Guess who's baaaack! Let me tell you, completing a full-time master's degree while working two jobs doesn't give you time for much else. But now that I have FINALLY graduated, I've decided to dip my toes back into fanfiction writing, and what better way to do that besides joining the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition?! If you've been around for a bit, you know what I'm on about, and you also know it means I'll be posting a story every two weeks and it'll normally be Drarry or feature either Draco or Harry.

I will also start catching up on my WIP, but gotta get that writing mojo back first! Thanks for sticking around while I've been MIA.

This story was written for round 1 of QLFC for the Chudley Cannons.

Main prompt: BEATER 2: Yawning – Write about someone being possessed.

Opt prompts: 7. [colour] green and 14. [action] coughing

Thanks to Autumn for beta-ing!

Word count: 2989

Sugar & Spice

(and everything not nice)

The two men watched the green goop bubble ominously. When it began to steam, Harry took a step back and put his hands up.

"I know I said I'd stay for dinner, but I think I'll take a raincheck."

Ron leant forward to take a tentative sniff then jerked back, coughing. Feeling the bile rise in his throat at the smell of the foul odour, he slapped one hand to his mouth and grabbed Harry's arm with the other, shooting him a pleading look.

Harry rolled his eyes and drew his wand. He paused, then muttered a wary, "Wingardium leviosa."

The pot rose slowly, then teetered. Both men held their breath as they watched the green—now turning brown—liquid slosh around. Ron pushed the kitchen bin forward, and Harry lowered the slop gingerly into its metal prison. He must have released the spell a breath too soon because the pot landed with a dull thud, causing both men to tense. Moments passed in strained silence, and just as Ron exhaled in relief, a strange metallic sputtering echoed from within the bin.

"Quick, the lid!" Harry said, waving his hand towards Ron, his eyes never leaving the trash can, which was now steaming.

Ron rushed about the kitchen, panicked, and realised he couldn't see the lid anywhere.

"Ron…" Harry said, and Ron sensed the alarm in Harry's voice before he turned around.

A plume of mottled green smoke was rising from the bin now, and Harry was slowly stepping away from it. In a moment of panic, Ron sent a burst of air towards the fumes, except it hit the bin instead, sending it spinning. It crashed against the wall and wobbled for a moment before coming to a standstill.

Putrid plumes erupted from the bin once again, plateaued against the ceiling, and spread out in rolling clouds. Harry, who was closest, was hit by the stench before it reached Ron, and he retched, doubling over in a fit of coughs. Ron slapped a hand over his nose and mouth, eyes stinging and bile rising to the back of his throat as the rotten odour overwhelmed his senses. He desperately waved his wand at a nearby bottle cap, transfiguring it into a lid big enough for the bin.

Ron sent the lid sailing across the kitchen, and it landed on the metal container with a clatter. Harry flicked his wand, and a gust of wind dissipated the remaining green mist, leaving behind nothing more than a sour aftertaste, a vague stench of stale meat, and the tearful duo trying to reign in their retching and coughing.

Ron stood staring at the bin with a muted sense of panic. It wouldn't explode, right?

As though reading his mind, Harry walked to the window and levitated the bin over to the other side of the street, leaving it sitting innocently beside their neighbour's overflowing trash.

Once Harry had pulled the window shut, the two men exhaled in relief. Expecting the glare Harry shot his way, Ron grinned sheepishly.

"That wasn't so bad now was it?"

As though in response, the bin exploded on the other side of the street, sending food and waste showering down on their neighbour's lawn.

Harry looked at Ron with raised eyebrows, daring him to say something more, and Ron cringed.

"How was I meant to know scraps were flammable?"

Harry tugged down his rolled up sleeves and snapped, "Why were you cooking with scraps in the first place? Don't you have any real ingredients you can use?"

Ron rolled his eyes and pointed at a cookbook that lay open on the counter. "Hermione has recently been into this new thing called waste-free cooking that uses scraps from other dishes to reduce the amount of food waste created. You don't expect me to tell her she's wrong, do you?"

Harry stared at Ron for a long moment, as though deciding if that was a rhetorical question or not, then shook his head. "I'll take an exploding bin of green goo anyday, thank you very much."

"Precisely," Ron said, reaching into the fridge for two beers. "Thanks for not abandoning me when the going got tough, by the way."

Harry scoffed as he took the offered beer and cracked it open. He took a long swig, then sighed in satisfaction. "Me? Abandon you? Never."

Ron rolled his eyes and ignored the fact that Harry had been halfway to the door just a few minutes prior. He focused instead on the cool, bitter taste of the beer.

The two men sat in silence, and Ron felt a sudden wave of exhaustion roll over him. His eyes burned, vision blurry, as though he'd just been chopping onions, and he felt flushed and cotton-headed, like he'd been out in the sun for too long. The unwellness overtook him so suddenly, he barely had enough time to process what was happening.

"I think—" Harry started, looking green. He belched loudly then grimaced. "I don't feel so good."

Ron eyed the beer in his hand, then the remnants of the explosion outside, and felt a chill run down his spine. He couldn't have accidentally poisoned them, right?

As though in response, Harry slumped over sideways and crashed to the floor. Ron reached forward to catch him, but he moved so slowly that he was still rising out of his chair when Harry sprawled across the floor, unconscious. Ron felt his throat and chest expand. A loud belch wrenched itself free from within him with a shudder that left him shaken and weak.

"Uh-oh," he muttered as he watched the kitchen tilt and the tiled floor approach swiftly.

The last thought he had was that he was glad he didn't feel any pain, then darkness overtook him.

Griselda stood hunched over the cauldron, bearing down on the large wooden ladle she was using to stir the murky concoction. Her arms ached from the effort, her eyes watered from the fumes, and her nostrils were filled with the sour stench of stale meat. The only sounds in the room was the bubbling green liquid, and her sister bustling about the small space.

"Alright, dearie, have a rest now," Matilda cooed in that much-too-sugary voice of hers that reminded Griselda of the toothache children got after eating too many sweets.

With a groan, and several cracks of her aching back, Griselda straightened. She had to peel her hands off the ladle as the sweat had affixed her palms to the wood, and she stepped back as her sister swooped in and began stirring without pause.

Griselda yawned and eyed the scribbled notes strewn all around them, interspersed amidst vials of various coloured liquids and jars of pickled something-or-other. She frowned, wondering if they would ever succeed in making this potion that Matilda had set her mind on brewing a few weeks prior.

When she spoke her concerns out loud again, her sister tutted. "Oh, hush now. I've said it before, and I'll say it again—we will either succeed, or—"

"Or die trying," Griselda interjected in her raspy voice.

Matilda tittered over her shoulder, and Griselda rolled her eyes. She looked around until she found her cloak and reached for it.

"Well, I daresay I deserve to stretch my legs after four hours of stirring," she said, yanking the cloak free from whatever it was stuck under.

Matilda looked over her shoulder with a frown, undoubtedly to scold Griselda for her uncharacteristic lack of patience and tolerance for a potioneer, but she froze, eyes widening, mouth puckered in a soundless "No!"

Griselda turned, but all she had time to see was a small vial topple over from the shelf above and splosh into the cauldron. She couldn't be sure of its contents, but it never meant anything good when an unidentified liquid was suddenly introduced into an already unstable concoction. She grabbed her sister and pulled urgently, realising the danger they were in, but Matilda clung onto the ladle, still frozen in place.

"We must go!" Griselda yelled as the room began to fill with rolling green smoke and the putrid stench of rotting meat. "Now, Matilda, come!"

"No!" Matilda screeched at the same time as the coal beneath the cauldron sparked.

The last thought Griselda had was that she hated her sister for her hyperbolic speech and the irony of actually dying in that way. Then the small hut exploded, setting the night sky alight like a flaming beacon. How ironic that the only two who would have made use of the beacon had been blasted into smithereens.

Harry regained his senses slowly and painfully. The more awareness returned to him, the more he regretted coming to. His temples thrummed a painful rhythm against his skull, his throat burned, he tasted vomit on his tongue, and his head felt like it had been cracked open. It probably had, he realised, as he groaned and pushed himself off the floor.

Gingerly touching the sore spot on the side of his head, he winced and swallowed. That'll teach him to agree to help Ron with anything ever again.

"Look, Matilda, the boy has awoken."

Harry froze at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. Suddenly, he noticed a chill in the room. His vision focused as he adjusted his glasses, and he gaped at the sight of Ron, looking worse for wear, sitting beside the ghost of the ugliest hag he'd ever seen. As though everything that had transpired so far hadn't been shocking enough, Ron spoke in a high-pitched voice that made Harry want to claw at his face.

"My, I didn't realise what a good-looking young man he was." Ron giggled. Giggled! Then twisted a lock of hair between his fingers as he smiled down at Harry with wide, sparkling eyes.

Harry turned to the side and vomited violently.

"Goodness!" He heard Ron say in a way that reminded him of Molly but somehow laced with Umbridge's voice and mannerisms. "You're worse off than your friend, hmm?"

Harry felt cool fingers lift his chin. Ron was looking down at him in that glassy-eyed way that had made Harry throw up in the first place. He was doing a very ugly thing with his mouth where he was puckering his lips while also smiling at the same time. Harry had to resist the intense urge to punch Ron in the face.

"You boys have been up to no good, haven't you?" Ron, or whoever the hell had possessed him—because there could be no way this was Ronald Weasley—said in that same too-sweet voice.

All the while, the ghost hag was watching them with crossed arms and a very displeased expression on her face.

"Enough of this silliness," the ghost snapped. "We need to get ourselves out of this mess that you have got us into yet again."

"Oh, hush, Griselda—"

"No, I shan't hush!" the ghost of Griselda yelled, and Harry could've sworn the room shook. "Not only did you get yourself killed, you just had to drag me down with you!"

Ron let out that teeth-grating giggling sound, and Harry coughed to avoid vomiting again. In that voice that reminded him of a Molly-Umbridge hybrid, Ron said, "Aren't you the least bit curious?"

"I daresay I've had quite enough of your curiosity!" the ghost shrieked.

Ron ignored the ghost and asked Harry, "Tell me, lad, what's your name?"

Harry stared blankly at being asked who he was by his best friend. He suddenly exploded in confused rage. "Shouldn't you introduce yourself first and explain why you're inside my friend before demanding my name?"

Ron-Molly-Umbridge's eyes glittered dangerously, and Harry gulped. At this rate, he was going to have to add Hermione's name to the mix. "Harry," he muttered finally.

With a smile that was probably meant to assuage him but only infuriated him further, Ron-Molly-Umbridge-Hermione said, "Well, Harry, were you perchance meddling with any strange, explosive brews?"

"Er…" Harry glanced at the window.

The ghost named Griselda swooped over to it and peered outside. With a grunt, she said, "Fine mess they made of it, too." She glided back, straight through the counter, and fixed Harry with a cold glare. "Seems they managed to get away just fine, unlike us."

"Indeed…"

Harry watched the cold glint in Ron-Molly-Umbridge-Hermione's eyes and shrank back. He felt helpless, as he would be under any of the three women's shrewd gaze. That menacing smile spread across his/their face again, and Harry felt cold to the bone.

"It seems your friend dragged you into something you didn't want," Rollidgemione said matter-of-factly.

The ghost grunted. "I suppose that explains why you ended up possessing him, with your hair-brained ways."

"I'd hardly call this possession, dearie," Romnione (Harry was clearly losing it) said as he rose and walked around to the carnage the two men had left behind. "I'm merely borrowing this fine lad's body while I complete some…unfinished business."

Griselda eyed Rollington for a long moment. "Being undead suits you, sister."

(Harry decided thinking of Ron by ridiculous names was the only way to remain sane.)

Rollidge giggled—Harry's stomach turned as he realised he was getting used to the sound—and flipped through the cookbook. "Oh, look at this, Griselda. These foolish boys have been using my notes as a recipe book."

Harry frowned. He hadn't thought much of the worn, leather-bound journal, presuming it was something that had belonged in Ron's family for generations. He swore that next time Ron turned up with a strange book in hand and attempted to enlist Harry's help to cook a Valentine's Day meal, he would hex the redhead's arse to next May.

"Well, well, well, it seems whoever found this book after we passed has made some modifications," Ronningly said.

Griselda stood inside the kitchen aisle, casually reading. "It appears a genius that surpasses your own exists."

"Indeed," Romniosa said balefully. His eyes flicked upwards to pin Harry to where he still remained half sprawled on the floor.

Griselda seemed to forget she herself was a ghost for a moment as she seemed terrified of the look on her sister's—Ron's—face. "Matilda… I hope you're not about to do what I think you are…"

Ron—Matilda—waved a hand and approached Harry with that ugly, puckered-up smile again. "You look tired," he/she/they said, and for a moment, Harry almost saw the flicker of the spirit's true form superimposed over Ron. "Why don't you rest, child…"

Before Harry could react, a haze fell over him, and he felt himself falling into unconsciousness yet again.

"Harry, mate, wake up!"

Harry grunted as Ron shook him awake and elbowed the other man away. He looked around, bleary-eyed. The setting sun filtered in through the window, and he belatedly registered that he was lying on the sofa instead of the floor. Snippets of the past few hours swum through his mind in a blur. It felt more like a fever dream than reality.

Then again, that could be said about most of his life.

"What time's it?" he muttered, sitting up and coughing. The foul taste remained on his tongue; proof that the day's happenings weren't as imaginary as he'd hoped.

"Quarter to six. Hermione should be home soon." Harry rubbed his eyes and yawned as Ron set the table and asked, "You staying for dinner?"

Walking over, Harry eyed the spread with a frown. "Who cooked this?"

Ron chuckled. "Ha-ha, here we go." Looking at Harry's expression, he raised his eyebrows. "Did you nap too hard, or something? How could you forget slaving away for an entire afternoon?"

"I cooked this?"

"We did, thank you very much. I know I couldn't've done it without you, but I deserve equal credit."

Harry stared at Ron in bewilderment. Was Harry going crazy? Surely the exploding green slop and the ghostly sisters couldn't have been all in his head. Right?

Slumping down in a seat, he reached for a beer bottle, only to have it snatched away.

"You've had one too many already," Ron chastised.

"Who are you, Hermione?" Harry grumbled.

Ron snickered. "You know what they say about couples who've lived together for a while…"

"I'd rather not know, thanks," Harry replied in disgust.

Ron smacked Harry atop the head, but before they could bicker, there was a sharp crack followed by the door opening and shutting.

"I don't know why she won't just Apparate inside," Harry muttered.

"Don't start," Ron warned. "I don't need another lecture on etiquette on Valentine's Day."

Hermione walked in saying, "Have you seen the state of the Walkers' front lawn? Some muppets exploded their—oh! What's all this?"

"Ta-da!" Ron said, enveloping a gasping Hermione in a hug and swinging her in a circle as she laughed.

Harry walked over to the kitchen window and peered outside, his stomach dropping when he was met with the sight of his and Ron's escapades. Slowly, Harry looked around, heart starting to race. His eyes landed on a worn leather book in a corner, and he hurried over to it. Opening it, heart in mouth, he flipped through it until he found the page he'd dog-eared.

It was blank. Except for two lines in the centre.

Good lads shouldn't meddle in things they don't know.

Leave the cooking to those of us who know what we're doing.

Harry ripped the page out and crushed it in his fist. Pocketing it, he turned around just as Hermione dipped her spoon into the soup and tasted it. He glanced out the window a final time, and noticed the front door of the house opposite swing shut.

The front lawn was spotless, not a single sign of anything strange to be found.

The only thing out of the ordinary was Ron's high-pitched giggle as Hermione complimented him and the tender spot on Harry's head. With a shudder, Harry approached the table and sat down.

In the bin outside, a glob of green goop sizzled.