Chapter Text
Harry is not sure how to explain the sight in front of him.
It's been a couple weeks since he went out with his friend group, and Ron has insisted - grumbled something about action and isolation, standing over Harry's bed until he rolled out and got dressed. Personally, Harry doesn't think he is isolating himself. It's actually quite nice to hear his own thoughts for a minute (not that he ever thought he'd say that about the Weasley's home, usually always full of people and noise) and for what it's worth, his mind healer agreed with him.
He's been seeing her less often, recently.
It took months to get through everything. Survival's guilt, sacrificial tendencies, the grief, childhood abuse and the sudden lack of purpose in the peaceful world he's found himself in now. His issues haven't magically disappeared in a way he hoped they would. She taught him how to manage them better, deal with the triggers in a much healthier way than closing himself off in his room.
Nowadays, they mostly talk about other things. How to become one of those people he admires - the ones sure of themselves, the way it comes so naturally to them. The hobbies he's picking up, career paths he could consider, relationships, and the lack of them.
Ginny has been - ironically - the first one to encourage him. It fizzled out slow and warm between them. Both confused and grieving, supporting themselves in what felt like a friendship more than anything else. He's not sure if she's always known about his bisexuality, perhaps sooner than he had, but judging by the little smirk that appeared on her face when he came out to her, she definitely at least suspected it.
It wasn’t a big deal. Not to his ex, Ron, Hermione, Fred, Neville, Seamus, Molly or Arthur - not to Harry. Neither a surprise, apparently. He thought back, supposed there are only so many times you can stare at someone's Quidditch robes before people make a mental note.
Ron and Hermione have long since moved out, found a place on their own- leaving Harry alone in Ron's room. It’s a cozy little flat. Harry visits occasionally, always admires the way Hermione decorated it. Made it feel like home. They say it's temporary, just until they sort their lives out, get married - but Harry sees the way Hermione brushes off the talk of house viewings anytime it comes up.
The wedding is set in July. Eight months away, Weasleys’ back garden.
Hermione wanted to hire someone, agreed with Molly it was due for some love and attention, and Harry agreed. He's seen them exchange glances when he set out to do it himself - maybe more worried about him than the garden itself.
And, okay - he hasn't exactly found himself in it. He doesn't even want to do it again, ever - probably. Not without magic, anyway. But this is the one thing he said he will do. Because he can. It's something to keep him occupied, it clears his head, and he loves it because he doesn't have to do it. He just wants to.
He's struggled with this. Wanting things - being allowed to have them. So, he made the executive decision to fuck it and plant some flowers.
George, Ginny, Neville and Luna help once in a while, but he doesn't see them too often. Most of them are abroad, figuring their lives out just like Harry is.
In whatever way they need.
Internships, jobs, universities - his friends have scattered all over the world. Harry has had a hard time rejecting all the offers that come in the post. Thinks it's better he figures it out himself, no outside pressure involved. He's thrown five ministry letters addressed to him in the bin this week.
Technically, it's only him, Molly and Arthur in the house on most days. It should feel weird, but it really doesn't. Ginny and George are planning to stay longer for Christmas, and so are Ron and Hermione.
Harry has walked in on Molly in her flowery nightgown last week, angrily threatening to disown Charlie through the floo if he doesn't come visit more often. He didn't think it would work, but Charlie promised to turn up a whole month before the festivities begin.
Bill and Fleur are expecting the baby to arrive around new years, so nobody really knows where and when that allows them to be.
Harry doesn't feel lonely. Doesn't feel like he's necessarily lacking anything. But it still feels like he's searching for something, most of the time. He's not sure which he craves more - truly understanding himself or being able to share that understanding with someone who lets him in too.
Hermione suggested clubbing. Said they all need some more fun in their lives. Surprisingly, she turned out to be much more in her element on the dance floor than they all thought she would, Ron attached to her hip like the protective fiancée he is. So, Harry joins, goes out with his friends every now and then.
He's promised them that he will try to put himself out there. More for their sake than for his, but he's not exactly opposed to the idea of dating. Experimenting. Whatever that means. He feels way too old to be stuck on what it feels like to kiss a guy, but he is.
His libido appeared, too, when his body finally let go of the fight or flight mode. Unsurprising, but quite inconvenient when your door doesn't really lock. He's gotten much better at muffliato and disillusioning charms. And daydreaming.
And he thinks he's doing pretty good at the moment, as far as putting himself out there goes.
There is a fit guy in tight leather pants brushing against him. A tall blonde guy that had bought Harry a drink at the bar and promptly dragged him to the dance floor with a wink. It has been easy. Way too easy.
Harry had been regretting his basic outfit choice, dark jeans and a black tee, but he has never thought much about dressing to impress before. Mark doesn't seem to mind, if his wandering hands are anything to go by.
Mark. Muggle Mark. Harry isn't sure what his last name is. He might have remembered it before the shots. And the cocktails. His hands are on Harry's hips now, swinging together to the slow beat of music.
Harry is attracted to him, thinks he's objectively very handsome – and Mark looks at Harry like he thinks the same. It's reassuring, and even in his drunk brain he registers the want - the urge to lean it, feel what it would be like to have his lips on him. The slight stubble. The low voice in his ear.
Mark spins him around, leans down to shout into Harry's ear. "You enjoying this, gorgeous?"
Gorgeous.
He could get used to that.
“Want more?”
Harry's hands are being moved to Mark's hips. He hasn't spotted the rest of his group in a while, spares a thought to their whereabouts for a second - until his hands are moved again, that is.
It comes out of nowhere.
Oh.
***
Harry's head is positively pounding when he wakes up. It takes him almost an hour to make it downstairs. He showers, sparing the rest of the house the sight he had to see in the mirror – then throws on pyjama pants and a hoodie. That kind of day.
Ron and Hermione are already in the kitchen, sat by the dining table with varying amounts of coffee in their mugs. They look much better than he does. Put together. Alive.
He's met by a chorus of good mornings - and a knowing smirk from Ron.
He spots an extra head of ginger hair.
"Hey, Harry."
Charlie Weasley is smiling up at him, a big blue knitted jumped on, chewing on a bite of his sandwich - looking ever bit domestic.
"I arrived late, yesterday. Thought best not to disturb anyone. Not like any of you were home anyway, as I hear."
Harry smiles back, plops down on a chair next to Charlie and pours himself a cup of coffee as well. Notices a new scar on Charlie's right bicep, among all the older ones scattered across the dragon tamer's skin. Wonders since when he had that memorised.
God, his brain hurts.
"Surprised you didn’t heard us coming back home, mate." Ron snickers, Hermione chuckling with an amused smile.
Harry doesn't remember getting home.
Sadly though, everything else from the previous night is still intact.
It wasn't exactly what he expected - definitely not what he planned his first pub flirt to be like.
"Uh. Yeah." Harry clears his throat. "Sorry about that. Not my best moment."
Hermione reaches over, pets Harry's wrist reassuringly.
"Don't be silly, you didn't do anything wrong. Didn't ask to be molested in the middle of the club, did you?"
He wouldn't say he was molested.
A little scared off... maybe.
Charlie raises his eyebrows at this, thumb wiping at the corner of his mouth as he finishes his breakfast. Harry tracks the movement, brain sluggish.
"Molested?"
Harry sighs. Wonders how much to say.
He hasn't exactly spoken to Charlie about his newfound appreciation for men - having last seen him at Ron’s engagement party a couple months back, briefly, before he figured things out.
Not that he thinks Charlie would mind. Charlie’s been openly gay since Harry first met him, and Harry thinks - if anything - he should feel like the safest person out of the bunch to confide in.
But for some reason, there is the slightest bit of hesitation - shyness - when he thinks of the words leaving his mouth.
He remembers the moment Mark snuck Harry's hand under the leather fabric.
It wasn't even that Harry didn't want to – he was quite open to seeing what was under there. Later, maybe.
If it just so happened.
Not in the middle of the dance floor, with random people scattered around them. With no warning. After barely talking.
Who would blame Harry for pulling back?
Well.
Mark.
Words were said. Slurred questions, weak explanations - and then Mark was in Harry's ear again, saying he owed him. That the least he could do for all the drinks was get down on his knees.
And then there was shouting.
There was Ron, a protective hand on Harry's shoulder.
Hermione’s voice. The smell of her floral perfume.
Harry doesn't go around showing his hands into men's pants, no matter how much he does or doesn't want to. The worst part about it was not what Mark did – but the way he did it.
It pissed him off. He gets petty when drunk. It wasn't a good combination.
"I - um. I danced with someone yesterday." He plays with the handle of his mug while glancing at Charlie, hands itching to be occupied. "He seemed nice. It escalated a bit."
Charlie's eyebrows stay up, and he glances down at Harry with swiftly concealed expression of surprise.
Like he’s realising what Harry is telling him right now.
Like he's storing it for later.
Harry looks away, back of his neck warm.
"Anyway. I was pretty drunk. Kind of embarrassed everyone else in the process-"
"Uh- absolutely not." Ron interrupts, looking at Harry with a guilty smirk. "Might have been the best night of my life, actually. Sorry, mate. Not sure anything is gonna top you yelling I do not suck dick for cocktails with that righteous look on your face."
Harry groans, drops his face into his hands.
He doesn't think the coffee can save him now.
But if he removes himself from the situation completely - he can admit that part could be funny.
Just a little bit.
He hears a chuckle from the right, where Charlie is sat next to him. He looks up, ready to agree with the humour in it – until he catches something else in Charlie’s face.
Charlie does look amused.
But there is something else under it that Harry can't quite place.
It could be the fact that Ron has just presented the very mental image of Harry trading sexual favours for drinks, right here at the table.
He looks like he is not sure what to do with this specific turn of events.
It's actually quite a rare sight, Harry thinks - to see Charlie anything but assured.
Well.
At least the revelation wasn’t met with disgust.
But with…wonder, maybe. If Harry’s reading it right at all.
He flushes further.
He's glad any of the others aren't down here yet - god forbid Molly or Arthur hear about it - and hopes Charlie moves on from this incriminating sexual prompt fast.
Or at least he thinks he does (he isn't going to start unpacking this now).
"Well, that's..." Charlie trails off, composed again, pauses to scratch at the back of his neck. His hair is longer again, tied up in a little bun. "Firstly - very much not okay. From his side."
Hermione nods, leaning back to rest her head against Ron's chest.
"It really isn't, Harry. Hilarious as it was, the last thing you and your overthinking brain need is to feel like the way he acted had anything to do with you."
"Hey - I don't have an overthinking brain." Harry grumbles in defence, still doing his best to not be self-conscious under Charlie's studying gaze. "But thank you, anyway."
"Really, though - Harry." Charlie emphasizes, Harry's name spoken like a soft command. Whatever it is, it works, because Harry's turning to look at the older redhead within a second.
He's met with more care than he expects.
He wonders why he feels it in his stomach.
"Hermione’s right. You did not owe him anything. Not all the guys are shit like that, so don't let it discourage you either."
Ron pops a strawberry into his mouth. "Yeah, Harry - listen to the bachelor."
Charlie picks one up too and throws it in Ron's general direction.
Hermione ducks. The little piece of fruit bounces off the space in between Ron's eyebrows.
"Shut it, baby brother. Speaking of bachelors - ready to plan your party anytime soon?"
"Oh, I was going to talk to you about that. Seamus suggeste-"
Harry tunes out slightly after that, sipping on the now cold coffee.
He feels reassured, validated, sure - maybe a bit too much.
He was not thinking about asking Charlie for advice. Now aggressively does.
He wants to know what Charlie meant - about other guys. Charlie’s got eight years on him, and he probably had this all figured out before he was twenty, like Harry is now. That leaves plenty of years of knowing. Of experience.
He wonders if Charlie ever goes to the bar and buys other people drinks. Or gets them bought for him. He can't imagine Charlie touching someone without their consent first either.
Yeah.
He’d probably take his time, if anything.
Idiot.
***
Charlie keeps appearing wherever Harry goes. Harry isn't sure whether it's intentional, or just a testament to how all the hallways in this house seem to be connected.
Harry is huddled over a pile of muggle gardening books in Arthur's study when Charlie turns up with a sandwich at lunchtime. He says it's to fuel him before he starts digging up the old flower bulbs - a piece of information Harry doesn't even remember sharing at breakfast. His brain is full of medicinal plants and a hundred different tulip varieties - then he's biting into salami, thinly sliced cheese and rocket. A perfect mouthful, straight on.
He lets out a little moan at the taste, glad Charlie left immediately after dropping it off.
He’s used to Molly's hospitality, appreciates the motherly acts that she extends to him as if he was her own son - tries to reciprocate where he can. Cooks a roast on Sundays. Does the washing up. Makes her favourite carrot cake muffins every now and then.
But he's not used to this.
He can't decide whether it's domestic, hot, or just incredibly kind of Charlie to anticipate his needs like this.
When he does eventually change into his garden pants (a very old, tattered pair that used to be blue) and steps outside, Charlie is already there. He throws Harry a brief smile and gets straight back to chopping more firewood.
Charlie has always been a hands on, physically active guy.
Come on, Harry thinks – the man wrangles dragons for a living.
He remembers the surprise when he first saw Charlie do mundane tasks like this by hand.
It made sense, when he gave it more thought. Magic becomes unpredictable near magical creatures. Charlie would have gotten used to using it sparingly.
It's a challenge not to stare at the man.
No wand in sight. Just kindling, calloused hands, and that quiet focus of his- the same intensity he imagines Charlie having when handling the fire-breathing beasts.
Harry has been moving boulders for the last couple months. Eating entirely too much food. Duelling in Arthur's garage when he struggled to sleep. He's filled out quite well - not quite the dangly kid he felt like for most of his life.
He tries to do what makes him feel better. More comfortable. Confident.
The new frames on his glasses fit him better, his hair still messy but much tidier after his recent haircut. He even agreed to go shopping with Hermione for clothes that actually fit - make him enjoy wearing them. All the little details.
Charlie, on the other hand, is on an entirely different level of gorgeous, Harry thinks.
He's not sure if he was too busy being in denial until now to notice it, but now violently does.
He's fully clothed in loose work pants and a thick sweater, but Harry doesn't have to see more to know. Charlie rolls up his sleeves often enough, leans up to expose a sliver of skin here and there - and Harry notices.
He's covered in freckles, scars and muscles - hands rough, powerful.
Harry might be toned, sure, - but Charlie looks like he's cut from stone, forged by the dragon fire itself. He looks like the embodiment of strength, safety, and comfort.
All the things that Harry is only starting to get used to.
Harry lets himself watch the way Charlie swings the axe for a moment too long, turning to get his pruning scissors out the shed with a mortified sigh. If Charlie notices, he doesn’t say anything.
He stores the image for later, immediately feels guilty about it, and only manages to turn his brain off when he's elbows deep in the soil.
***
A couple of days later, Charlie offers to help.
Says he could use a workout, which Harry tries to not comment on, and asks Harry to show him what he has in mind that day.
It’s... surprising.
It's nice. It's good.
Harry has been trying to get closer to the redhead.
Charlie spends most of his time in the garage with Arthur or out of the house, telling Harry updates about friends he hasn't seen in ages, as if Harry knows them himself. He sort of feels like he does, now.
He has a feeling that Charlie only shares selected pieces of information. Harry realises that he talks to Charlie a whole lot without actually knowing a lot about the man.
He tells himself it's not on purpose, throws in questions like what were you like in hogwarts, do you like cherry tarts, why did you decide to work with dragons - and tries not to notice Charlie watching him back with an unreadable look every time.
It's almost like Harry’s reaching the edge of an invisible line.
Every step closer he takes makes Charlie pause, like he's trying to figure out why it's even happening in the first place. As if Harry couldn't possibly have a reason to be interested in these things. In him.
He very much is. He's still coming to terms with it.
Charlie doesn't even look too bored when Harry finishes naming all the herbs he's just planted - half that Molly asked for, half that he wants to try using in cooking himself.
Explains he was going to load up the soil next, prep it by the flower beds. He needs to plant the spring bulbs before the first snow.
There is only so many times he can watch the man bend down to lift the heavy bags of soil before the question comes out.
“You know how you said... that not all men are shitty like that?”
It comes out quieter than he means. Charlie looks at him like he’s expected this.
“I remember.”
“Well.” Harry clears his throat, looks away when Charlie picks up another bag with a grunt.
“I don’t exactly know what I’m doing.”
"I know I've kind of just thrown it out into open back then - but, it's uh - fairly recent. The whole bisexual thing. It hasn't exactly gone well so far. What I imagined it to be like was - well. Different. It's making me think that maybe it's just the idea of it that I like. Or maybe I've just been scarred by the one half-experience I had? If you can call it that."
Harry rambles on, hoping the sheer volume of words will make up for their awkwardness. "And um. I was wondering. If you had any advice?"
Charlie looks at him for a moment - then nods.
"Okay."
Harry stares back, bottom lip anxiously stuck between his teeth. "Okay?"
The corner of Charlie's mouth quirks up. He loads the last bag on the wheelbarrow and gestures for Harry to start walking.
"Okay - as in I'll try, Harry. You say you like the idea of it?"
Harry nods, pushing the wheelbarrow - occupied with the labour.
"Yeah. I mean - finding men attractive, and all that. Imagining what it would be like. You know. All good there."
As terrifying as this conversation is, he's glad that Charlie hasn’t shut him down. Not that he was expecting him to. It’s still nice that he asks questions. Tries to understand where Harry is.
"Have you gone any further? Done something about it?"
Never mind.
Harry stops by the first flower bed. Tries not to combust internally.
"Are you talking about what I think you're talking about?"
Charlie rolls his eyes at him, clearly amused. Leans down to place the first bag down.
"Yes, Harry. Usually quite a big indicator, that one."
They move again.
"Okay, um - yes. Yeah." Harry flushes. Hopes he can blame it on the physical labour. "Pretty positive about that, too."
Harry prays it doesn't come off too enthusiastic.
He would probably have been more comfortable talking about this if the redhead hasn't recently invade his fantasies himself.
"Great.” Charlie hums, throwing Harry another look as he drops the second bag. "Was the leather guy supposed to be the final experiment, then?"
Harry shrugs, glancing away.
Charlie’s eyes are way too intense.
"Kind of. Until he wasn't. I felt ready, you know – it just wasn’t my cup of tea."
"Sounds like you already know what I’m gonna say, so this probably won’t be helpful." Charlie announces, gestures for Harry to continue towards the larger raised flower beds in the back.
"But the moment I was sure was when I made out with a guy in the Ravenclaw quidditch team. Pissed me off, he did. But it doesn't really get clearer than that - not when you're fourteen and hard in an alcove because your rival gave you a little peck on the mouth."
Harry's step falters, suddenly unable put one foot in front of another - almost stumbling into the fence.
Charlie steadies him with a chuckle, fingers on the small of his back.
"Woah, there. You good?"
Great. Doing great.
"Yeah, sorry." He sounds a bit breathless, but again - physical activity. Mulch particles in the air. Whatever works.
The images flood his brain.
Uh - uh. Not going there.
Who is he kidding though?
He's already there.
But he can pretend he's not.
He's pretty good at that.
Charlie steps away. "As I was saying, at this point, I'd just give it a go. I meant what I said. You got unlucky with Mark."
Harry tries to take this seriously again. "Okay, so. What if I want to get to know them first? Like - wouldn't that have prevented the whole fiasco? How can you even tell that someone's got… voyeuristic rapist tendencies?"
"Of course you can get to know them first, Harry. But you can meet someone else in a club and have it not go to shit. Whatever feels best for you."
They're getting close to the end of the garden. The sun’s much lower all of a sudden. Time has gone way too fast with Charlie's help.
He's managed to cross three bullet points off his list today, and some he didn't even know were on it.
Plant the herbs.
Dig out bulbs.
Prep soil for planting.
Imagine Charlie hard in an alcove.
"So..."
"So?" Charlie shrugs, all nonchalance. Picks up another bag.
"I've had my share of similar experiences. Do I regret some? Maybe." He throws Harry a crooked grin, and Harry tries not to run the wheelbarrow into his toes. "I'm saying try it, not encouraging you to just jump a random person on the street, Harry."
Harry snorts. "It definitely sounded like you are."
It's not like Harry hasn't thought about it, anyway. But small talk is literally the work of evil, with all of Harry has gone through. And after Mark, he doesn't like the idea of a one-night stand with someone he doesn't know. Or trust. And everyone he already knows is- well.
“While also telling me that I might regret doing so."
Charlie unloads another bag of soil, straightening up.
"You're making this way too complicated. I appreciate your lack of time for superficial things the past couple years has been a problem - but it's been a while now, Harry. Surely there is someone that you've been interested in. Or will be.”
He shrugs again. “Mark turned out to be a right dickhead - but you did like him at first. That counts for something. You'll find someone else. A lot of my past, even the not-so-good moments allowed me to at least be sure about what I want."
Harry scowls. He means to do it internally, but it doesn't quite stay there.
Suppose it would be better to at least know for sure.
And he does want to know.
They reach the raised garden bed furthest from the house.
Harry's planning on planting roses here, definitely something nice and fragrant. It's the closest to both the main door and the bench.
The last bag is left right next to it, ready for tomorrow.
"I'm not interested in finding another Mark, I don't think." He's not sure why he feels the need to repeat it.
Charlie slips off his large gloves, sits back on the bench – laughs a little like he's amused by the extension of Harry's sexual crisis. "You were interested in getting him out of the leather getup, no? That's the important bit."
It's different, Harry thinks.
He did want to do more with Mark. But he didn't like the way Mark acted. Didn't like the lack of communication, consent and timing.
And his hair. Way too short. Not even long enough to run his fingers through.
Harry would like to do that, probably. A silly thing for a horny drunk to focus on at the time, sure - but true.
He knows there is another alternative to consider.
There’s an annoyingly considerate redhead in front of him - his best friends' tall, extremely cool older brother - who he has been spewing all this bullshit to.
Who has been kind enough to listen. Talk about it.
Charlie keeps looking at him like he already knows the answer, too, and that only makes it worse.
Harry thinks it would be quite nice to get him Charlie of his getup too.
He also likes him outside of any recent physical realisations, so there's that.
It's confusing, sure. But...
Why would he ever choose the first option?
"So I should just drop any of my standards and go shag someone?"
Charlie raises his eyebrows at him, then leans back and taps the bench next to him.
"No, Harry. You should keep your standards and find someone you're attracted to who isn't a Mark. You know you can just kiss someone first too, right? "
Harry drops the wheelbarrow down with a clatter, wipes his hand on the back of his jeans, and steps over it to sit down beside him. His legs are aching, and he’s thinking of pruning the hedge back before it starts swallowing the fence again. But this – this is also important.
"Yes, I know - I'm a virgin, not a priest, Charlie. I've kissed people."
Charlie raises his hands in mock surrender.
"Mhm. No priests here. Got it."
Harry glares at him. He's not sure why he's so grumpy with the man.
Maybe it’s because he just admitted - rather loudly - that he’s a virgin, in what was definitely a backwards attempt to seem less inexperienced.
Maybe because it’s making Harry realise how much he wants to do everything they’re talking about - but possibly with him.
He hopes he’s hiding it well.
But all in all - there doesn't seem to be a magical answer that would fit everyone. A lot in what Charlie's saying is something that Harry has already thought about.
And he agrees: at this point, any more thinking isn't going to clarify anything.
He needs more... doing.
Hence the whole club fiasco.
"So what is it that you want?"
Charlie glances at him, turns to his side to face Harry better. "Huh?"
"You said you know what you want now."
"Oh - me?" He chuckles, crosses an ankle over his knee, levels Harry with a little smile. "Might be here for a minute. I'm very specific, love."
Harry feels the back of his ears get even warmer.
What is that supposed to mean?
Harry might be opening his mouth - about to say that he actually wouldn't mind listening to the man talk a bit more about himself.
Definitely wouldn't protest knowing whether he happens to fit any of Charlie’s “specific requirements,” either.
While calling him love.
I mean, how specific can you be?
Harry remembers hearing about Charlie's boyfriend - boyfriends? - in the past. Nothing specific. Not enough to put together any consistent mental image.
It shouldn't matter, anyway.
Harry, new to this, awkward and much younger - is hardly something Charlie would be looking for.
He leaves it at that.
Molly stumbles out the back door then, looking ever the bit concerned.
She walks towards them with two steaming cups of tea, wrapped in a blanket, throwing the pair a disapproving look.
"Inside, you two. It's getting chilly out here."
"I was just going to-"
Molly hauls him to his feet before he even knows what happened.
"Tomorrow, darling. Arthur just cracked a new bottle of fire whiskey - what do you say?"
They end up following, of course - Harry's tea suddenly spiced with liquor, joining a half-asleep Arthur on the couch with a content sigh.
He's got a shower to get to, and he's feeling the physical work turning into bone-deep tiredness.
He still thinks about the hedge.
And Charlie.
But you do not say no to Molly Weasley.
"You look deep in thought, dear. What were you discussing out there?"
"Oh." Harry clears his throat. "Um. Charlie was just giving me some advice."
Technically true.
Harry might have spent half of the time realising he's in deeper than he thought, but still.
He feels reaffirmed, even if the conversation was cut short.
Liked the snippets of Charlie’s past he got to hear.
Thinks he better distract himself soon. Wonders when Ron might feel up to going out again.
Molly reaches over to ruffle Charlie's hair, settling in close to her husband.
"I'm so glad you two are talking more, you know. Do let me know if it's something we can help with too, would you?"
He might go a bit red again.
"Thank you, Molly. I'll - uh – I’ll be fine."
Charlie smiles, pours some fire whiskey into his mug too, and directs a quick wink in Harry's direction. "We've got it, mom."
Harry's fucked.