Ronarry One Shots

| The Curse of Wanting PT. 3

Harry's eyes peep open, the light from the window nearly blinding. Harry hisses, and when he shifts to roll himself off his numb shoulder, he falls to the floor. His head is pounding, and he looks up to find a sleeping Ron, limbs askew across the sofa. He's arse naked from the hips down, and Harry's pants and trousers are at his ankles, like some awkward hungover merman. There's a used condom stuck to his thigh, and his flaccid dick is coated in dried come.

"Fuck," Harry hisses, ripping off the condom and tugging up his bottoms.

In a panic, he shoves the used condom into his pocket. He scrambles to his feet, ignoring the raging headache. He finds his shirt and yanks it over his head. With a final glance at the sleeping Ron, Harry groans, casting a Cleansing Charm over the formerly come-coated man and sofa—which most likely included some of his own. It was as if he was covering up a crime scene, which didn't feel far off. If what he thinks happened actually happened, it was a betrayal, above all betrayals to Ginny and Ron.

He takes the Floo back to his flat and finds it empty. Ginny had plans to stay at Hermione's, and it appears she has. Harry forces himself to shuffle into the bathroom, turning on the shower and stripping off his clothes. Under the hot spray, Harry tries to remember the previous night. They were at the club. Ron had bought them shots. Then... what?

He can't remember anything from the previous night—how they ended up in Ron's flat, entangled and covered in come. Harry leans his forearm against the tiles and presses his forehead hard against it as he bites his lip and groans in frustration.

After he has dried and dressed, Harry rashly decides to Floo to Neville's. Maybe he'll remember something that Harry didn't.

-

"Oh, fuck, Nev," Harry winces, looking away from the scene of naked limbs and bits strewn across Neville's bed.

His friend lifts his head sleepily, removing one man's arm while shoving off the leg of another as he sat up to rub his eyes.

"Harry? What are you doing here?"

"I... Sorry. I can come back," Harry replies, pointing over his shoulder.

Neville waves him off. "Nonsense... Now where are my pants?"

Harry finds a grey pair of boxers at his feet and tosses them to Neville.

The man lifts them for inspection and shrugs. "Not mine, but they'll do."

Harry looks away as Neville tugs on the boxers and climbs off the bed.

"Come on," Neville yawns, raking his fingers through his hair as he walks past Harry and into the corridor. "I'll make coffee. Ron here too?"

"Um... no? Should he be?"

Neville turns to look at him curiously. "Didn't you two go back to his last night?"

"I—I just left," says Harry, trying to suppress the guilt resurfacing. "He was still asleep."

Neville nods, scratching his stomach as he continues his trek towards the kitchen.

"Honestly, I can't remember much of anything," Harry continues, watching Neville closely. "I remember when we got there. I had a few shots with Ron and then...nothing."

Neville grabs his wand off the counter, and with a swish, his coffee kettle sputters to life, filling with boiling water and coffee grounds. The smell is a comfort to Harry compared to the stale smell of alcohol that lingers on his breath, even after brushing his teeth—twice.

"Not surprised. The two of you were having quite the time. It was pretty fun to watch."

Harry leans against the island counter, tapping his fingers. "Yeah? And what were we doing, exactly?"