triple threat
Ron Weasley's guide to discussing Slytherin, sexuality, and sneaking into kitchens
For Ron, the start of eighth year was a massive adjustment.
After being on the run for so long- those months spent at the Burrow, and then Grimmauld place, and then Bill's cabin- really did a number on his sleep schedule. He very frequently found himself waking up in the wee hours of morning, a cold sweat on his forehead and a claw around his heart- terrified that something had gone indeterminably wrong.
Even after defeating Voldemort, and winning the war, Ron still finds himself struggling to sleep.
His mind is too busy- too cluttered with thoughts for him to pass out. His brain is more-often-than-not on hotwire, trying to grasp onto ragged pieces of fight or flight defense. He worries about his sister, alone and wary in a castle full of enemies, with no way out. He thinks of George, forever split in half on a spint of magic. He dreams of Harry, his body limp and his chest breathless, hanging lifeless in Hagrid's arms.
He dreams of Hermione, her screams echoing through bouts of Bellatrix's laughter.
Even after moving into the eighth year dorms, and being roomed with four of the safest people he knows, Ron still worries. He jumps out of bed and checks everyone's pulses, just to make sure their hearts are still beating. He puts a hand over Harry's mouth, holding his own breath until he feels a warm exhale. He stands outside of the girl's dorms in his pajamas, leaning his head past the magical barrier and waiting for Hermione to cry out for him.
Of course, everyone's hearts beat, and Harry is breathing, and Hermione is fast asleep in her bed. He knows these things, and yet, still spends most of his nights frozen in his bed, grappling with the weight of what if.
Which is why Ron can't be more relieved when Harry crawls into his bed one night, wanting to talk for a few hours.
Their late-night chats have become the highlight of Ron's night, day, and everything in-between. He enjoys the safety of Harry's smile, just a foot away, and the contact they share when their knees bump. He loves talking until his lungs burn, and laughing until his stomach aches. He loves that for just a bit, Harry silences his thoughts long enough for Ron to fall asleep again.
Ron also knows that only Harry has this effect on him. While Hermione makes him feel completely and utterly safe, he can't help but shudder at the sight of her mudblood scar, carved into the soft curve of her skin. With Ginny, Ron is constantly checking her face, wanting to make sure there's no tears about to track down her cheeks. And with George...
Ron can't really look George in the eyes anymore. He can't, unless he wants to see Fred staring back at him.
With Harry, Ron never worries. They took on the world together, and won. They've been together at their worsts, and their bests, and their most mediocre. Covered in mud, or blood, or flesh-eating slugs. They're stupid and silly, and boys again. They're not men that have gone to war, but kids that never learned how to drive, and tried to drive a car anyway.
If anyone ever asked Ron about love, he'd tell them about Hermione- but he'd tell them about Harry, too.
They're best mates. Brothers. Best friends. And Ron wouldn't risk that for anything. Harry knows him inside and out, and Ron knows Harry like the back of his hand. They're impossibly different, and yet, one and the same.
Which is why when Harry starts staring at Malfoy more than the usual amount, he knows something is up immediately.
Ever since coming back from Thanksgiving break, Harry's been acting pretty weird. Well, not weird, exactly- but different. Unfocused, like something's bothering him. Their late night talks are still filled with banter, and flirting, and a whole ton of shit-talking, but Harry has very-pointedly refrained from shittalking one Slytherin in particular.
"Maybe he's taken my pleas to heart," Hermione had said when he'd asked her about it. "Maybe he's finally leaving Draco alone."
"He can't leave Malfoy alone," Ron had sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He'd adjusted from his place on the ground, his head in her lap. "It's wired in his brain, or something- the constant need to pester him. Malfoy and Potter- you can never have one without the other. It would disrupt the balance of peace, or something."
"Hmm," Hermione hummed, her fingers loose in Ron's hair. "That could be true, or, Harry's fine, Malfoy's normal, and you're overthinking things."
"Says the queen of overthinking," Ron grumbles, rolling his eyes and earning a slap on the forehead. "There's something going on with him, 'Mione. I swear it."
"So how about instead of theorizing, you just ask him?"
"I can't do that!"
"Well why not?" She'd said, leaning over him with a smile that made Ron feel stupidly happy. "Where's the harm? Better to just get the good from him directly, don't you think?"
"And say what?! Hey, mate- I noticed you've been glaring at Malfoy more obsessively lately, what's the do about that?"
Hermione had rolled her eyes, pressed a kiss to his forehead, and mumbled her response against his skin.
"Talk to him, Ron. It's all you ever do, anyways."
And she wasn't wrong, because Hermione's never wrong. He forgets that sometimes, but a well-placed kiss and an exasperated sigh never fail to remind him. Ron is happy he has Hermione, because somehow, the world is so much simpler with her hand at his back and her eyes as his lens.
Which is why now, as Ron and Harry sneak down to the kitchens under an invisibility cloak that's way too small for their eighteen-year-old-bodies, Ron is plucking up the courage to talk to his best friend. Even though they're mid-conversation, that is.
"You're so full of shit," Harry hisses, somewhere under Ron's right arm and the dim glow of Harry's lumos. "Treacle tarts are the only good desserts. Apple strudel and peach cobbler are terrible."
"Literally fuck you, Harry," Ron hisses back, attempting to kick Harry's shin and effectively managing to almost take both of them out. "Treacle tarts are only good at during the fall. Pumpkin pasties are good year-round! And so is the strudel!"
"You disgust me," Harry fake-gags, throwing off the cloak once they've reached the Pear Portrait on the main floor. "This is the worst betrayal I've ever faced."
"Peter Pettigrew literally sold out your parents to the Dark Lord."
"And you had a grown-man-rat sleeping in your bed all third year," Harry glowers. "Neither of those things measure up to the horribleness of saying Treacle Tarts are only good during the fall."
"Dramatic arse."
"Stupid bloke."
"Love of my life."
"Future husband," Harry points to the portrait. "Poke the fuckin' pear, would you?"
"Only because you asked so nicely," Ron sneers, jabbing a finger into the golden-gilded portrait. The pad of his thumb sinks into the acrylics while the focus of the painting, a little girl, runs over to him with a broom in her hand. She swats away his fingers with a huff and a frown, but the painting swings open regardless. "Sorry, lass," He mumbles, scurrying after Harry into a short stone tunnel.
"I'm bloody starved," Harry groans, his feet scuffing against the pavement as he leads Ron toward the kitchens. "Which is odd, since we ate only a few hours ago."
"You didn't eat much, actually," Ron notes, finishing the rest of his thought in the safety of silence. You were too busy staring at Malfoy.
"Weird," Harry shrugs, glancing back to Ron as they arrive before a tall steel door. "I guess I was distracted, or something."
"Distracted is a good way to put it," Ron shrugs, reaching past Harry to tap his wand against the inward-facing handle.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Whatever you think it means, mate."
The metal shudders and creaks as the locks crack open, spinning against one another as the door spins on its hinges. A gust of cool air smacks against Harry and Ron, and even though they were expecting it, the two of them shiver anyways. Both boys plunge headfirst into the walk-in-cooler, taking due care to make sure the steel door clicks shut behind them. With practiced ease, Harry and Ron navigate their way through bundles of fruit, crates of vegetables, and enough raw meat to kill a vegan- before popping into the kitchens on the other side.
"Don't be cryptic with me, Ron," Harry mutters, wandering over to the pantry with a sideways gait. "That's portrait-Snape's job."
"I've never been cryptic in my entire life," Ron says, sliding onto a nearby stool. He gaze bounces from wall to wall, glancing over tile and stovetops and pans. This isn't exactly how Ron wanted to approach this topic, but knowing Harry, he's going to pester until it's worked out one way or another. "You've just been kinda spacey the past few weeks."
"And why's that?" Harry asks, squinting at a can of what looks like cherry pie filling.
"You tell me," Ron snorts. "It's your bloody head, Harry. I can't see into it. If you want me to know what you're thinking, you've tell me about it,"
Harry goes quiet for a little bit, his brows furrowed in thought. Ron takes this opportunity to bounce back over to the fridge, hoping to find a pitcher of cider, or pumpkin juice. Since it's almost Christmas, he's craving something a little more sweet.
"Or," Ron adds, rifling through labeled beverages. "If it's something you don't wanna talk about, that's okay too."
"We tell each other everything."
"Only because we want to. If I'm not comfortable talking to you about something, than I don't. That's what makes us work," Ron glances back to Harry, and meets his gaze. "We might be two halves of a whole, but each half has their own life, you know?"
Harry blinks once, then looks down at his can again. He's rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, like he's trying to decide whether or not to say something. Ron hums once he finds the cider, and grabs it, along with two glasses, for he and Harry.
"Have you ever thought about...uhm," Ron starts to pour the drinks, giving Harry time to gather his words. "Slytherin?"
"Slytherin?" Ron stops pouring. "What about Slytherin?"
"I dunno," Harry shrugs, sliding onto the stool Ron occupied minutes before. He gratefully takes the glass Ron slides him, and swallows a hearty gulp of cider before answering. "Just...the people in Slytherin."
"The ones in our year?"
"The ones who fought in the war."
"The ones who were Death Eaters?"
"I guess."
"So...Malfoy," Ron boldly pushes, leaning against the counter while he cradles his own glass between his hands. He doesn't miss the way Harry quirks ever-so-slightly at the name, his cheeks flushing Gryffindor red. "Is that what you're getting at?"
"Nobody's getting at Malfoy," Harry mutters, suddenly defensive. "Forget I said anything. I don't want to talk about him."
"Okay," Ron says, swirling his drink. "Let's talk about Cedric, then."
"Cedric?" Harry raises an eyebrow, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "What about him?"
Ron takes a deep, heavy breath, and steels his bones for the most nerve-wracking statement of his career as Harry Potter's best friend.
"About the fact that, I dunno, you maybe liked him a bit," Ron bites his cheek, watching the sentence crash on Harry's face. His best friend blinks, once, then twice, before meeting Ron's gaze with a confused glare.
"Of course I liked Cedric. Everybody did. He was a great guy."
Not for the first time in his life, Ron wants to smack Harry upside the head.
"Not like, Harry," Ron groans, his head dropping on the counter. "Like. Fancy."
"I did not fancy Cedric!" Harry gasps, looking scandalized. "I just thought he was interesting! And smart! And helpful!"
"Sounds like what I thought about Hermione fourth year."
"Well duh," Harry rolls his eyes. "You had a crush on her."
"And you had a crush on Cedric."
"Did not!"
"Did too!"
"I mean- he was certainly a fine-looking bloke, I'll give him that," Harry throws up his hands. "But noticing how charming and handsome he was doesn't mean I liked him!"
"Describe to me how you felt about Cho fifth year," Ron presses, squinting at Harry. "What made you like her so much? Because you did have a crush on her."
"She was pretty!" Harry glares, crossing his arms over his chest. "And smart, and helpful, and..." Harry's voice fades as he looks from the counter, to his glass, and finally to Ron. "Oh shit. Maybe I did fancy Cedric."
"Obviously," Ron sighs, feeling a little more relieved. "Even I noticed you ogling him all the time, and I'm not nearly as observant as Hermione."
"Hermione thought so too?" Harry asks, looking alarmed.
"I think everyone thought so, mate."
"Why didn't anyone tell me!?"
Ron blinks.
"You're asking me why people didn't tell you that you had a crush on Cedric?"
"Yeah!"
Maybe Harry is thicker than Ron originally thought. For someone so smart, he truly is a fucking idiot.
"Mate, I'm gonna need you to revisit what you just said. Think it over for a minute."
"I don't need to think it over," Harry hisses. "I think that I would've appreciated a heads-up for something like this. I would've rather known!"
"You would've rather I told you that you fancied Cedric before you figured it out on your own?"
Harry throws his hands high again.
"Yes!"
"Fine!" Ron throws up his hands, imitating Harry. "You had a crush on Cedric fourth year, a crush on Cho fifth year, some fling with Ginny during the war, and you've fancied Draco Malfoy since the first time we stepped off of the goddamn Hogwarts express."
"I do NOT fancy Malfoy!" Harry gasps, leaping up from his stool and jabbing a finger at Ron. "You take that back!"
"I will not," Ron glowers, rising to his full height. "I've spent the past eight years watching you obsess over every tiny, annoying, minuscule thing about Malfoy- and I'm bloody sick of it! If you want to bang the bloke, go dick him down and stop whining about it!"
"Ronald!" Harry screeches, grabbing the can of cherry filling and raising it above his head like a weapon. "Don't say shit like that!"
"You told me you wanted to know!" Ron skirts, bouncing around the edge of the counter before Harry can even begin to chase him. "You fancy Malfoy, and as your friend, I'm telling you it's bloody disgusting."
"That's a tad homophobic," Harry squints lowering the can.
"Please- I could care less about you snogging blokes," Ron rolls his eyes. "But seriously, out of all of Hogwarts' options, you picked Malfoy?"
"I haven't picked anyone!" Harry yells, chasing Ron around the kitchen island once more. "And I certainly wouldn't pick Malfoy if I had the option!"
"So don't!" Ron yelps, ducking under a flying can. "Be gay and crush on someone else for the next seven years!"
"Hey! Don't tell me who I can and can't date," Harry hisses, stopping his gait on the side of the counter opposite Ron. They stare each other down, the pitcher of Apple Cider balanced between them. "Maybe I DO want to date Malfoy! And so what if I do?!"
"That's what I've been bloody saying!" Ron smacks a hand against his forehead. "You like Malfoy a shite ton, so you might as well just snog him and get it over with!"
"I might as well!"
"Finally!"
"Perfect!"
"Bloody fantastic!"
The two boys take a moment to stare at each other, chests heaving with effort, and their breaths coming out in short, shallow exhales. Harry adjusts his glasses. Ron tugs on the collar of his shirt. Both of their shoulders slouch.
"How the hell do I snog Malfoy?"
"Good question," Ron squints. "Hermione and I have been trying to brew something up for months, but with your added effort, we might get some more ideas."
"A game plan," Harry nods, very seriously. "Operation: Snog a Slytherin."
"That's too on the nose," Ron shakes his head. "We need something like: Operation: Malfotter?"
"What's that supposed to be?"
"Malfoy and Potter mashed together," Ron shrugged. "It sounded better in my head, if I'm being honest."
"It's good, but I don't love it," Harry furrows a brow, leaning against the counter. "Thoughts on: Seeker Seeker?"
"Too repetitive, but it gives me a good idea," Ron snaps, pointing at Harry with a wide grin. "Ferret Seeker."
"Oh- oh that's good," Harry nods, his lips splitting into a grin. "Weasel Seeker it is."
"Good that," Ron nods, proudly reaching over the counter to shake Harry's hand. "It was a collective effort."
"It really was," Harry grins, nodding back enthusiastically. "Group contributions, I'd say."
"Another win for the best mates."
"Indeed," Harry's smile falls slightly, morphing from a bold grin to the softest of curves. "So...you really don't mind?"
"The Malfoy thing?" Ron grins. "I actually very much do mind, but at least I know I can hold my own in competing with Draco for your affections."
"Nobody will ever outrank you, babe," Harry points. "But uhm...I was actually talking about the gay thing."
"Oh that?" Ron waves a hand. "It's whatever, Harry. I mean, not whatever, obviously, but it's not a huge deal to me, or anything. You're still my best friend. Always have been, and always will be," His voice lowers, if only slightly. "No sexual awakening will change the way I look at you. Not ever."
Harry sighs, as if a weight has been lifted off of his chest.
"Thanks, Ron."
"It's only the decent thing to do, Harry."
"No, I wasn't saying thank you for that-" Harry smiles at him, and Ron tries not to notice the tears forming in his eyes. "I mean thank you for being my friend."
And Ron stills, because if there wasn't a counter between them, he would've wrapped Harry in the largest hug he could muster. For Ron and Harry, hugs are reserved for the most terrible of moments. A reunion, before a departure. A goodbye, before battle. A 'we survived, but at what cost'?
Ron thinks he'd like to start hugging Harry for happy things, too. Things like Slytherins, and sexuality, and sneaking into the bloody kitchens early in the morning.
"Thank you for letting me," Ron says quietly, trying to keep his voice from shaking. It's not that he's afraid of crying, he just doesn't particularly want to.
The two sit in silence for a moment, eight years of fond memories and happy moments stretching between them. It ends with the rumble of Harry's stomach.
"I'm still fucking starved," Harry groans, unable to stop grinning. "You hungry?"
"I could eat," Ron shrugs, walking around the counter and throwing an arm around Harry's shoulder. The two of them laugh and jest at one another as they wander into the pantry, checking out the assortment of room-temperature foods. Very keenly, Ron spots a particularly round-looking green apple, and decides to make the best joke of his entire life. "Say, you know what this apple looks like?"
Harry eyes him sideways, his smile stilling. "Don't say what you're about to say, Ron, or so help me Merlin, I will-"
"Looks like Malfoy's arse."
"No it doesn't!"
"How would you know?" Ron teases, shoving the fruit in his friend's face. "You staring at Malfoy's arse often, Harry? Got the shape memorized?"
"Bugger off, Ron," Harry shoves away the apple, but there's still a playful chuckle in his voice. "I hate you."
"Love you, Harry."
"Love you too, Ron."
Ron tosses the apple between his hands, rolling the firm fruit between his palms, and feels rather proud of himself. He did what he came down here to do, and that's all he needed. Harry wasn't happy before, and that makes Ron more upset than any potential relationship with their long-standing enemy. If Malfoy is what Harry wants, than Ron'll be damned if he's not what Harry gets.
They might've unearthed something massive tonight, but Ron's not thinking about that. He's thinking about his rumbling stomach, and his best friend, and how much he loves late night talking.