Chapter Text
Tuesday, 21 May 2002
It wasn’t the first time Harry awoke with a start because of Ron’s aggressive snuffling and thrashing. It was the first time he woke with his cheek plastered to a freckled bicep, slightly sticky with saliva. Harry sat bolt upright, his head full of pygmy puff fluff and eyes blinking in the shimmering morning light. Stiff hotel sheets fell around his bare hips.
A tangle of sensation and emotions fought for dominance, but the urge not to vomit rose to the top—well, bile rose in his throat. Harry threw out a hand and summoned his wand wordlessly. Swallowing the acid that threatened to well up, he croaked, “Accio Hangover Draught.” With the vial chugged, the next most prominent sensation was drudging confusion. He stared at Ron sprawled under the sheets next to him.
The room was stuffy and warm despite it only being May. He was in a cheap magical hotel, judging by the all-natural wood décor and faded malfunctioning runes which were failing to cool the air. The flower-dotted curtains were open, a rectangle of golden sunlight crawling across the duvet. Ron’s back glittered like gold dust amongst specks in a river.
Godric’s golden tits, Ron has turned out fit. He’s only been an auror for three years…
That was the first vaguely coherent thought that coagulated in Harry’s mind. He scrubbed sleep from his eyes and scrambled to gather his thoughts.
All right, you’ve woken up next to Ron; sure, you’re both shirtless but— Harry scratched his inner thigh below his boxers —I’ve still got my pants on. Last night… right, Hog's Head. We must be at The Hog's Head.
This was getting him nowhere. He nudged Ron’s hip and sighed. “Ron, get up.”
Ron groaned.
Seizing the chance to aggravate his best mate, Harry leaned over and threaded his fingers into Ron’s shaggy red hair. Harry gently squeezed and gave a shake, ruffling and scrubbing like one might rough up a favourite dog’s fur.
“Ron! What the bloody hell did we get up to last night?”
Gurgling protests in his throat, Ron twisted from his stomach onto his side and cracked open an eye to look up at Harry. Harry shifted his hand to start prodding his cheek.
Ron’s brow creased in annoyance and he moved with alarming speed to snatch Harry’s right hand with his left.
Like a shimmer of spell magic, something sparkled in a flash of champagne-tinted sunlight.
Harry blinked at a thick gold band prominently displayed on the finger next to Ron’s pinky.
A faint memory of the night before and a surge of realisation swept over him in a wash of cold followed by heat.
His heart beating in staccato, Harry yanked his left hand out from under the sheets and held it up to the light.
An identical gold band glinted on his ring finger—which, upon further staring, Harry noticed was adorned with a single, tiny scarlet jewel.
His voice wavering with minor hysteria, Harry urgently gasped, “Ron, I don’t suppose you remember…?”
Ron leant up on one elbow and stared at his own hand, still clutching Harry’s, then darted a look from the ring to Harry’s face and back again.
“Bloody hell… I don’t think this is what Mum had in mind when she got all huffy about me being single last Sunday at dinner…”
“Please tell me you’re wearing pants too!”
With sudden frantic energy, Ron let go of Harry’s hand and sat up, groaning groggily and scrabbling his hand under the sheets. “Oh, yeah, trousers actually—these…” Ron waved his hand in a panic, flourishing his matching ring, “are just some joke, right? Transfigured? Fred and George are behind it! We’re in Hogsmeade, where would we have gotten— we can’t be—”
Harry scrambled off the bed and stumbled over a pile of robes on the floor. He spun around and jabbed his wand at the ring. “Finite incantatem!”
Nothing happened.
Heat crept up his chest as he looked into Ron’s concerned blue eyes and realised he was standing exposed in only his pants. Snatching up his robe from the night before, Harry dressed in a flurry, avoiding further eye contact as his mind picked up speed—
Married. If Ron and I are married—that’s lunacy, isn’t it? What does that even mean? At least neither of us have girlfriends to betray. Who bloody hell got us into this? Obviously Ron doesn’t want to… what, buy a cottage, split the housework, raise kids? Wait, missing something that should come before raising kids…
Bed. In the same bed. Sleep and… in the same bed.
Harry's drowsiness now completely sloughed off, his mind cleared and surprise spurred a flood of adrenaline.
“What time is it? Do you think we can still catch Hermione at her flat?”
“Hermione!” Ron exclaimed, as though suddenly realising he could summon some kind of saviour deity. “Better owl her office, it's nearly noon.”
“Godric’s balls…” Harry grumbled, stooping to pull his sneakers onto his feet.
“She’ll straighten us out, mate,” Ron said solemnly, wincing and shielding his eyes from the bright morning light.
Harry was at the door but cast one last look over his shoulder. Ron’s hair was a dishevelled blaze, his strong shoulders slumped in worry as he scratched his firm chest. He was wincing and swallowing a gulp of Hangover Draught, throat bobbing several times to get it down, and so didn’t notice Harry’s long stare.
When was the last time Harry had woken up near Ron? It was so strange and so natural at the same time.
Would this be the new normal now? Waking up beside Ron, watching him like this, feeling… whatever this was?
Harry tore his gaze away, warmth prickling along his nape. If this was what marriage would mean, Harry was in far deeper than he’d thought.
***
Three days earlier, Saturday 18 of May 2002
Diagon Alley, 4:26 PM
“Excuse me, Mr Potter! Could I have a quick word, sir?”
“What? Oh, no, I’d really rather not—”
“You’ve been pegged as Britain’s Most Eligible Bachelor for four years running, yet despite persistent rumours, it seems you intend to remain unattached. Can you confirm our intel, which claims you’re searching not only for the right witch, but perhaps the right wizard?”
“Oh, er, no? I’ve only dated witches—er, a witch?—look, I just want to focus on my apprenticeship. I don’t have time…”
“So the rumours that you’ve begun a sordid, secret love affair with your Dark Arts Master, exonerated war hero Severus Sn—”
“What? No, Godric, no! Look, ma’am, my best mate—yeah, Ron Weasley, tall bloke just over there? He’s on patrol right now, so if you don’t step off…”
***
Sunday 19 of May 2002
The Burrow, 6:49 PM
“Arthur, dear, you were just saying this week that the latest yearly census of magical Britain is in such a sorry state—birth rates are down sixty per cent compared to a decade ago…”
“Mum, all that ‘benefit society’ mumbo-jumbo worked on Percy—he and Audrey popped their little girl out right quick. And Anj and I have buns in the oven; a proper double serving with two of them. But Ronnikins here?”
“For Cerces’ sake, George, must you call him that?”
“Mum, I asked you to lay off about me getting married, at least while I’m trying to enjoy dinner.”
“We all know nothing could shrink your appetite. Besides, your mother has a point… She’s just getting restless after Charlie and his Kenneth got married in the spring.”
“I’m hardly restless. It’s just that you’re the last one, Ronald!”
“What? Fred and Ginny aren't married!”
“Well, Fred's focusing on the business, and Ginny’s engaged, isn’t she?”
“Mum, please. I had a date with that girl in Magical Transportation the other week, I’m trying.”
“Just don’t try too hard. Morgana forbid we put the cart before the horse like the Woods, with a babe months before the wedding…”
All the Weasley children groaned together at that.
***
Past noon, Tuesday 21 of May 2002
Hermione was not able to straighten them out, seeing as she was to be in important meetings from lunch to close of business. The owl had found them inside a dingy cramped booth at The Hog's Head, just as they were picking at the greyest fish and the soggiest chips Harry had ever eaten.
Jerking open the scroll, Harry and Ron leaned close over a hastily scribbled note:
You accidentally got married? (the ink for each letter of the word was thick and erratic) Accidentally? (that word underlined) I absolutely cannot abandon today’s presentations. You mustn’t let anyone hear about this: do not let anyone see the rings, go to 12 Grimmauld Place, and do not leave (again, underlined) until I arrive in the evening. Likely 6:00. Don’t Stop being idiots! We'll figure this out together. - Love, Hermione.
The rings; right, no one should see them wearing bloody wedding rings. Harry’s eyes flicked around the empty pub. They were still alone—except for the tottery old witch in the back, who had shuffled out to toss them their plates after they’d yelled back asking about lunch. He tugged at the gold band, but it wouldn’t budge a millimetre.
Ron slapped Hermione’s note onto the table, then stilled Harry’s attempt to remove the jewellery by grabbing his wrist. “It’s no use, mate. Magical wedding rings… well, we can’t take them off until it’s all settled.”
Harry had never been more aware of a touch in his life. Even though Ron was just gently holding his arm, his rough thumb pressing into Harry’s pulse and the warmth made Harry hyperaware. He resisted pulling away, instead sighing. “Until what’s settled?”
Ron withdrew his hand and coughed, muttering, “Well, we woke up with our pants on, right? And the rings won’t budge, so…”
They were interrupted by stomping steps, and they shoved their hands under the tabletop. Seconds later, Aberforth stumbled into the bar, looking muzzy and more like he’d rather a pint of hair-of-the-dog than any sobering elixirs. Yet he gave them a more or less jovial nod. “There are the lovebirds. Hope you’re not already squabbling about honeymoon destinations or whatnot.”
Ron and Harry exchanged an alarmed look.
Minutes later, Aberforth sat across from them nursing a bottle of ale and cradling some fried fish between toast slices. The barkeeper was already halfway through answering Harry and Ron’s frantic questions:
“...Aye, I’m telling you, it was all proper legal. I’m a business owner; don’t doubt my prowess when it comes to magical contracts. I’ve got the Ministry papers to prove I’m a certified registrar. You’ve paid for my services, I’ve sent out the forms to the Ministry, nothing more to be done about it.”
Harry slumped lower in his seat with each word and was now peering dully up at the other two men.
Ron took a generous swig of his tankard of butterbeer then brought it back onto the table with more force than he’d meant, demanding, “So, you are saying Harry and I asked you to officiate our wedding ceremony, and we all traipsed into the bloody goat enclosure out back in the middle of the night?”
Aberforth just took a pull from his bottle and nodded.
A stroke of inspiration hit Harry and he shot upright. “What about witnesses? It can't be legal without witnesses, right?”
Ron clapped Harry on the shoulder excitedly, commending his quick thinking.
Aberforth stumbled up and headed behind the bar. “Aye, I myself was one. And—ah, that reminds me, the little lady left something to commemorate it all. Almost forgot.”
The little lady…?
Aberforth tugged some glossy squares—photographs—which had been pinned roughly to a vertical structural beam with a long Centispindle spine. He levitated the pictures over and Harry snatched them out of the air.
In the magical photo were the four members of the wedding party: Ron and Harry swaying and grinning drunkenly in the middle, each with an arm slung over the other’s shoulders in a brotherly fashion. Their free hands were clasped (somewhat awkwardly) in front of them, entwined with a gold ribbon shimmering with magic. To Harry’s right Aberforth loomed, a glowering sort of disinterested look on his face as he nudged a goat out of the frame with his foot. To Ron’s left—
Ron groaned, but his voice sounded resigned. “Luna…”
She was beaming and held her wand aloft, presumably levitating the camera for the photo. She wore a simple but celebratory dress of silver and yellow, her head topped with a crown of white asters. Now that he noticed it in her hair, Ron and Harry also had one blossom tucked behind their ears.
“Look at this!” Ron jabbed the photo. “We were obviously pissed off our arses. Isn’t there some law against that?”
Aberforth looked nonplussed and through a bite of his sandwich muttered rhetorically, “You were drunk, were you?”
Harry looked at the second of the three photos. The camera wobbled horribly, and Drunk Harry and Pissed Ron wobbled in counterpoint to it. Through an inebriated blush they flourished the back of their hands at the camera, their rings with the tiny rubies glinting. Harry was struck by how happy they looked; grinning and rubbing—nuzzling—the sides of their heads into each other and showing off the jewellery as if it was the bloody House Cup.
Ron had stood and was pacing, as if the reality of it all started to sink in and his brain finally started up with a lurch. Harry could practically hear his gears churning as he muttered a few breaths of, “Bloody contract… and goats… Luna!”
Aberforth poured liquor into a hip flask and said, “That’s all the time I’ve got for you newlyweds. Must be off now boys, tarry as long as you need. Drink another before settling the bill with ol' Veruca.”
He was shuffling out the door as Harry flipped over to the final photo and his breath caught—
Ron’s fingers were threading through his hair, as their lips moved tentatively and gently—
Harry shoved all three photos into his robe pocket, his skin prickling with inexplicable warmth as he stood. He set a hand on Ron’s shoulder as he always did, except the ring on his finger reminded him that maybe the meaning of such physical closeness was about to change.
“We’ve got to go see Luna. Maybe she can explain what crazy train of logic led to last night’s… ceremony.”
Ron smiled in soft resignation. “It’s going to be the blind leading the blind but, all right. If it’ll make you feel any better.”