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It started innocently enough—or at least, as innocently as anything ever did when Harry Potter was involved.
Christmas at the Burrow was supposed to be warm, cozy, and filled with the comforting chaos of Molly Weasley’s cooking, Arthur’s endless fascination with plugs, and Ron yelling at Ginny for nicking his last Chocolate Frog. Instead, it had turned into something far more sinister: Harry Potter had apparently decided it was his personal mission in life to flirt with every single Weasley sibling in existence.
Every. Single. One.
Except Ron.
And Ron was losing his mind.
The Spark
The Burrow’s dining table was always chaotic, but Christmas dinner took chaos and gift-wrapped it with gravy. Plates levitated precariously, Molly shouted about eating more sprouts, Arthur was trying to explain microwaves to a deeply uninterested Charlie, and Fred and George were snickering at something written on the back of a cracker wrapper.
In other words, a typical Weasley holiday.
Until Harry opened his mouth.
He’d been quiet, politely spooning mashed parsnips onto his plate, when he suddenly turned to Ron with an almost dreamy sigh.
“You know, Ron,” Harry said, loud enough for the entire table to hear, “I love your sister and all—Ginny’s amazing—but if Bill was single…” He trailed off, spearing a roast potato with exaggerated slowness. “Goddamn. I’d go there.”
The effect was instant.
Charlie choked on his coffee. Fred and George fell out of their chairs in synchronized delight. Ginny froze mid-bite, fork halfway to her mouth. Percy’s monocle—where had he even gotten a monocle?—fell straight into his soup.
Bill, bless him, didn’t miss a beat. He leaned back in his chair, smirked, and let his fang earring catch the candlelight. “Well, Harry,” he said lazily, “you’re not too bad yourself.”
Harry actually purred. Purred. “Oh, stop it, you’ll make me blush.”
“DON’T ENCOURAGE HIM!” Ron screeched, slamming his palms on the table hard enough to rattle the gravy boat. “YOU—YOU CAN’T—” He turned to Harry, eyes bulging. “You’re dating my sister!”
Harry tilted his head, lips curving into a wicked grin. “Yes, and she’s lovely, Ron. But have you seen your brother? Look at that jawline. Look at that hair. That’s not just hair, that’s—” He gestured dramatically. “—that’s my wet dream. I bet even his shampoo is enchanted.”
“Dancing daffodils oil infused with Unicorn tears,” Bill said smoothly, flicking his ponytail over his shoulder like he was in a shampoo commercial.
Harry actually swooned against the back of his chair. “Merlin, kill me now. That’s it. That’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Ginny smacked Harry on the arm. “Oi! Watch it.”
Harry shot her a mischievous glance. “Don’t worry, Gin. You’re still number one on my list.” Then he turned back to Bill and added, “But he’s a very close second.”
Ron let out a strangled noise like a teakettle about to explode. “THIS ISN’T A LIST HARRY!”
“Yes it is,” Fred piped up helpfully. “We’re keeping score.”
“Currently Bill’s in the lead,” George added. “But I reckon Charlie could give him a run for his money.”
Charlie blinked. “Wait, what?”
“Harry’s working his way through the family,” Fred said cheerfully.
“RON, CONTROL YOUR BOYFRIEND!” Percy yelped, dabbing soup off his glasses.
“HE’S NOT MY—HE’S—GINNY, DO SOMETHING!” Ron howled.
Ginny calmly speared a sausage. “I think it’s hilarious.”
“YOU’RE ALL MAD!” Ron shouted, half-standing in his chair. “MAD! YOU CAN’T LET HIM—”
Bill reached across the table, winked at Harry, twirled a stray hair strand, and drawled, “Tell me more about what you’d do if I were single.”
Ron screamed.
“Merlin’s beard, Ron,” Harry said sweetly. “Relax. I’m only saying if Bill weren’t taken, I’d happily risk it all for a Weasley. Well—another Weasley.”
“ANOTHER?!” Ron practically toppled his plate. “NO. NO MORE. YOU CAN’T TAKE ALL MY SIBLINGS, HARRY!”
Harry smirked, butter-wouldn’t-melt. “Don’t worry, Ron,” he said serenely. “You can keep Percy.”
Percy sputtered so hard he nearly inhaled a bread roll.
Bill laughed, low and smooth, and raised his glass toward Harry in a mock toast. Harry clinked his pumpkin juice against it, eyes glinting wickedly.
Ron collapsed into his seat, muttering furiously about “betrayal” and “family boundaries” while the rest of the table dissolved into laughter.
The Twin Troubles
The next morning at the Burrow dawned deceptively peaceful. Snow fell gently outside, Molly was humming as she stirred porridge, and Arthur was reading the Daily Prophet upside down, insisting that this time he would finish the crossword.
Ron shuffled into the kitchen, hair sticking up at gravity-defying angles, muttering darkly about nightmares where Harry was running a black-market dating ring out of the Gryffindor common room. He blinked the sleep from his eyes—and froze.
Because there, leaning casually against the counter like he owned the place, was Harry Potter.
Wearing.
Fred’s Weasley sweater.
Not just any Weasley sweater, either—the iconic “F” stitched proudly across the chest, slightly too big on Harry so the collar slipped down enough to expose a tempting glimpse of collarbone.
“Morning, Ron,” Harry said brightly, voice dripping with faux innocence. “Sleep well?”
Ron’s left eye twitched. “Is that—IS THAT FRED’S SWEATER?”
Harry looked down, tugging at the hem like he hadn’t noticed. “Oh, this old thing? Fred said I could borrow it. Said it looked better on me.”
Fred, seated beside George and looking smug enough to power the entire Floo Network, nodded. “What can I say, Ronniekins? He pulls it off.”
George added, “Actually, he pulls it off really well. Might be the best the sweater’s ever looked.”
Harry pressed a hand to his chest dramatically. “Oh, you two are too kind. Honestly, I don’t know how anyone resists a man with such impeccable knitting taste.”
Fred grinned wolfishly. “And we don’t know how anyone resists a man who looks that good in knitwear.”
George leaned across the table, chin in hand, and added with a slow wink, “Or a man with a lightning bolt scar. Very dashing.”
Ron’s jaw dropped. “YOU’RE FLIRTING WITH HIM?!”
“They started it,” Harry said sweetly, batting his eyelashes.
“You absolute—absolute—” Ron sputtered so hard he nearly swallowed his tongue. “He’s my best mate! He’s DATING OUR SISTER!”
“Correction,” Fred said cheerfully, “he’s dating your sister. We’re just appreciating the artistry.”
George nodded solemnly. “It’s a public service, really. We’re helping Harry feel welcome in the family.”
Harry smirked, tilting his head just enough for the collar of Fred’s sweater to slip even lower. “And I do feel welcome. So very… warm.”
Fred clutched his chest. “Merlin, he’s shameless.”
George sighed wistfully. “I love it.”
“STOP ENCOURAGING HIM!” Ron howled, grabbing the teapot like he might fling it. “This is insane! This is—you can’t just—Harry, take that sweater off right now!”
Harry gasped, scandalized. “Ron! At the breakfast table? Really?”
The entire kitchen erupted into laughter. Molly nearly dropped her spoon. Arthur turned his paper right-side up at last, blinking at them all like he’d tuned into the weirdest WWN drama.
Ron clutched his head with both hands, rocking back and forth. “I can’t live like this,” he muttered. “He’s infecting them. He’s infecting all of you. He’s—he’s seducing my whole family!”
Harry, utterly unbothered, poured himself a cup of tea in Fred’s sweater and winked at George. “What can I say? Some people collect Chocolate Frog cards. I collect Weasleys.”
Ron screamed into his porridge.
Perfect Percy
Ron thought—hoped—the madness had reached its limit. Surely, after Bill’s shampoo commercial routine and the twins treating Harry like the prize in a Quidditch raffle, there was nothing left that could surprise him.
He was wrong.
Because when he stumbled into the sitting room that afternoon, Ron was greeted with a sight so horrific he genuinely considered gouging his own eyes out with a butter knife.
Harry Potter—The Boy Who Lived, Ron’s supposed best mate—was sitting cross-legged on the couch beside Percy. Not near Percy. Not in conversation range of Percy. But right up against him, their shoulders brushing.
And Harry was gazing at him like he’d hung the moon.
“…of course, the problem with most junior Ministry employees,” Percy was saying, chest puffed out, “is that they don’t understand the importance of sub-department protocol.” He adjusted his glasses and sniffed, clearly pleased with himself. “But I’ve always prided myself on following every form to the letter. Literally. I double-space all my margins.”
Harry let out a low, impressed whistle. “Wow, Percy. You’re so smart. A man who knows his way around paperwork? Be still, my heart.”
Percy turned a shade of red that clashed violently with his hair. He giggled. Percy Weasley giggled.
Ron dropped the biscuit he was holding. “No. No. NO.”
Harry leaned closer, eyes sparkling with mock adoration. “Honestly, the way you talk about Ministry forms—it’s intoxicating. Tell me more about… subsection B.”
Percy practically vibrated with glee. “Well—since you asked—subsection B of Regulation 312 clearly states that all Ministry memos must be folded vertically rather than horizontally, which, I might add, prevents a great deal of chaos in the filing department—”
Harry clasped his hands under his chin like a schoolgirl at a boyband concert. “Merlin, you’re brilliant. I’ve always said nothing’s sexier than a man who knows his stationery.”
Percy squeaked. Actually squeaked. Then he flapped his hands nervously, knocking over a stack of parchment.
Ron staggered forward like he was about to intervene in a duel. “WHAT IS HAPPENING. WHY IS THIS HAPPENING. STOP THIS.”
Harry tilted his head innocently. “What? I’m just appreciating Percy’s… talents.” He shot Percy a look so sultry it could have melted ice. “And Merlin, does he have them.”
Percy covered his face with both hands, muttering something about “Harry Potter thinks I’m sexy” while clearly trying not to faint.
Ron grabbed Harry by the shoulders and shook him. “YOU’RE CORRUPTING HIM. HE LIKES FORMS. FORMS, HARRY. YOU CAN’T MAKE FORMS DIRTY!”
Harry’s grin turned wicked. “Give me ten minutes and a quill, and I can make anything dirty.”
Fred and George, who had appeared in the doorway just in time to catch that line, immediately burst into applause.
Ron released Harry like he’d been burned. “I—I can’t—I don’t want to live anymore.” He clutched his head. “First Bill, then the twins, now Percy?! PERCY, OF ALL PEOPLE?!”
“Don’t knock it till you try it, Ron,” Percy said primly, still beet-red but standing straighter than he had in years. “Some of us value… order.”
“YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING ANYMORE!” Ron shrieked.
Harry patted Percy’s knee fondly, smirk firmly in place. “I know what I’m saying. And that’s: Merlin help me, Percy, you can organize my files any day.”
Ron screamed into the couch cushion.
Ginerva The Girlfriend
By this point, Ron had developed a sixth sense for disaster. He could tell by the sound of Harry’s footsteps when chaos was about to descend. He could feel the smug energy radiating off him like static electricity.
So when he entered the hallway and saw Harry leaning casually against the wall, waiting for Ginny to pass, Ron’s instincts screamed DANGER.
“Hey, Gin,” Harry drawled, eyes flicking up and down with exaggerated slowness. “Nice jumper. You know… red really brings out your eyes.”
Ginny froze, blinking. Then narrowed her eyes. “Harry James Potter, I’m already dating you. You don’t have to flirt with me.”
“Oh, but I do,” Harry purred, pushing off the wall and circling her like a predator who’d watched too many soap operas. “Because you’re the most radiant thing in this entire house. Honestly, if the sun ever went out, I’d just point to you and say, ‘There it is.’”
Ginny’s ears turned pink. “Shut up.”
Harry leaned closer, his face mere inches from Ginny's, lowering his voice to a husky whisper. “No, really. The way your hair glows in this lighting? Stunning. If angels existed, they’d be taking notes.”
Ginny’s face went scarlet, and she punched him squarely in the arm. “You’re impossible.”
Harry rubbed his arm with a wince, but his grin was positively feral. “Worth it.”
And that was when Ron rounded the corner.
He stopped dead, eyes bugging out of his head. “OH, FOR—GINNY?! NOT YOU TOO!”
Ginny crossed her arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ron’s voice cracked like shattered glass. “HE’S BEEN FLIRTING WITH EVERYONE! BILL! THE TWINS! PERCY! AND NOW—NOW YOU’RE LETTING HIM FLIRT WITH YOU?”
Ginny raised a brow. “Ron. He’s my boyfriend. He’s allowed to flirt with me.”
Ron jabbed a finger wildly at Harry. “Not like THAT! That’s not flirting, that’s—” He flailed for words. “That’s a Shakespearean sonnet wrapped in sin!”
Harry smirked, hands in his pockets like he had all the time in the world. “You flatter me.”
“DON’T FLATTER HIM!” Ron roared, pulling at his own hair. “Ginny, you’re supposed to be angry! He’s cheating on you with ALL OF YOU!”
Ginny smirked. “I think it’s hilarious, honestly. Besides—” She leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to Harry’s cheek just to spite Ron. “—I know who he’s really going home with.”
Harry turned bright red for the first time all week. “Well. Damn.”
Ron collapsed against the wall like a soldier hit on the battlefield. “She’s gone. She’s gone over to his side. I’ve lost her. He’s taken everyone.”
Ginny tossed her hair and strolled away, looking infuriatingly smug. Harry followed, whistling innocently.
And Ron was left standing in the hallway, whispering to himself: “This is it. This is how I die. Not from Voldemort, not from Death Eaters, but from Harry bloody Potter seducing my entire family.”
Fred popped his head out of the sitting room. “Oi, Ron. If you’re done screaming, Harry owes us a rematch in Exploding Snap.”
“TAKE HIM,” Ron moaned. “HE’S YOURS NOW. I’M FINISHED.”
The Last Straw
The Burrow’s kitchen was bustling that morning. Molly was levitating plates of bacon and eggs to the table, Arthur was explaining the concept of “credit cards” to Percy (who looked deeply offended by the lawlessness of it all), and Fred and George were quietly enchanting the butter dish to moo whenever Ron reached for it.
It was all very normal.
Until Harry walked in.
He wasn’t just wearing pajamas.
He wasn’t just barefoot.
He wasn’t just casually sipping pumpkin juice.
He was wearing Charlie’s dragon-hide jacket.
Over his pajamas.
Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Morning, everyone,” Harry said cheerfully, sliding into Charlie’s usual seat. “Sleep well?”
Silence fell across the entire table.
Bill dropped his toast. Ginny spat out her pumpkin juice. Percy adjusted his glasses three times in quick succession. Fred and George actually clutched each other for support.
And Ron—Ron let out a bloodcurdling scream.
“NO! NO! NOOOOO!” he bellowed, pointing an accusatory finger at Harry. “YOU DO NOT GET TO DO THIS!”
Harry blinked innocently. “Do what?”
“THAT!” Ron roared, waving both arms like he was conducting an orchestra of outrage. “THE JACKET! THAT’S CHARLIE’S JACKET!”
Harry tugged the jacket tighter around his shoulders, smirk firmly in place. “It’s comfy. Smells like smoke and danger. Very… masculine.” He winked across the table. “Don’t you think, Charlie?”
Charlie, who had just entered the kitchen with a plate of sausages, stopped dead. His ears turned red. “Uh—yeah. Looks good on you, Harry.”
“DON’T ENCOURAGE HIM!” Ron screamed, banging both fists on the table so hard that Percy’s porridge sloshed. “THIS IS MADNESS! THIS IS—THIS IS TREASON!”
“Calm down, Ron,” Harry said serenely, buttering a piece of toast like nothing was wrong. “You’re acting like I’m flirting with your whole family.”
Fred nearly choked on his tea. “Mate, that’s exactly what you’re doing.”
“AND I WON’T STAND FOR IT!” Ron shrieked. His face was the exact shade of Ginny’s hair now. “HE’S CORRUPTED ALL OF YOU! BILL WITH HIS STUPID HAIR, THE TWINS WITH THEIR STUPID GRINS, PERCY WITH HIS STUPID—FORMS, AND CHARLIE WITH HIS—HIS STUPID DRAGONS! AND EVEN YOU, GINNY! YOU!”
Ginny, biting back laughter, shrugged. “What can I say? He’s got good taste.”
Ron looked seconds away from an aneurysm. He pointed at Harry, hand shaking. “You—you’re EVIL. You’re trying to COLLECT my family like Chocolate Frog cards!”
Harry calmly took a sip of tea. “Well. You’ve got to admit, they’re all limited edition.”
The kitchen exploded with laughter. Even Molly had to press a hand to her mouth to hide her snort.
Ron, meanwhile, was trembling so hard the butter dish mooed in fear. He finally stood, slammed his chair back, and screamed the words that would go down in Burrow history:
“YOU CAN’T HAVE ALL MY SIBLINGS, HARRY!”
The room went silent for half a second.
Then pandemonium.
Fred fell off his chair. George actually wheezed, tears streaming down his face. Percy muttered, “Well, technically, he could,” before turning beet red when everyone stared. Bill raised his glass in salute. Charlie muttered something about “dragon-hide looks good on him, though.” Ginny smirked and kissed Harry on the cheek just to twist the knife.
And Harry, the smug menace himself, leaned back in Charlie’s chair, tugged the dragon-hide jacket closer, and said calmly:
“Don’t worry, Ron. You can still keep Percy.”
Percy squeaked so loudly the windows rattled.
Ron tried to leap across the table to strangle Harry, but Molly flicked her wand without even looking up from her bacon, and Ron froze midair, dangling upside down like a furious ginger chandelier.
“Finish your breakfast, dear,” Molly said pleasantly. “You can strangle him after pudding.”
And that was the moment Ronald Bilius Weasley realized that Voldemort had never been the true enemy.
It was Harry James Potter.
And he was winning.