Harry Potter Imagines

[A Bloody Inconvenience]

It was one of those blissfully lazy Sunday nights in the Gryffindor common room — the kind that made you wish time could just stop for a while. The fire had burned down to soft, flickering embers, filling the air with a sleepy warmth and the faint scent of ash and parchment. Outside, the wind sighed against the castle walls, and the only real sound was the occasional page turning or the quiet crunch of Ron demolishing yet another Chocolate Frog.

You were curled into the corner of the sofa, half draped against Harry's side. His arm rested over your shoulder in that casual, possessive way that had become second nature to him — protective but comfortable, like it had always belonged there. He was reading some old Quidditch book, head tilted slightly toward the firelight, glasses sliding down his nose. You pretended to be reading too, but your eyes had glazed over at least ten minutes ago. You were too warm, too content, too wrapped up in the lazy rhythm of his thumb absently tracing circles against your upper arm.

Ron was slouched in the armchair beside the fire, one leg dangling over the armrest, chocolate smeared faintly on his thumb. Hermione sat on the other end of the sofa, completely lost in a book that looked thick enough to kill someone with. Every now and then, she would mutter something under her breath, underline a sentence, and tut disapprovingly at whatever Ron was doing.

Everything was perfect — until that familiar, dreadful twist hit the pit of your stomach.

You froze.
Oh, no.

You shifted slightly, testing the feeling, silently begging it to be something else. But no. You knew that ache too well.

Brilliant.

You cleared your throat and slid out from under Harry's arm, trying to do it casually. "Er—back in a minute," you murmured, already halfway to the girls' staircase before anyone could ask questions.

The warmth of the common room faded as you climbed, replaced by the cool hush of the dormitory. You slipped into the bathroom and shut the door behind you, muttering a quiet curse under your breath. A quick check confirmed your worst fear — it had started.

Perfect timing, as always.

You rummaged through the cupboard where all of you girls kept your supplies, muttering prayers to the gods of feminine hygiene. Lavender's section, as usual, looked like a perfectly organized apothecary — neat rows of products, color-coded boxes, everything precisely stacked. Except every single one of them was tampons.

You stared at the boxes like they'd betrayed you. "You have got to be kidding me," you whispered, running a hand through your hair. You'd never used one before — and you weren't about to experiment in the middle of Gryffindor Tower with Harry bloody Potter sitting downstairs by the fire.

So, in a burst of pure crisis logic, you did the only thing you could: wadded up far too much toilet roll and stuffed it down your underwear like your life depended on it. It felt like you were walking with a rolled-up tea towel between your legs, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

You washed your hands, took a deep breath, and bolted back downstairs.

The warmth of the common room hit you again as you reentered. Everyone was still exactly where you'd left them — Ron mid-bite, Hermione mid-sentence, Harry mid-page — like you'd only been gone seconds.

You caught Hermione's eye immediately. "Hermione," you whispered urgently from the bottom of the stairs. "I need your help."

Her book snapped shut instantly. "What's wrong?" she asked, already starting to rise — but of course, Harry had to get involved.

He peered up from his book, that familiar curious frown tugging at his brow. "Do you not want my help?"

You shot him a look. "Not really."

"Why not?"

You gave a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. "Because it's embarrassing."

That caught Ron's attention. He froze mid-chew, the Chocolate Frog dangling from his hand. Hermione, now fully standing, was trying very hard not to grin.

Harry looked amused, green eyes dancing. "Y/N, I think we're past the embarrassing stage. I mean—I've seen you naked like ten thousand times— I ate hot fudge off you naked, remember, I sucked that mini marshmallow out your bellybutton."

He said it so casually that for a second you couldn't even process it. Then you realised both you and Hermione were staring at him in shared horror, while Ron slowly set his Chocolate Frog down on the table with the expression of a man who had seen far too much.

"And we're done with that now," Ron said firmly, wiping his hands like he was erasing the memory from existence.

You pressed your fingers to your temples, praying the floor might open up and swallow you. "Harry, you wouldn't even know how to help with what I'm about to ask."

He threw up his hands, laughing nervously. "I'm knowledgeable! Go on then, ask me anything."

You crossed your arms, trying to keep a straight face. "Fine. How do you put a tampon in?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Hermione's shoulders shook as she slapped a hand over her mouth to hide her laughter. Ron went rigid, eyes wide as saucers, and looked like he might rather face a Hungarian Horntail again.

Harry, bless him, just blinked — once, twice — then squinted at you as though genuinely trying to solve the puzzle.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he sighed and turned to Ron. "So you're not gonna eat the rest of that Chocolate Frog?"

That did it. Hermione cracked first, snickering behind her hand. Then you burst into laughter, doubled over and clutching your stomach. Ron groaned, shoving the frog toward Harry. "Go for it, mate. I'm done."

You caught Hermione's eye, still laughing so hard you could barely breathe, and she beckoned you toward the stairs. "Come on," she said between giggles. "Let's get you sorted."

You nodded, wiping a tear from your eye as you followed her up the girls' staircase, still laughing under your breath. The firelight faded behind you, Harry's muffled laughter echoing faintly as you went.

For all the chaos, embarrassment, and Harry's utter lack of a filter, there was something absurdly comforting about it — knowing that even when things went completely wrong, you could always count on him to make you laugh about it later.