harry’s never felt so disgusted in his own skin. Maybe all he needed was to throw up or stare at the wall or cry until he’s completely drained like a wrung rag. Maybe it would make him feel better. Or maybe he was just too ill to be cured.
Harry wasn’t someone who was built to love, for love. He didn’t fit in a way that mattered. He was not beautiful. Maybe he could be, one day far in the future, once he’s forgotten who he is. But he was not beautiful. God did he wish he could be.