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thrihyrneContinued from here
Half an hour later they'd checked into the Argyll Hotel and were on their way to MacGregor and MacDuff. It wasn't as bitterly cold as it had been in London, but the overhanging grey clouds, while picturesque and resembling diaphanous fingers combing down from the heavens, brought with them a constant drizzle interspersed with true rain. Harry was grateful to get to the shop and get their hired kilts, noticing that one of the shopkeepers was giving Ron at least a thrice-over as Ron explained what they were in need of.
"Did Wood say whether or not it matters what the colours are?" Harry asked after they gave their waist measurements.
"No. And it's a busy time, with the holidays. We may not have much of a choice," Ron said, fingering a green tartan with red and white lines.
He'd put his left hand in his pocket and told Harry to nudge at him if he forgot and started waving his one gloved hand around. Ron didn't want to have to explain to any Muggles what was going on, so Harry kept glancing over to make sure Ron's bare hand was the one in view. Harry only hoped that he wouldn't be stuck wearing one that was the same clan design and colour as what Ron was hexed with; that would be too much irony. Thankfully they were able to choose between two apiece and after Harry paid up and found out what time the kilts were due back the next day, they took the precaution of Disillusioning themselves and Apparating near the hotel. Harry had chosen a rather plain greyish tartan, Highland Granite, and Ron had ended up with a red-based one, a McGregor Hunting pattern.
After a quick lunch taken a short distance from the hotel, they returned to their room. Ron lay down on the bed to rest his stomach and was asleep within minutes. Shaking his head, Harry set a Chronos charm in the air with an alarm set for five. Unfortunately, despite having lived with Ron for years now, first as dorm mates and more recently as lovers, Harry was unable to relax that quickly. He envied Ron's ability seemingly to fall sleep at will. Instead, Harry restored a book on hexes he'd had in his own small collection to regular size and spent some time scanning through it for any more clues.
When it was time, they put on their hired kilts and socks, flattering and taking the mickey out of each other all at once. Ron produced the tickets to the exhibition match, rubbing them together in his gloved hand before popping them into his overcoat pocket.
"Ready?" he asked as Harry took a last look at himself in the mirror, though he was looking solely at his knobby, luminous knees with their covering of black hair.
"No news from Hermione?" he asked weakly.
"No. C'mon, you handsome tosser. For once, people aren't going to be there to look at you. We've got to catch a portkey."
"Thank Merlin," Harry said under his breath. "I'm never wearing a skirt again."
"Harry, in all seriousness," Ron said as they strode through a now-battering rain, Harry's arms crossed defiantly across his chest, "you'll really get into strife if you say you're wearing a skirt around a group of Scots. It's a kilt."
"Fine."
Their seats were superb, and a stadium attendant gave them a short note Oliver had left for them once they were situated.
"We weren't ever that close to Wood," Harry thought out loud.
"Yeah, but he did come back for the last battle. I think you forget the impression that killing you-know-who can make on people," Ron said, placing his bare right hand on Harry's knee and patting it. "C'mon, let's watch the match."
Harry did let his gaze drift from the game to the other people in the stadium. It wasn't a large number, maybe a couple hundred, obviously friends and associates of the two teams. The sea of plaid was both disconcerting and compelling, and he found himself admiring Ron's legs on more than one occasion when he leapt to his feet at particularly brilliant moves. Some kind of repelling charm had been placed over the stadium, wherever it was, keeping off the rain and bone-chilling damp. Both teams played tight and fast, and Harry found himself drawn into the match. The Green Knights' Seeker flew with a lithe grace that Harry admired. As he or she went by in a blur, Harry made a note to try and remember to ask Wood about their competitor's Seeker; the gender was impossible to tell. Wood's gender, however, was not, and Harry guiltlessly admired his legs and the sprightly but commanding way he steered his own broom. For a brief, guilty moment, Harry let his mind wander to how Wood might command himself in the bedroom, but steered it back to anticipation of being with Ron later that night. Puddlemere took the match in the end, and the crowd around them roared its approval. He and Ron asked for directions and made their way to the Puddlemere changing room. They waited outside until Wood appeared, his face brightening as he saw them and forcefully shook their hands.
"Harry! Ron! I'm so chuffed that you could make it!"
"Great to see you, too," Ron said, his voice suffused with a more youthful awe that Harry well recognised.
"We really appreciate the invitation. Sorry again for the late acceptance— I'm pretty much crap at looking at what comes in the post," Harry said with a small shrug.
"Doesn't matter. It's that time of year, anyway. So! Want to join us at the Mirthful Monk? They have an excellent local brew, and I'd like to hear what you're up to. You're an Auror, right?"
Harry nodded. "Guilty."
The conversation flowed easily from then on as Ron and Harry made the acquaintances of many of the rest of the team. The atmosphere of the pub when they got there was cheery and welcoming, and Harry found himself temporarily forgiving whomever it was who'd cast Ron's curse. He'd certainly not expected to find himself chatting about his early Quidditch days with a still-dashing Oliver Wood over pints of rich, heady ale, Ron securely but never suffocatingly at his side. When the hour got on to ten o'clock, Oliver glanced at his watch and gave them a rueful smile.
"Sorry lads, but I've got to get home. Hope that you've had half as great of an evening as I have. It's so good to see you doing so well. Anytime you want to see Puddlemere play, just owl me. And don't be shy."
His last comment was geared toward Ron, which Harry thought a bit odd, but he dismissed it as he drained the last of his pint and stood back from the table.
"No doubt we'll take you up on that," Harry said, surprising himself at his own sincerity. "It's great to see you, too. I'm afraid I'd forgotten how exciting it is to watch you fly. Oh. That came out a bit— I didn't mean—" he stumbled on before deciding silence would help him save face.
A faint tinge coloured Wood's ears as he laughed. "No. I know you didn't. You two are an excellent match. Unexpected, I'll grant you that, but you should never turn down happiness."
The lilt to Oliver's brogue combined with the warmth of the pub and Harry's realisation that there was nearly no impediment to his access to Ron's bits caused Harry to feel as though kindling had been lit in his groin. Wood was right— he and Ron were happy, and he wanted to get back to their hotel now so he could show Ron just how happy he was.
"Thanks for the advice. Happy Christmas," Ron said, standing up and clapping Wood on the back. He said his goodbyes to the now quite cabbaged members of the team still drinking.
"What's with the interesting glove?" Oliver asked, pointing at Ron's hand.
"Dunno. Right strange mystery. Been hexed by something, and that's partly why Harry and I are here, to un-do it," Ron explained.
"What?"
"Stuff he touches turns plaid," Harry said somewhat heavily, though his spirits were too high to be all that troubled by it at the moment.
"That's— rather odd," Oliver said, scratching at a scar on his chin. "Almost sounds like something to get back at somebody. A revenge curse of some sort."
"Yeah, it does," Harry agreed, pulling on his coat. "Hermione's working on it. No doubt we'll get the counter-curse in no time."
"Best of luck to you. And Happy Christmas, again," Oliver said before leaving with a wave.
"Gents' first, and then the hotel?" Ron suggested.
"Yeah."
His bladder relieved, Harry felt more focussed and a bit hungry, but he decided that could wait. They Apparated near the hotel again and went inside, greeting the night clerk on their way upstairs. Ron let Harry fiddle with the Muggle modern plastic key as another guest walked past them, preventing the discreet use of an Alohamora. With a bit of jiggling he got the door open and they went in. Once the door was securely shut and locked, Harry pushed Ron against it, pressing himself as tightly as he could to Ron's torso.
"Want you," he demanded before attacking Ron's mouth. Ron kissed back just as passionately, his hands finding an anchor hold on Harry's backside. Harry rubbed his hardening erection into Ron's, his legs straddling around Ron's thigh as he pressed their arousals together.
"Don't want you to stop," Ron gasped a few minutes later, tearing away from Harry's enthusiastic tongue, "but I'm getting a bit tender. The wool's scratchy and all."
"You mean…" Harry gawked at him, stunned into immobility for a moment. He reached through the front flap of heavy fabric to find his fingers on Ron's exposed and stiffening shaft. "You took off your pants!"
Ron only grinned, a feral, hedonistic look burning in his eyes. "Yep."
"Oh fuck," Harry groaned, his body flashing heat and his cock throbbing at the fact that Ron had actually taken the whole kilt concept to heart. He'd been naked underneath the whole time. "Fuck, you're so fucking sexy," he murmured, sinking to his knees. He took his glasses off and shoved them up towards Ron. "Put these somewhere safe."
"Just glad the wind didn't pick up," Ron snickered as he put Harry's glasses in a pocket, his levity soon turning to guttural sounds of pleasure and raw need as Harry swirled his tongue around the head of Ron's cock.
Harry was in a Ronmusk-scented haven under Ron's kilt, his fingers grasping the base of his shaft, the other hand gently pulling down the foreskin so he could suck the exposed top.
"Oh fuck, Harry," Ron groaned as Harry took to his succulent task. Harry patently ignored the tartan marring the rosy flesh, taking Ron's cock fully in his mouth, lapping and bobbing his head to the sounds of Ron's rather filthy accolades. He took his time bringing Ron to full steely hardness, playing with his furred sacs while sucking and slurping. There was almost nothing as fulfilling as giving head, but Harry ached to be filled with Ron and he didn't want to bring him off quite yet. With a last loving flick of his tongue into the slit, tasting the vinegarsweet of his precome, Harry scooted back and away from under Ron's kilt, looking up to see blurrily that Ron's eyes closed, his hands grasping at the doorframe.
"Want you in me," Harry said, now entirely too overheated, only due in small part to the fact he'd not taken off his coat. He stood up and took off everything except the kilt, and asked Ron to do the same. "Lie down on the bed," he said, enjoying the raised eyebrow the command elicited in Ron. Harry wasn't demanding very often, but this was his moment and he knew exactly what he wanted. While Ron pulled down the duvet and spread out on his back, the kilt tenting obscenely below his waist, Harry fished out his wand and cast a cleansing spell on himself, feeling a small shudder of pleasure as the tingling heat sparked in his channel.
"Did you bring lube?" he asked, all at once realising he'd only packed their necessities, and somehow had overlooked that usually integral part of their toiletries.
"Look in my sporran," Ron rumbled, gesturing at the front-hanging bag he'd draped on a chair.
"I love you."
"Had to have some reason for you to keep me around, eh?"
Harry fixed him with a predatory stare as he crawled onto the bed, pulling back the kilt so he could slather Ron's cock with the gel. "Here's another reason," he breathed, situating himself over Ron's lap and inching his way down until Ron was fully sheathed in his tight muscles.
Ron looked as though he might say something, then pushed up with his hips, a look of pained ecstasy gilding his features. Harry let his body adjust to the burn as it morphed into pleasure before he began to rise up and down, slowly building speed. Riding Ron's cock felt blissful, but he wanted the experience to ratchet up a level.
"Ron. I'm going to get on my knees. Want you behind me," he said as Ron's eyes flew open and he let go of the headboard he'd been holding onto over his head.
"Works for me," Ron gasped when Harry eased himself up and off, wincing a bit at the loss of the steely flesh. Harry situated himself, giving Ron a bruising kiss as they switched positions. Moments later he was on his knees, holding the headboard, legs spread and the heavy fabric flipped up on his back. "You're so hot," Ron said raggedly, pushing his cock back into Harry's slicked channel.
"Fuck me. Love you," Harry groaned as Ron pulled back and thrust back in.
In and out, Ron began to pummel Harry's arse in earnest, and Harry gloried in it. He used the headboard as leverage, drowning in the cascade of squelching sounds and the indecent slap of skin on skin as he pushed back in time with Ron's snapping hips. Ron's fingers held relentlessly to Harry's hips as he fucked him, thoroughly and with intense devotion. Harry grit his teeth, slick slams reverberating in his veins and making him want more and more; deeper, harder, bruisingly more. This wasn't tender sex, but it scratched a desirous itch deep in his guts, so primal that he didn't even dare take his hand off to wank until he heard the changing timbre to Ron's grunts and breathing. When he could tell Ron's orgasm was about to overtake him, Harry shifted his weight and curled his hand around his own cock, pulling roughly on it as Ron made anguished, short bursts of noise. Harry was so close himself, it didn't take him long before the spiral of tension became unstoppable, his release siphoning over his hand and falling onto their pillows in creamy stripes. He cried out as the waves of pleasure wracked him until they slowed and he dropped his head, his heartbeat slowing and blood pounding in his ears.
Without words, Ron gently pulled out of him and a few rivulets of warm come seeped out and down his legs. Once Harry had caught his breath, he wiped his hand on the sheet and carefully eased down onto his side, tensing for a second when he felt the chilled whisk of a banishment spell on him.
"We've got to cast cleansing charms on those anyway, but figured they didn't need any more abuse," Ron said, and Harry nodded his approval. He was still in a bit of a foggy afterglow, content to let Ron nudge him around so he could get the sheets and duvet pulled back up after he cast a Terego on the pillows.
"You okay?" Ron asked, his glove-covered hand drawing soothing circles at the base of Harry's spine.
"Oh yeah. That was just… incredible. Thank you." Harry leaned forward to plant a tiny row of chaste kisses on Ron's lips before licking his bottom lip so that Ron opened his mouth. Their tongues slid demurely and slowly, enough to convey the affection that went far beyond the carnal appetites they both possessed.
"Thank you. I can't imagine that I'll ever get tired of this, of you," he said in a low voice, draping his muscular leg over Harry's. Harry scooted in, sliding his arm underneath Ron's so it curved around his back.
"You'd better not. Or I'd put some revenge curse on you. Except somebody's already done that." A tired but sated smile played on his lips.
"Hermione's never let us down, has she?" Ron stretched his neck so he could mouth at Harry's eyebrows, something Harry never ceased to find slightly bizarre, in an endearing way.
"No."
A companionable silence covered them, as comfortable and lovingly worn as one of Molly's knitted throws.
"You know what we should do, since we're here," Ron said against Harry's temple.
"Well, we've already worn kilts, and I'm not taking up bagpipes," Harry warned.
"No, nothing that awful," Ron said disdainfully. "We should see if we can get some good, single malt Scotch sent up. Not a bottle or anything, but just a glass apiece. And then go to bed."
Harry thought about it only for a few seconds. "Brilliant. I'll let you do that. I've got to go to the bathroom." He gave Ron a quick kiss before getting out of bed and quickly Accio'ing his boxers, his tracksuit pants and top. He'd been so intent on being shagged silly he'd not even lit the fire, and without Ron's furnace-like body heat, the room was rather cold.
"I'll take care of the fire," Ron said, waving him on.
A quarter of an hour later they were both lounging in comfortable chairs, their socked feet facing the fire, each enjoying a dram of Talisker.
"I know this isn't what you'd hoped for," Ron said, looking down into his glass.
"No." Harry took a sip before turning to look at Ron, the traceries of the scars on his biceps catching the glow of the firelight. "It might even be better."
* * * * *
They took breakfast downstairs in the restaurant, returning to their room and putting the kilt hire products back into their containers. Harry was brushing his teeth in the bathroom when he heard Ron say, "Okay, okay, bloody hell."
Harry stepped out to see Ron using an Alohamora to get the window open and let in a peregrine falcon, the bird Hermione used for communication.
"Hey, Gabriel. Thanks, mate," Ron said, untying the small pouch attached to the bird's leg. Absently he looked at the contents, unconsciously jutting out his lower jaw to pull at his upper lip with his teeth. "Okay. Good to have those, I suppose. Oy!" he yelped as the falcon nipped at his hand. "I don't have anything to feed you. Harry, you don't have any treats, do you?"
"No," Harry said around a mouthful of toothpaste foam. He finished up and joined Ron in the middle of their room. "What'd she send?"
"Coordinates to Callanish. Said she'd looked into a Muggle aeroplane and the ferry, but figured we might as well get on out there. She's nearly certain she's found the counter-curse, and wants us to get to the standing stones as soon as possible. Weather shouldn't be as awful as it was yesterday."
"Michael's really into that stuff, isn't he?" Harry mused, thinking on the interactions he'd had with Hermione's husband.
"Yeah. All into meteorology. Anyway, the weather's less dodgy and there shouldn't be any real issues once we get out there, except for wind. But it is Scotland. They have a lot of that."
"True enough. We've got to take these kilts back, too."
"I know. Give me a few minutes to get my stuff packed and we'll be good to go. Oh, go on, Gabriel. Get back to Hermione. And thanks."
The falcon appeared rather put out, but flew away through the open window nonetheless. Harry picked up the scroll of parchment to look at the spot she'd given them Apparition coordinates for, noting Hermione's careful, precise handwriting. He smiled, grateful that all three of them were still alive and even, in her case, ensuring the next generation of Hogwarts students. He shoved the bit of paper into his jeans back pocket and looked around to make sure he wasn't missing anything that should have been packed up. They checked out of the hotel and got the kilt hire back to the blokes at MacGregor and MacDuff before finding an out of the way place to Apparate to the Isle of Lewis. On their way out of the shop, Harry heard the unmistakable sound of a bagpiper off in the distance, and stopped to listen. Ron paused at his side, looking quizzically at him until Harry said, "Bagpiper."
"Oh. Yeah."
Ron appeared to focus on the reedy, almost melancholy sounds as they rolled down from whatever the whereabouts were of the piper. Despite the cold and bustle of people in their frantic, last minute preparations for the holiday, the moment shone with clarity, and Harry tucked it away with other treasured memories.
Harry was still not at all fond of longer-distance Apparition, but they made it to the outskirts of the Callanish standing stones without splinching themselves. The skies were still primarily grey, with the occasional sliver of light blue glinting before being hurriedly covered up again by scudding clouds. Even the wind seemed to have been beaten down and tamed overnight, though there were occasional formidable gusts.
Out of habit, Harry took out his wand and scanned the area.
"Merlin's balls," he said, shocked at how dense and raw the magic was, radiating from each of the stones, though not very far. It seemed to go down into the earth as well, covering the entirety of the short plain with a fog of concentrated energy.
"I'll say," Ron agreed, standing behind him and putting an arm around Harry's shoulders. The weight of it was comforting in a way that surprised Harry. Given how ancient this magic was, and how little experience Harry had around energies of this type, he knew he was decidedly grateful for Ron's presence. He felt that if he made one wrong move, or said something offensive, that he'd be attacked by a force nearly as old as the earth herself.
"Any Muggles around?" Ron asked, wand out but held tentatively in his right hand. "I don't feel right using my wand arm. Somehow I don't think the boulders here would be too appreciative if I go waving at them given my hex."
"No. I can't imagine anyone would choose to be up here on Christmas Eve Day. Doesn't seem like tourist season," Harry said, nearly bowled over as a powerful burst of wind came at him from his left side. Just then Gabriel reappeared, coming toward them but going around the stones as though he, too, could sense the nearly impenetrable power embedded in the monoliths and immediate surrounds. He flew down to settle on Ron's shoulder, ruffling its feathers and looking even less pleased than he had an hour or so prior.
"Here, Harry— why don't you read what she has to say?" Ron said, untying a small scroll and taking his arm off of Harry's back to root through his pocket. He found a handkerchief to wipe at his nose. "Must say, I'll be glad to get back to our flat and a good fire. Pretty picturesque, though, isn't it?"
Harry nodded, enjoying a respite in the wind to take a good look at the surrounding mountains and a lake just down the way, a few sheep huddled together near a crofter's hut. "I'd never have thought to come here otherwise. D'you reckon there are kelpies in any of these lochs?"
"Could well be, but let's not seek them out." Ron smiled in his usual lopsided way and Harry couldn't help but smile in return.
"Fair enough. All right." Harry unrolled the parchment, grateful that it enlarged itself. He nudged his glasses up his nose, squinting at the text. "I'll just read to you, okay?"
"Sure."
"Dear Harry and Ron,
Well, it seems that Ron is afflicted with a revenge curse. Veitch's Vengeance came about in the mid-1700s by a Lady Veitch of Aberdeen who thought her lover was cheating on her. The only way the curse can be removed is if the person affected pledges his or her affections truthfully and on sacred ground. Ancient pagan and magical ground seems to work just as well, so he'll be in luck."
Harry scanned the page again, his brows furrowing. "Who the hell would put a revenge curse on you?" He looked over, then down, to see Ron, who had sunk to his knees. Or one knee, rather. "Are you okay?" he asked worriedly.
"I'm fine," Ron said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. "Um, well, see," he started before seeming to steel himself. "Harry, I know you aren't into marriage, and neither am I. To be honest, I've been thinking off and on about us getting handfasted, but you didn't seem very keen on that, so I wasn't sure quite how to get this across to you and for you to really, really know what you mean to me. I just wanted you to know that there's nobody else I want to be with. Ever. You're it, mate. You're the one I want to make up dirty answers to the daily crossword with each morning, to tell me what I need to hear even when I don't want to listen. From now until the next great adventure, or whatever it is that Dumbledore told you. But I always want it to be you."
As Harry stood in shocked silence, uncertain what to do or say, Ron looked at him with a certainty of purpose Harry had only seen once before, and that was before he used the Sword of Gryffindor to destroy the locket during their Horcrux quest. He rummaged around an inside coat pocket and brought out a silver ring on a chain, holding it in his palm.
"Are you… proposing?" Harry asked, flabbergasted and absolutely flummoxed. His heart was battering at his ribs and he'd broken out in a sweat. Other people got married. He didn't want to get married, he just wanted to spend the rest of his life with Ron. Which was what he'd just… proposed.
"No. That's the point," Ron said, trepidation and worry creeping into his voice.
Harry reached down and took the ring before stretching out his arm to haul Ron up from the ground. Gabriel chose that moment to fly over to a nearby short fencepost, watching them with keen, black eyes.
"I don't want to get married. Handfasting, well, George and Lee did it, but I don't think we need to," Ron said carefully. "But without that kind of ceremony, well, Harry, I just wanted you to know that that's the kind of permanence I feel. The ring has an inscription, Mo chuisle mo chroí. 'The pulse of my heart.' You can wear it, if you'd like. If it's too much, or the whole thing is too much, I'd understand that, too."
Letting go of Ron's hand, Harry unfurled his other hand to see the simple band on an equally simple chain. He'd heard the mix of worry and hope in Ron's declaration, and knew that he needed to choose his own words carefully.
"I'm honoured beyond belief. Of course I'll wear it," he said, unfastening the clasp and putting it around his neck. It slid down underneath his shirt, the cold metal quickly warming to his body heat. He took Ron's hands in his, with a jolt realising both of Ron's hands were uncovered.
"It's okay. The curse is broken, see?" Ron turned Harry's hands upwards. There was no tartan staining his palm.
"Your curse. Did you cast that on yourself?" Harry held Ron's chilly hands to his cheeks, letting the heat of his face warm their surface.
"No. I asked Lee to do it. Hermione found it for me, and I made Lee do the actual spell. I knew you'd go straight to George, and I didn't want him to have to lie. He wouldn't have been able to." Ron's admission and expression of immense relief made Harry's stomach feel as though a small band of fireflies had suddenly taken up residence there and were buzzing around excitedly.
"You planned this whole thing, and got all of them involved? You're absolutely fucking mental, you know that?" Harry said, pulling Ron to him in a bone-crushing hug.
"Yeah, I know. Don't forget romantic," Ron said jokingly.
"Mostly you're just mental," Harry murmured into Ron's neck. "Pretty amazing bit of plotting, especially for you. What if I'd said no?"
"Well, that was the beauty of this curse. All I had to do was be stupid enough to ask Hermione to help me find one, and put up with her commentary about always having to do things with the highest probability of them going utterly arse over teakettle, and then ask Lee to do it, and then have the nerve to go through with what I'd planned to say. Which was loads more eloquent when I practised than what just came out, I'll have you know."
"What you said was brilliant." Harry leaned back and tilted his head, inviting Ron to kiss him, which he did, soundly and deep. "So is there anybody who didn't know? Was anybody not acting over the past two days?"
"Wood didn't. That was pure chance. Hermione thought I'd have better luck trying to stage a fake Auror need at Stonehenge, but I thought that was too obvious."
Harry shook his head. "Maybe this goes without saying, but maybe not. I want to be with you until the very end. Good or bad."
"No doubt we'll have loads of both."
Ron traced his thumb along Harry's bottom lip before kissing him again. With each slow slide of his tongue against Ron's, Harry tried to express his gratitude and the marrow-deep devotion he felt. Sentimental clichés danced in his head and he tried to shove them away. Ron was the love of his life; that was a given, kind of like the scar on his forehead, or his aversion to leeks. They belonged together, they simply were. Only Ron would come up with such an unexpected and unique way to express himself, all while still giving Harry an opportunity not to reciprocate in kind… though there could never have been any true doubt to Harry's lifelong loyalties.
Ron drew back, shivering a bit in the cold. "Say— it's Christmas Eve. Want to get back home, have some egg nog and see how long it takes for Hermione to visit and give us the third degree?"
A slow burn of contentment lodged firmly in Harry's chest.
"Nothing sounds better."
Half an hour later they'd checked into the Argyll Hotel and were on their way to MacGregor and MacDuff. It wasn't as bitterly cold as it had been in London, but the overhanging grey clouds, while picturesque and resembling diaphanous fingers combing down from the heavens, brought with them a constant drizzle interspersed with true rain. Harry was grateful to get to the shop and get their hired kilts, noticing that one of the shopkeepers was giving Ron at least a thrice-over as Ron explained what they were in need of.
"Did Wood say whether or not it matters what the colours are?" Harry asked after they gave their waist measurements.
"No. And it's a busy time, with the holidays. We may not have much of a choice," Ron said, fingering a green tartan with red and white lines.
He'd put his left hand in his pocket and told Harry to nudge at him if he forgot and started waving his one gloved hand around. Ron didn't want to have to explain to any Muggles what was going on, so Harry kept glancing over to make sure Ron's bare hand was the one in view. Harry only hoped that he wouldn't be stuck wearing one that was the same clan design and colour as what Ron was hexed with; that would be too much irony. Thankfully they were able to choose between two apiece and after Harry paid up and found out what time the kilts were due back the next day, they took the precaution of Disillusioning themselves and Apparating near the hotel. Harry had chosen a rather plain greyish tartan, Highland Granite, and Ron had ended up with a red-based one, a McGregor Hunting pattern.
After a quick lunch taken a short distance from the hotel, they returned to their room. Ron lay down on the bed to rest his stomach and was asleep within minutes. Shaking his head, Harry set a Chronos charm in the air with an alarm set for five. Unfortunately, despite having lived with Ron for years now, first as dorm mates and more recently as lovers, Harry was unable to relax that quickly. He envied Ron's ability seemingly to fall sleep at will. Instead, Harry restored a book on hexes he'd had in his own small collection to regular size and spent some time scanning through it for any more clues.
When it was time, they put on their hired kilts and socks, flattering and taking the mickey out of each other all at once. Ron produced the tickets to the exhibition match, rubbing them together in his gloved hand before popping them into his overcoat pocket.
"Ready?" he asked as Harry took a last look at himself in the mirror, though he was looking solely at his knobby, luminous knees with their covering of black hair.
"No news from Hermione?" he asked weakly.
"No. C'mon, you handsome tosser. For once, people aren't going to be there to look at you. We've got to catch a portkey."
"Thank Merlin," Harry said under his breath. "I'm never wearing a skirt again."
"Harry, in all seriousness," Ron said as they strode through a now-battering rain, Harry's arms crossed defiantly across his chest, "you'll really get into strife if you say you're wearing a skirt around a group of Scots. It's a kilt."
"Fine."
Their seats were superb, and a stadium attendant gave them a short note Oliver had left for them once they were situated.
So glad you could make it! Hope it's a good match; I'll certainly try to do Hogwarts proud. No matter the outcome, some of the blokes from the team will be going to a pub afterwards and I'd love for you two to join us. Just don't bolt straight away; it'd be nice to chat even for a few minutes.
~O.W.
"We weren't ever that close to Wood," Harry thought out loud.
"Yeah, but he did come back for the last battle. I think you forget the impression that killing you-know-who can make on people," Ron said, placing his bare right hand on Harry's knee and patting it. "C'mon, let's watch the match."
Harry did let his gaze drift from the game to the other people in the stadium. It wasn't a large number, maybe a couple hundred, obviously friends and associates of the two teams. The sea of plaid was both disconcerting and compelling, and he found himself admiring Ron's legs on more than one occasion when he leapt to his feet at particularly brilliant moves. Some kind of repelling charm had been placed over the stadium, wherever it was, keeping off the rain and bone-chilling damp. Both teams played tight and fast, and Harry found himself drawn into the match. The Green Knights' Seeker flew with a lithe grace that Harry admired. As he or she went by in a blur, Harry made a note to try and remember to ask Wood about their competitor's Seeker; the gender was impossible to tell. Wood's gender, however, was not, and Harry guiltlessly admired his legs and the sprightly but commanding way he steered his own broom. For a brief, guilty moment, Harry let his mind wander to how Wood might command himself in the bedroom, but steered it back to anticipation of being with Ron later that night. Puddlemere took the match in the end, and the crowd around them roared its approval. He and Ron asked for directions and made their way to the Puddlemere changing room. They waited outside until Wood appeared, his face brightening as he saw them and forcefully shook their hands.
"Harry! Ron! I'm so chuffed that you could make it!"
"Great to see you, too," Ron said, his voice suffused with a more youthful awe that Harry well recognised.
"We really appreciate the invitation. Sorry again for the late acceptance— I'm pretty much crap at looking at what comes in the post," Harry said with a small shrug.
"Doesn't matter. It's that time of year, anyway. So! Want to join us at the Mirthful Monk? They have an excellent local brew, and I'd like to hear what you're up to. You're an Auror, right?"
Harry nodded. "Guilty."
The conversation flowed easily from then on as Ron and Harry made the acquaintances of many of the rest of the team. The atmosphere of the pub when they got there was cheery and welcoming, and Harry found himself temporarily forgiving whomever it was who'd cast Ron's curse. He'd certainly not expected to find himself chatting about his early Quidditch days with a still-dashing Oliver Wood over pints of rich, heady ale, Ron securely but never suffocatingly at his side. When the hour got on to ten o'clock, Oliver glanced at his watch and gave them a rueful smile.
"Sorry lads, but I've got to get home. Hope that you've had half as great of an evening as I have. It's so good to see you doing so well. Anytime you want to see Puddlemere play, just owl me. And don't be shy."
His last comment was geared toward Ron, which Harry thought a bit odd, but he dismissed it as he drained the last of his pint and stood back from the table.
"No doubt we'll take you up on that," Harry said, surprising himself at his own sincerity. "It's great to see you, too. I'm afraid I'd forgotten how exciting it is to watch you fly. Oh. That came out a bit— I didn't mean—" he stumbled on before deciding silence would help him save face.
A faint tinge coloured Wood's ears as he laughed. "No. I know you didn't. You two are an excellent match. Unexpected, I'll grant you that, but you should never turn down happiness."
The lilt to Oliver's brogue combined with the warmth of the pub and Harry's realisation that there was nearly no impediment to his access to Ron's bits caused Harry to feel as though kindling had been lit in his groin. Wood was right— he and Ron were happy, and he wanted to get back to their hotel now so he could show Ron just how happy he was.
"Thanks for the advice. Happy Christmas," Ron said, standing up and clapping Wood on the back. He said his goodbyes to the now quite cabbaged members of the team still drinking.
"What's with the interesting glove?" Oliver asked, pointing at Ron's hand.
"Dunno. Right strange mystery. Been hexed by something, and that's partly why Harry and I are here, to un-do it," Ron explained.
"What?"
"Stuff he touches turns plaid," Harry said somewhat heavily, though his spirits were too high to be all that troubled by it at the moment.
"That's— rather odd," Oliver said, scratching at a scar on his chin. "Almost sounds like something to get back at somebody. A revenge curse of some sort."
"Yeah, it does," Harry agreed, pulling on his coat. "Hermione's working on it. No doubt we'll get the counter-curse in no time."
"Best of luck to you. And Happy Christmas, again," Oliver said before leaving with a wave.
"Gents' first, and then the hotel?" Ron suggested.
"Yeah."
His bladder relieved, Harry felt more focussed and a bit hungry, but he decided that could wait. They Apparated near the hotel again and went inside, greeting the night clerk on their way upstairs. Ron let Harry fiddle with the Muggle modern plastic key as another guest walked past them, preventing the discreet use of an Alohamora. With a bit of jiggling he got the door open and they went in. Once the door was securely shut and locked, Harry pushed Ron against it, pressing himself as tightly as he could to Ron's torso.
"Want you," he demanded before attacking Ron's mouth. Ron kissed back just as passionately, his hands finding an anchor hold on Harry's backside. Harry rubbed his hardening erection into Ron's, his legs straddling around Ron's thigh as he pressed their arousals together.
"Don't want you to stop," Ron gasped a few minutes later, tearing away from Harry's enthusiastic tongue, "but I'm getting a bit tender. The wool's scratchy and all."
"You mean…" Harry gawked at him, stunned into immobility for a moment. He reached through the front flap of heavy fabric to find his fingers on Ron's exposed and stiffening shaft. "You took off your pants!"
Ron only grinned, a feral, hedonistic look burning in his eyes. "Yep."
"Oh fuck," Harry groaned, his body flashing heat and his cock throbbing at the fact that Ron had actually taken the whole kilt concept to heart. He'd been naked underneath the whole time. "Fuck, you're so fucking sexy," he murmured, sinking to his knees. He took his glasses off and shoved them up towards Ron. "Put these somewhere safe."
"Just glad the wind didn't pick up," Ron snickered as he put Harry's glasses in a pocket, his levity soon turning to guttural sounds of pleasure and raw need as Harry swirled his tongue around the head of Ron's cock.
Harry was in a Ronmusk-scented haven under Ron's kilt, his fingers grasping the base of his shaft, the other hand gently pulling down the foreskin so he could suck the exposed top.
"Oh fuck, Harry," Ron groaned as Harry took to his succulent task. Harry patently ignored the tartan marring the rosy flesh, taking Ron's cock fully in his mouth, lapping and bobbing his head to the sounds of Ron's rather filthy accolades. He took his time bringing Ron to full steely hardness, playing with his furred sacs while sucking and slurping. There was almost nothing as fulfilling as giving head, but Harry ached to be filled with Ron and he didn't want to bring him off quite yet. With a last loving flick of his tongue into the slit, tasting the vinegarsweet of his precome, Harry scooted back and away from under Ron's kilt, looking up to see blurrily that Ron's eyes closed, his hands grasping at the doorframe.
"Want you in me," Harry said, now entirely too overheated, only due in small part to the fact he'd not taken off his coat. He stood up and took off everything except the kilt, and asked Ron to do the same. "Lie down on the bed," he said, enjoying the raised eyebrow the command elicited in Ron. Harry wasn't demanding very often, but this was his moment and he knew exactly what he wanted. While Ron pulled down the duvet and spread out on his back, the kilt tenting obscenely below his waist, Harry fished out his wand and cast a cleansing spell on himself, feeling a small shudder of pleasure as the tingling heat sparked in his channel.
"Did you bring lube?" he asked, all at once realising he'd only packed their necessities, and somehow had overlooked that usually integral part of their toiletries.
"Look in my sporran," Ron rumbled, gesturing at the front-hanging bag he'd draped on a chair.
"I love you."
"Had to have some reason for you to keep me around, eh?"
Harry fixed him with a predatory stare as he crawled onto the bed, pulling back the kilt so he could slather Ron's cock with the gel. "Here's another reason," he breathed, situating himself over Ron's lap and inching his way down until Ron was fully sheathed in his tight muscles.
Ron looked as though he might say something, then pushed up with his hips, a look of pained ecstasy gilding his features. Harry let his body adjust to the burn as it morphed into pleasure before he began to rise up and down, slowly building speed. Riding Ron's cock felt blissful, but he wanted the experience to ratchet up a level.
"Ron. I'm going to get on my knees. Want you behind me," he said as Ron's eyes flew open and he let go of the headboard he'd been holding onto over his head.
"Works for me," Ron gasped when Harry eased himself up and off, wincing a bit at the loss of the steely flesh. Harry situated himself, giving Ron a bruising kiss as they switched positions. Moments later he was on his knees, holding the headboard, legs spread and the heavy fabric flipped up on his back. "You're so hot," Ron said raggedly, pushing his cock back into Harry's slicked channel.
"Fuck me. Love you," Harry groaned as Ron pulled back and thrust back in.
In and out, Ron began to pummel Harry's arse in earnest, and Harry gloried in it. He used the headboard as leverage, drowning in the cascade of squelching sounds and the indecent slap of skin on skin as he pushed back in time with Ron's snapping hips. Ron's fingers held relentlessly to Harry's hips as he fucked him, thoroughly and with intense devotion. Harry grit his teeth, slick slams reverberating in his veins and making him want more and more; deeper, harder, bruisingly more. This wasn't tender sex, but it scratched a desirous itch deep in his guts, so primal that he didn't even dare take his hand off to wank until he heard the changing timbre to Ron's grunts and breathing. When he could tell Ron's orgasm was about to overtake him, Harry shifted his weight and curled his hand around his own cock, pulling roughly on it as Ron made anguished, short bursts of noise. Harry was so close himself, it didn't take him long before the spiral of tension became unstoppable, his release siphoning over his hand and falling onto their pillows in creamy stripes. He cried out as the waves of pleasure wracked him until they slowed and he dropped his head, his heartbeat slowing and blood pounding in his ears.
Without words, Ron gently pulled out of him and a few rivulets of warm come seeped out and down his legs. Once Harry had caught his breath, he wiped his hand on the sheet and carefully eased down onto his side, tensing for a second when he felt the chilled whisk of a banishment spell on him.
"We've got to cast cleansing charms on those anyway, but figured they didn't need any more abuse," Ron said, and Harry nodded his approval. He was still in a bit of a foggy afterglow, content to let Ron nudge him around so he could get the sheets and duvet pulled back up after he cast a Terego on the pillows.
"You okay?" Ron asked, his glove-covered hand drawing soothing circles at the base of Harry's spine.
"Oh yeah. That was just… incredible. Thank you." Harry leaned forward to plant a tiny row of chaste kisses on Ron's lips before licking his bottom lip so that Ron opened his mouth. Their tongues slid demurely and slowly, enough to convey the affection that went far beyond the carnal appetites they both possessed.
"Thank you. I can't imagine that I'll ever get tired of this, of you," he said in a low voice, draping his muscular leg over Harry's. Harry scooted in, sliding his arm underneath Ron's so it curved around his back.
"You'd better not. Or I'd put some revenge curse on you. Except somebody's already done that." A tired but sated smile played on his lips.
"Hermione's never let us down, has she?" Ron stretched his neck so he could mouth at Harry's eyebrows, something Harry never ceased to find slightly bizarre, in an endearing way.
"No."
A companionable silence covered them, as comfortable and lovingly worn as one of Molly's knitted throws.
"You know what we should do, since we're here," Ron said against Harry's temple.
"Well, we've already worn kilts, and I'm not taking up bagpipes," Harry warned.
"No, nothing that awful," Ron said disdainfully. "We should see if we can get some good, single malt Scotch sent up. Not a bottle or anything, but just a glass apiece. And then go to bed."
Harry thought about it only for a few seconds. "Brilliant. I'll let you do that. I've got to go to the bathroom." He gave Ron a quick kiss before getting out of bed and quickly Accio'ing his boxers, his tracksuit pants and top. He'd been so intent on being shagged silly he'd not even lit the fire, and without Ron's furnace-like body heat, the room was rather cold.
"I'll take care of the fire," Ron said, waving him on.
A quarter of an hour later they were both lounging in comfortable chairs, their socked feet facing the fire, each enjoying a dram of Talisker.
"I know this isn't what you'd hoped for," Ron said, looking down into his glass.
"No." Harry took a sip before turning to look at Ron, the traceries of the scars on his biceps catching the glow of the firelight. "It might even be better."
* * * * *
They took breakfast downstairs in the restaurant, returning to their room and putting the kilt hire products back into their containers. Harry was brushing his teeth in the bathroom when he heard Ron say, "Okay, okay, bloody hell."
Harry stepped out to see Ron using an Alohamora to get the window open and let in a peregrine falcon, the bird Hermione used for communication.
"Hey, Gabriel. Thanks, mate," Ron said, untying the small pouch attached to the bird's leg. Absently he looked at the contents, unconsciously jutting out his lower jaw to pull at his upper lip with his teeth. "Okay. Good to have those, I suppose. Oy!" he yelped as the falcon nipped at his hand. "I don't have anything to feed you. Harry, you don't have any treats, do you?"
"No," Harry said around a mouthful of toothpaste foam. He finished up and joined Ron in the middle of their room. "What'd she send?"
"Coordinates to Callanish. Said she'd looked into a Muggle aeroplane and the ferry, but figured we might as well get on out there. She's nearly certain she's found the counter-curse, and wants us to get to the standing stones as soon as possible. Weather shouldn't be as awful as it was yesterday."
"Michael's really into that stuff, isn't he?" Harry mused, thinking on the interactions he'd had with Hermione's husband.
"Yeah. All into meteorology. Anyway, the weather's less dodgy and there shouldn't be any real issues once we get out there, except for wind. But it is Scotland. They have a lot of that."
"True enough. We've got to take these kilts back, too."
"I know. Give me a few minutes to get my stuff packed and we'll be good to go. Oh, go on, Gabriel. Get back to Hermione. And thanks."
The falcon appeared rather put out, but flew away through the open window nonetheless. Harry picked up the scroll of parchment to look at the spot she'd given them Apparition coordinates for, noting Hermione's careful, precise handwriting. He smiled, grateful that all three of them were still alive and even, in her case, ensuring the next generation of Hogwarts students. He shoved the bit of paper into his jeans back pocket and looked around to make sure he wasn't missing anything that should have been packed up. They checked out of the hotel and got the kilt hire back to the blokes at MacGregor and MacDuff before finding an out of the way place to Apparate to the Isle of Lewis. On their way out of the shop, Harry heard the unmistakable sound of a bagpiper off in the distance, and stopped to listen. Ron paused at his side, looking quizzically at him until Harry said, "Bagpiper."
"Oh. Yeah."
Ron appeared to focus on the reedy, almost melancholy sounds as they rolled down from whatever the whereabouts were of the piper. Despite the cold and bustle of people in their frantic, last minute preparations for the holiday, the moment shone with clarity, and Harry tucked it away with other treasured memories.
Harry was still not at all fond of longer-distance Apparition, but they made it to the outskirts of the Callanish standing stones without splinching themselves. The skies were still primarily grey, with the occasional sliver of light blue glinting before being hurriedly covered up again by scudding clouds. Even the wind seemed to have been beaten down and tamed overnight, though there were occasional formidable gusts.
Out of habit, Harry took out his wand and scanned the area.
"Merlin's balls," he said, shocked at how dense and raw the magic was, radiating from each of the stones, though not very far. It seemed to go down into the earth as well, covering the entirety of the short plain with a fog of concentrated energy.
"I'll say," Ron agreed, standing behind him and putting an arm around Harry's shoulders. The weight of it was comforting in a way that surprised Harry. Given how ancient this magic was, and how little experience Harry had around energies of this type, he knew he was decidedly grateful for Ron's presence. He felt that if he made one wrong move, or said something offensive, that he'd be attacked by a force nearly as old as the earth herself.
"Any Muggles around?" Ron asked, wand out but held tentatively in his right hand. "I don't feel right using my wand arm. Somehow I don't think the boulders here would be too appreciative if I go waving at them given my hex."
"No. I can't imagine anyone would choose to be up here on Christmas Eve Day. Doesn't seem like tourist season," Harry said, nearly bowled over as a powerful burst of wind came at him from his left side. Just then Gabriel reappeared, coming toward them but going around the stones as though he, too, could sense the nearly impenetrable power embedded in the monoliths and immediate surrounds. He flew down to settle on Ron's shoulder, ruffling its feathers and looking even less pleased than he had an hour or so prior.
"Here, Harry— why don't you read what she has to say?" Ron said, untying a small scroll and taking his arm off of Harry's back to root through his pocket. He found a handkerchief to wipe at his nose. "Must say, I'll be glad to get back to our flat and a good fire. Pretty picturesque, though, isn't it?"
Harry nodded, enjoying a respite in the wind to take a good look at the surrounding mountains and a lake just down the way, a few sheep huddled together near a crofter's hut. "I'd never have thought to come here otherwise. D'you reckon there are kelpies in any of these lochs?"
"Could well be, but let's not seek them out." Ron smiled in his usual lopsided way and Harry couldn't help but smile in return.
"Fair enough. All right." Harry unrolled the parchment, grateful that it enlarged itself. He nudged his glasses up his nose, squinting at the text. "I'll just read to you, okay?"
"Sure."
"Dear Harry and Ron,
Well, it seems that Ron is afflicted with a revenge curse. Veitch's Vengeance came about in the mid-1700s by a Lady Veitch of Aberdeen who thought her lover was cheating on her. The only way the curse can be removed is if the person affected pledges his or her affections truthfully and on sacred ground. Ancient pagan and magical ground seems to work just as well, so he'll be in luck."
Harry scanned the page again, his brows furrowing. "Who the hell would put a revenge curse on you?" He looked over, then down, to see Ron, who had sunk to his knees. Or one knee, rather. "Are you okay?" he asked worriedly.
"I'm fine," Ron said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. "Um, well, see," he started before seeming to steel himself. "Harry, I know you aren't into marriage, and neither am I. To be honest, I've been thinking off and on about us getting handfasted, but you didn't seem very keen on that, so I wasn't sure quite how to get this across to you and for you to really, really know what you mean to me. I just wanted you to know that there's nobody else I want to be with. Ever. You're it, mate. You're the one I want to make up dirty answers to the daily crossword with each morning, to tell me what I need to hear even when I don't want to listen. From now until the next great adventure, or whatever it is that Dumbledore told you. But I always want it to be you."
As Harry stood in shocked silence, uncertain what to do or say, Ron looked at him with a certainty of purpose Harry had only seen once before, and that was before he used the Sword of Gryffindor to destroy the locket during their Horcrux quest. He rummaged around an inside coat pocket and brought out a silver ring on a chain, holding it in his palm.
"Are you… proposing?" Harry asked, flabbergasted and absolutely flummoxed. His heart was battering at his ribs and he'd broken out in a sweat. Other people got married. He didn't want to get married, he just wanted to spend the rest of his life with Ron. Which was what he'd just… proposed.
"No. That's the point," Ron said, trepidation and worry creeping into his voice.
Harry reached down and took the ring before stretching out his arm to haul Ron up from the ground. Gabriel chose that moment to fly over to a nearby short fencepost, watching them with keen, black eyes.
"I don't want to get married. Handfasting, well, George and Lee did it, but I don't think we need to," Ron said carefully. "But without that kind of ceremony, well, Harry, I just wanted you to know that that's the kind of permanence I feel. The ring has an inscription, Mo chuisle mo chroí. 'The pulse of my heart.' You can wear it, if you'd like. If it's too much, or the whole thing is too much, I'd understand that, too."
Letting go of Ron's hand, Harry unfurled his other hand to see the simple band on an equally simple chain. He'd heard the mix of worry and hope in Ron's declaration, and knew that he needed to choose his own words carefully.
"I'm honoured beyond belief. Of course I'll wear it," he said, unfastening the clasp and putting it around his neck. It slid down underneath his shirt, the cold metal quickly warming to his body heat. He took Ron's hands in his, with a jolt realising both of Ron's hands were uncovered.
"It's okay. The curse is broken, see?" Ron turned Harry's hands upwards. There was no tartan staining his palm.
"Your curse. Did you cast that on yourself?" Harry held Ron's chilly hands to his cheeks, letting the heat of his face warm their surface.
"No. I asked Lee to do it. Hermione found it for me, and I made Lee do the actual spell. I knew you'd go straight to George, and I didn't want him to have to lie. He wouldn't have been able to." Ron's admission and expression of immense relief made Harry's stomach feel as though a small band of fireflies had suddenly taken up residence there and were buzzing around excitedly.
"You planned this whole thing, and got all of them involved? You're absolutely fucking mental, you know that?" Harry said, pulling Ron to him in a bone-crushing hug.
"Yeah, I know. Don't forget romantic," Ron said jokingly.
"Mostly you're just mental," Harry murmured into Ron's neck. "Pretty amazing bit of plotting, especially for you. What if I'd said no?"
"Well, that was the beauty of this curse. All I had to do was be stupid enough to ask Hermione to help me find one, and put up with her commentary about always having to do things with the highest probability of them going utterly arse over teakettle, and then ask Lee to do it, and then have the nerve to go through with what I'd planned to say. Which was loads more eloquent when I practised than what just came out, I'll have you know."
"What you said was brilliant." Harry leaned back and tilted his head, inviting Ron to kiss him, which he did, soundly and deep. "So is there anybody who didn't know? Was anybody not acting over the past two days?"
"Wood didn't. That was pure chance. Hermione thought I'd have better luck trying to stage a fake Auror need at Stonehenge, but I thought that was too obvious."
Harry shook his head. "Maybe this goes without saying, but maybe not. I want to be with you until the very end. Good or bad."
"No doubt we'll have loads of both."
Ron traced his thumb along Harry's bottom lip before kissing him again. With each slow slide of his tongue against Ron's, Harry tried to express his gratitude and the marrow-deep devotion he felt. Sentimental clichés danced in his head and he tried to shove them away. Ron was the love of his life; that was a given, kind of like the scar on his forehead, or his aversion to leeks. They belonged together, they simply were. Only Ron would come up with such an unexpected and unique way to express himself, all while still giving Harry an opportunity not to reciprocate in kind… though there could never have been any true doubt to Harry's lifelong loyalties.
Ron drew back, shivering a bit in the cold. "Say— it's Christmas Eve. Want to get back home, have some egg nog and see how long it takes for Hermione to visit and give us the third degree?"
A slow burn of contentment lodged firmly in Harry's chest.
"Nothing sounds better."