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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.”

Chapter Text

Luna no longer lived with her father, but her cottage was not far from Ottery St Catchpole. She and Harry still kept in touch regularly, so he knew her house was not connected to the floo network, and that it was warded all around, encompassing a large extent of the forest she called her home. This meant they had a good handful of minutes to walk up the winding path from the closest apparition point.

They plodded along the cobblestones, the late spring air dewy and fragrant. Weak sunlight made it through wispy clouds to dance in leaves around them. Ron broke the silence first.

“It’s going to be a pain to reverse, isn’t it?”

“Hm? Ah, yeah, probably. Hermione will know more about that.”

“What exactly do you want to ask Luna about?”

Harry scrunched up his face wearily. “I just can’t remember anything after ordering that moonstone-distilled vodka… we don’t even remember her turning up at The Three Broomsticks, right? And it seemed rude to ask Aberforth, but, why on earth did we end up there?”

Ron shrugged. “I suppose because he could officiate?”

Harry groaned again. “None of it makes sense. We need more to go off of than rings and a few photos. Where did we even get these from, anyway?”

He held up his ring again. It truly was a fine thing, simple, and was this a ruby or something…? Quite Gryffindor of them.

Ron scuffed his shoes and muttered, “Dunno. But I’ve been thinking, and, the getting married thing… it must have been all my idea.”

“You don’t have to blame yourself. I’m always the one dragging us into things…”

“No, I’m sure I put it out there—I can't get it out of my head lately. Everyone’s pairing up like freshly washed socks. I’m already feeling like my eligibility is running thin; three years into a successful career as an auror, yet I still can’t keep a girl around longer than a few weeks.”

“It’s still so weird to me that witches and wizards marry so young. If you’re a muggle, people look at you like you’re an idealistic romantic if you marry under twenty-five…”

They fell into silence for several paces. Reflecting on his life after the war, it was as if Harry's head had been stuck in a cauldron for the past three years—he didn’t have a breath to devote towards dating. He hadn’t gotten back with Ginny in eighth year, and she’d been the last person he’d kissed.

After graduating, Snape—of all maniacs—had requested Harry as his Dark Arts apprentice. The bastard was determined to repay the debt he owed to Harry and Hermione for saving him during the Battle of Hogwarts. He had also insisted that Harry—the only known Horcrux vessel to survive the removal of a soul fragment—be monitored for signs of unstable magic or any other side effects. Though Snape occasionally prodded him, so far, nothing much seemed amiss with Harry.

Frankly, Harry had bigger things to worry about than dating and weird magic, and all his mates were enough for his social needs—Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, Luna, and their wider circle of friends. Ron was over at Twelve Grimmauld Place every other day. He was the one who helped Harry through all the nightmares in eighth year, and even flooed over if Harry was having a particularly hard night now and then. Ron was always making sure he was eating enough, and keeping active.

Harry just didn’t see the point of dating—or getting married, for that matter. As much as he wished it wasn’t so, he didn’t have parents to nag him. Harry thought as he grew he’d understand the drive to couple and make a brood, but, at 21 it was still the farthest thing from his mind.

“What does being married even mean, or matter?” Harry asked while gazing up at the canopy overhead as if his question was an unanswerable riddle.

Harry was surprised at the ease and optimism in Ron’s voice. "I mean, it’s obvious, isn’t it? To further lines of magical blood; to raise kids in a strong, loving family. Or, I suppose, for those people who don’t have that as an option… be stronger together, you know?"

Harry hummed. “I can see that. People just need good people to be with, to stand by. But does it have to be marriage…?”

Harry couldn’t avoid the sense that Ron was quoting one—or both—of his parents, his voice taking on insistent enthusiasm. “Magical marriage is a blending of magic, a tethering of magical cores, until the two wedded are more than the sum of their parts.”

They had just approached a narrow brook, with a low stone bridge across it. Harry looked up at Ron. His words were a whisper over the babbling of water. “I don’t feel much different.”

Ron blinked as if coming out of a myriad of thoughts and realising what he’d just said keenly applied to their situation. Red flushed his freckled cheeks. “Uh, well, maybe it’s because we haven't… er, completed…”

Harry tried to swallow, but found his throat parched. He’d nearly forgotten—Ron had said they wouldn’t be able to take off the rings ‘until it’s settled’. The three photos from the ceremony were still in his pocket—Harry’s face heated just thinking about the third one, the image of their lips meeting burned in his mind's eye, though he’d only glanced at it. Aberforth said the documents had been sent, so it wasn't like any of the ceremony or process was interrupted last night. From everything Ron hinted at, he must mean that they have to… consummate the marriage.

Harry cleared his throat and stared into the murky forest. “But we probably don’t have to do anything else before getting the marriage reversed, right?”

There was a pause before Ron hummed noncommittally. “Dunno. Not sure how that works. You’re probably right.”

They turned a corner and the trees thinned. Over a stone bridge crossing a bubbling brook was a tottering round cottage puffing yellow smoke from its chimney top.

Drawing his wand, Harry smiled at Ron. “I love Luna, but I don’t quite trust her not to have some chaotic magical plant or creature napping in a corner of her garden.”

Ron also twirled his wand. “Right, we’re showing up uninvited, after all.”

They approached the paisley-painted door cautiously, but nothing reared its ugly head. Harry knocked and called for Luna, and after a minute, she bustled around the corner of the cottage from the back garden, her arms laden with a bushel of bobbing foxglove and assorted grasses. "Oh, Ron, Harry. Have you come to help trim the Bobbing Bushes with me? I'm afraid I've just finished most of the garden work for the day. A spot of tea?"

Smiling her wide, dreamy smile, she unlocked the door and let them inside as Harry and Ron returned her greeting. Throwing the armful of flowers onto a wooden chair to her right, she led them into the sitting room. After a round of greetings and a touch of uneasy small talk—Harry and Ron eager to get on with it yet hesitant to launch straight in—Luna settled them with a pot of tea. Before long, they were nestled into her eclectic collection of colourful, mismatched armchairs, steaming cups in hand.

“It really was a lovely evening,” Luna sighed and stirred her tea. "I was honoured to attend the Potter-Weasley wedding. Though I did advocate for a combined name; Peasley was my top suggestion, but I was also willing to argue for Wotter."

Ron barked a laugh and Harry just groaned, smiling and saying to his fellow 'Mr Potter-Weasley'; "We dodged a bullet there, at least. Maybe we weren't as drunk as I thought after all."

"Well, no, I rather think you did have quite a bit," Luna said without a droplet of judgement.

“When did you come by, exactly?” Harry sniffed his tea, then took a tentative sip. Yes, some strange stick-flavoured eclectic blend, as to be expected.

“Around eleven, I suppose.”

“What were we doing when you showed up?” asked Ron.

“It was right about the point where you confiscated Harry’s wand.”

The two men blinked at each other. Harry quirked an eyebrow. “Why would Ron have to do that?”

“Oh, because you were eagerly waving it around at Professor Snape.”

“Mr Snape,” Harry corrected instinctively—Snape wouldn’t let Harry address him as ‘Professor’ anymore, and Harry had fallen into the habit of pressing the issue onto others, even though it didn’t matter much.

The picture Luna was painting caught up with him. “What? I was… threatening Snape?”

“You were very emotional, Harry. It was understandable given the circumstances.”

Ron’s knee was juddering, his arms crossed as he asked with exasperation, “Which were what circumstances, exactly?”

“Harry’s magical implosion and imminent death.”

Harry had long ago stopped dismissing the things Luna said. Though she took the long way around, Harry trusted and valued her perspective. His heart rate quickened, and a wash of dread swept over him.

“The test results,” Harry whispered, throat too tight to raise his voice.

Ron’s strong hand landed on his shoulder, and the redhead leaned in, catching Harry’s eye—Harry realised he’d been staring down at the floorboards. “Harry, what tests?” His voice was full of urgency.

Ron’s palm was calming—it grounded Harry, drew his buzzing thoughts back to Luna’s sitting room.

In a rush—he couldn’t bear letting Ron worry another second—Harry stared into Ron’s soft blue eyes and rattled out, “I’ve been having some trouble, with my magic mostly, but also nausea and dizziness—when Snape realised, he didn’t say anything about St Mungo’s or the like. He just snarled and sat me down on the spot, took some magical signature readings, drew some blood. I thought it was better than wasting time going to get poked by healers—and you know Snape doesn’t take no for an answer—so I just let him.”

A heavy stillness fell between them, and Harry couldn’t tear his gaze away from Ron, whose expression tightened.

So last night’s blackout drinking and recklessness had all been because—

“Yes, I’m so glad Mr Snape was able to get you all sorted out, Harry.” Raising her teacup, Luna declared, airly, “Another toast to a long and happy marriage.”

Ron’s hand slid to cup the back of Harry’s neck and squeeze, his shoulders slackening with relief as he whipped his head over to demand, “So Harry’s going to be fine?”

Luna nodded, and a familiar sense of comfort settled over Harry, gratitude rising in its wake. She smiled at him. “According to Mr Snape, there was thankfully a rather easy solution. It didn’t even involve snorkacks or any invasive medicinary methods.”

Ron beat Harry to the conclusion by a millisecond, and was gaping at Luna before he sputtered, “How could getting married heal a medical issue?”

Harry’s mind was ping-ponging around, struggling to grasp the events of the past twenty-four hours, but Ron’s steadying grip on his neck drew his attention. He chewed his lip, feeling confused and anxious about what this all meant. Harry was clueless about magical marriage.

Luna shrugged. “It’s a bond, after all. There were some aggressive words batted around last night…” She stared off into the distance and tapped her finger on her lip. “Something about oblivious dunderheads… yes, and meddling forty-year-old-bachelors, and magical stabilisation.”

Yeah, that sounded like Snape. Irritated at how his pulse was still jittering, Harry leant across the table to pick up the teapot and pour Luna another cup, which Ron took as a cue to lean back away and withdraw his touch.

Sighing, Harry asked her, “So, what else can you tell us about last night?”

“Rosmerta had some lovely roast frog legs on the bar menu… and I was so grateful it was a lively, positive crowd; barely a nargle in sight.”

Harry jumped in before Ron said something insensitive in his impatience again. “I mean, Luna… how did the idea for Ron and I to get married come up? Surely Snape didn’t…”

“Mr Snape didn’t stay very long at all. He apparated away in quite a tiff—you know how rude Rosmerta thinks apparating within the bar is, poor Madam Puddifoot had to distract her…” Luna trailed off with a petite smile, as if daydreaming about something lovely.

Ron glanced at Harry a moment. “And then?” Ron prompted, his tone deliberately even. Harry gave him a tense smile of gratitude, since Ron was doing his best not to push Luna.

“And then, the proposal, of course. One can’t very well get married without a grand proposal.”

“In The Three Broomsticks?” Harry asked, also starting to feel exasperation build up into mild delirium, like this whole day was a fever dream.

“So, which one of us was it? That proposed?” Ron asked, as if desperate to reach the climax of some adventure story.

Luna held her hands out wide, with a pleased glint in her eye, revelling in her captive audience. She fluttered her hands around to mime out the scene. “The lighting was brilliant, all glowy oranges sparkling over the dappled pothos and potted dittany—you know Ms Puddifoot has the place as a café during the day now, since her shop was razed by Death Eaters and her romance with Rosmerta began—”

Ron and Harry exchanged looks; it wasn’t new information, but surely not relevant to the explanation?

Luna’s daydreamy pause ended. “And after the hubbub of Mr Snape’s departure, and several more tankards… with a blazing look of devotion, the future Mr Weasley-Potter leapt up onto his impromptu stage…”

She fluttered her eyelashes, and paused again to take a sip of tea.

The tension sagged, and so did Ron’s shoulders. He buried his face in his hands. “Oh Godric, I remember some of it now… I…”

Harry whipped around to look at him. “What? Was it you? Did you propose to me on the bar counter of The Three Broomsticks? Does everyone know?”

Luna shook her head slowly. “Oh, no—Ms Puddifoot won’t have any such rowdiness anymore; she put Ron in a body bind and the two of us carried him off.”

“To The Hog’s Head?” Harry suggested, his nerves fraying and desperate for this whole tale to be over.

“Well, we took a minute to set Ron to rights, then had a detour down by the Magical Menagerie, where Ron got the attention of the dear Diricawls by dancing into the fences rather loudly.”

Ron still had a hand over his pink-tinged face, and he gave a heavy sigh. “Harry, I told you I was to blame for all this; it was me, I suggested we get married. I’ve got an inkling about… something about trying to transfigure a pinecone into a ring…”

Harry looked down at the beautiful gold band on his hand; something Ron could not transfigure even given a full day of good concentration, never mind on the spot while drunk out of his mind.

“Did Ron propose to me with a pinecone?” Harry asked Luna, feeling a mad chuckle escape.

“He did try his best, Harry,” Luna said, soothingly. “It’s the thought that counts. He was down on one knee and everything, even with all the Diricawl droppings on the cobblestones.”

“Well, I don’t even have a girlfriend! I haven’t given two knuts of thought about how to propose to someone, have I?” Ron huffed, getting worked up.

“So where did the rings come from?” Harry asked, nonplussed.

Luna straightened and returned to using serene gestures to punctuate her story. “Under the light of the waxing gibbous moon, with the cawing of the Diricawls, you, Ron, pleaded with Harry to allow you to become his husband, to live a healthy and long life together. You even promised that you wouldn’t demand nearly as many children as Mr and Mrs Weasley—”

At this, Ron threw himself back against the settee and stared up at the ceiling, his neck red as if begging a deity to end him with a lightning strike.

Luna flourished her hand at Harry. “Upon which you, Harry, overwhelmed by emotion, with tears streaming down your face, summoned a minor thunderstorm with your apparently naughty bit of rebellious magic—and Fawkes alighted from the streaming rain with the rings in his beautiful beak.”

She paused to pull up the lacy tablecloth and stooped to dab her eyes, though her expression was as pleasant and serene as always.

Harry laced his fingers together and leaned forward, ignoring Ron whose leg had gone back to jittering uncontrollably. “So Ron proposed… with a pinecone. And my magic freaked out and summoned Fawkes with the rings, and then we all went off to The Hog’s Head so Aberforth could perform the ceremony?”

“It was a lovely ceremony,” Luna reiterated as her confirmation.

Taking a steadying breath, Harry glanced over at Ron and tugged at his sleeve, prompting the redhead to stop lolling his head back, sit up, and look at him. Green eyes met blue, and a strengthening certainty settled in Harry’s gut; if he had to be in this mess with anyone, he was bloody grateful it was with his best mate Ron.

Twilight streamed through the windows of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, dark and austere as always, since Harry never had time to redecorate—only taking care of essentials, like removing the house-elf heads and paying a fortune to extract the cursed wall Mrs Black had been mounted on.

Harry and Ron sat across from each other in armchairs, biscuits and tea untouched on the table between them, the awkward atmosphere stretching thinner and thinner.

Finally, Ron broke the silence. “So, Snape laid it out pretty plainly, then.”

“More like laid into us,” Harry grumbled.

As if gathering up all the pieces of it, Ron spoke, punctuating each thought by counting off on his long fingers, “A marriage bond can keep your errant magic in check. We got married, but the bond still isn’t fully affixed; there’s still a risk of your magic going haywire unless we secure the bond. If we want to call it off, you should marry someone else immediately, preferably with back-to-back annulment and marriage rituals.”

Harry pursed his lips into a thin line. He fought to hold it in, he knew it wasn’t necessary, but— “Ron, I’m so sorry.”

Predictably, Ron shook his head and held up his hand to halt Harry’s spiral. The warm smile he flashed loosened all of Harry’s nerves and assuaged his guilt by a few teaspoons. “I’m pretty sure I proposed to you, Harry.”

“Yeah, without a ring.”

“We can’t all just summon phoenixes out of thin air,” Ron grumbled, but Harry could tell by the sparkle in his eye he was messing about, angling for a lighter mood.

Yet, Harry wasn’t up for any banter. He pulled his socked feet into the chair, settling back in a cross-legged position. “I suppose there will be loads of people bowling each other over to marry me…” He didn’t realise his voice would come out so sullen. “I’ll get you out of this soon,” he added, muttering into the sleeve of his jumper.

Ron’s tea cup clattered as he fumbled it and then set it back down. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before his jaw took on a determined set. “What if we just stay married?”

The question hung in the air as Harry blinked over the wool of his green jumper at his best mate.

When Ron’s freckles began to swim in rosy red, Harry realised he was supposed to respond. “Um,” Harry willed his brain to process the consequences of staying married to Ron, and how on earth he should reply, but his stupid mind latched onto only a doubt. “You wouldn’t want that,” he said while averting his eyes and getting out a single huff of strained laughter.

In a clumsy lurch, Ron stood and came around the low table to sit on the arm of Harry’s chair. Harry had to shuffle back, tilting his face up to see him. Ron slid his hand to Harry’s bony shoulder again and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Harry, you know I’d do anything for you. This is your life we’re talking about; it’s not something to mess around with. We can stay married until someone comes along who you really want to be with; then we can break the bond so you can get married, for real.”

An emotion as sweet and warm as treacle trickled into Harry’s chest, which swelled with the feeling. Merlin, Ron made him feel so cared for and wanted. “Thanks, Ron. But, we've got to keep it fair; when the right person comes along for you, we'll divorce.”

"Harry," Ron said with a firm tone. "This is all about you for a reason. We won't separate until we can figure out a better way to stabilise your magic." He looked away with a smile and scrubbed the back of his neck. “Besides, I’m the one who has been bellyaching about not dating anyone. Mum has to get off my back, now.”

“I am one hundred per cent sure she wasn’t suggesting you get married to your best mate.”

“Nagger’s can’t be choosers!”

“Isn’t the saying—”

“Besides, she’ll probably be over the moon to have you as a son-in-law.”

Harry paused before craning his head back up to gaze at Ron.

His husband.

They’d have to tell everyone—their family, friends, the whole of magical Britain.

Swallowing, Harry asked, “Can we really do this? Won’t everyone think we’re crazy? We’re not in love or anything.”

“I’m pretty sure love has been awfully low on pureblood family’s priority lists of criteria for suitable… uh, suitors.”

The thought that he did have the Black and Potter’s fortunes, which made him quite eligible, floated into Harry's mind but made him cringe. Ron shouldn’t have to marry for money, though Harry knew that was absolutely the farthest thing from his mind.

Another counterargument bubbled up from Harry. “I mean, you can’t really be okay with marrying a man… not just any man—me.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with you? You’re fit.”

The recollection that he’d also thought the same thing about Ron flickered in his mind. Harry ducked his head; he didn’t know why he was compelled to shy away. He didn’t dwell on it, instead exclaiming, “Sure, if you say so. I’ve never understood what’s so appealing about a short, scrawny bloke with a stupid scar on his face.”

The next second, Ron slid off the armchair and knelt on the carpet at eye level with Harry. Startled into a freeze, Harry just stared into his blue eyes, distracted by their mesmerising colour until Ron spoke up. “Hey,” a light touch to Harry’s knee. “I don’t want to hear any husband of mine saying anything self-deprecating like that.” He smiled brilliantly.

Harry had to close his eyes; his nerves were jumping and his heart panicking. It was this whole stupid situation. Husbands.

“I’m just glad you’re safe, Harry.” Ron patted his knee, and then backed off; Harry sensed him stand, and air rushed back into his lungs.

How would their lives change from here on out? Would being Ron's husband be any different from being his roommate? Other than… well… they would only do that once, from the necessity of having to finalise the marriage bond, right?

The floo flared up green and Hermione stalked out, a messenger bag stuffed with scrolls and a stack of books in her arms. She smacked them down on the table making the saucers rattle, pawed her wild hair away from her face and started in.

“I had about four minutes between the end of the meeting and waiting in line for the floo at the office, and I cast a referencing spell and already have these six books affixed with page markers for the annulment process—”

“That’s all right, Hermione; we’ve got it all sorted out.”

What was that excited spark Harry could sense in Ron’s stance, in his voice? Hermione’s reaction pulled his attention back to her; she eyed the two of them with a raised brow, then flourished her wand and cast at them with lightning speed. Ron might have blocked it if he didn’t trust her so implicitly. He did have his wand in his grip as her magic sparkled down around them.

With a hand on her hip she examined the shimmers of magic and then accused, “You’re still bonded. Well, it’s not fully affixed, but… so you’re saying…?”

Her concerned brown eyes scrutinised their faces. She opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and gave the little pinched look she did when considering her words.

Ron spoke before she could. “That’s right, we’re not going to annul it. We’re going to stay married, at least for the foreseeable future.”

At that, Hermione turned to Harry and looked at him with a softening of her eyes. She dropped her voice, gentle and understanding, addressing Harry more than Ron when she asked, “Is the way this has all played out okay with you, Harry? From your letter this morning, it does seem like the result of too much alcohol, and I don’t think it’s going to go well with the Weasley’s with only that as an explanation.”

There was something in her tone that Harry didn’t get, and as he stood (feeling awkward that he was the only one sitting) Ron stepped up shoulder to shoulder with him. Hermione had a look of distinct sadness as Ron threw an arm around Harry’s shoulder in a best mate’s sort of way, like he had thousands of times in the past. Hermione bit her lip and pressed, “Have you two really talked about this?”

It suddenly occurred to Harry that Hermione was well behind on the full story as they knew it so far. He reached for the letter from Mr Snape on the side table and also dug in his pocket for the photos Luna had taken—but only drew out the first two, far too embarrassed to show her their kiss. Besides, Ron hadn’t even seen it yet, so it was hardly fair to spring it on her first without his permission.

Harry stretched out his hand with a faint smile. “Ron’s right, we think we’ve sorted out the major points. Have a look and let’s talk. We’d really appreciate any advice about handling the press and telling the family.”

Hermione took the letter and photos as she muttered under her breath. “Oh Merlin, the press. It’s going to be a nightmare keeping them away from the Burrow, we’d better call in a favour to Kingsley…”

Chapter Text

The following Sunday
The Burrow, 11:50 AM

"Ronnikins, you don't look like you're dying of Dragonpox."

"Which is a shame, innit, George? We were ready to test our newest Sick-Me-Not Illusion Scarves."

"Ron, dear, I really have to get the roast out of the oven, if you would..."

"Just—everyone, shut it for a second! We have something to... announce."

"What, you and Harry?"

"We... we got married. This past weekend."

"…"

"Ronald Bilius Weasley!"

Letter from Severus Snape, Dark Arts specialtist, to his apprentice, Harry J. Potter-Weasley.

Potter,

Do not imagine that your marriage of convenience grants you leave to gallivant off on some indulgent excursion under the pretence of a 'honeymoon'. You are already behind on your experiments on the usage of powdered bicorn horn as a counteractive to blood boiling curses. I expect you in early tomorrow.

— S. Snape

P.S. I suppose congratulations are in order. However, be aware that, aside from this note, you will receive nothing from me beyond the previously dispensed medical advice.

The following Sunday, continued
The Burrow, 11:58 AM

"There, there, Molly dear, have another sip of tea."

"I just wish you'd have told us. I can't believe I've missed my youngest's wedding!"

"Mum, I'm your youngest. You've already been driving me mad with wedding preparations for next year. S'no wonder Ron and Harry wanted to dodge all that."

"It really was an accident, and it's just until a better solution can be found. I'm really... I just want to thank you again, Mr and Mrs Weasley—"

"Please, Harry. I've told you for years, you must call me 'Molly', dear; we're... (sniff) really and truly family now."

"Agreed, 'Arthur' will do fine. Can't say 'I thought I'd never see the day Harry was my son-in-law,' but, after you and Ginny broke it off..."

"Er, yeah, well. Ginny's happily engaged to Gwenog now, right Gin? And, like Ron and I explained, we are okay with this... well, I don't want to call it a fake marriage, but... platonic. Our platonic, legal marriage."

"Percy, stop hogging that letter. I want to see what Hermione has to say about it."

"Patience is a virtue, Ginevra. Well, I think it makes a whole lot of sense. And according to Hermione's concise summary here—very nice; elegant lettering, and the formatting is perfectly within internal Ministry document guidelines—it was medically necessary, and the legality of it has been confirmed by both her and Professor Snape."

"Erm, it's Mr Snape now."

"It must have been quite a shock, no? But if I were in your position, and my Bill needed to get married or he would explode, I wouldn't have hesitated either. Victoire, ma chérie, stop squirming—we will get you a snack soon."

"Fleur, give her to me."

"Bill! Set down your drink first, love."

"Up you go, my girl. Anyway, Ron and Harry are right; this information about Harry's magic and the reason for their sudden marriage absolutely cannot leave this room."

"Our lips are sealed! Zip zip. Right, Rapier?"

"I thought I might go back to using Rodent for my codename."

"Oi, keep a man in the loop."

Letter from Gabrielle Delacour, to her friend, Harry J. Potter-Weasley.

Harry,

I hope you and your new husband are doing well. I must admit, I was surprised by the news, but Fleur and Bill mentioned they had your permission to share the confidential details with me—hopefully, Fleur wasn’t exaggerating. I promise not to mention a word. Anyway, I suppose this makes us family now, too! At least for the time being.

The timing is perfect—I've just passed the first interview stage for an apprenticeship as an on-field healer with the Montrose Magpies! It looks like I’ll be moving to England in several months. My English is much better than Fleur’s was when she moved across the pond. Hopefully, this means we’ll get to see more of each other, not just during the holidays.

It’s surreal to be graduating from Beauxbatons in a few weeks—graduates finish earlier than the continuing students.
I hope you’re enjoying settling into married life, even if it is all a carefully crafted façade. And take care of your health, Harry; do be sure this marriage does what it is supposed to be doing.

I wish you both nothing but happiness,

Sincerely,

Gabrielle

The following Tuesday,
Outside Snape and Associates Defence Services (S.A.D.S), London, 6:15 PM

"Mr Potter-Weasley! A quick word for The Prophet, sir—since Monday morning’s brief announcement of your marriage to fellow war hero Ronald Weasley, the two of you have remained notably silent. Can you offer the wizarding public any insight into this sudden turn of events?"

"Still no comment."

"You've previously denied any attraction to men, yet your marriage has been met with enthusiasm from the LGBT community in magical Britain. Do you have any message for the young witches and wizards who look up to you?"

"Um, sorry, no..."

"Quidditch Weekly, Mr Potter-Weasley—your ex, lead Chaser for the Harpies, Ginny Weasley, has also remained silent. Is there any ill will between you and Miss Weasley?"

"Of course not. Could you all just shove off? I'm trying to get home after work."

"Could you confirm the speculation that you and Mr Ronald Potter-Weasley will be residing at the historic Black family estate, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place?"

"What, so you can stalk us more? Fat chance of that. We’ve bought a new flat, and the location’s private. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm about to apparate, and if anyone tries to side-along—well, that's harassment, so..."

Letter from Draco L. Malfoy, to his former schoolmates, Harry J. Potter-Weasley and Ronald B. Potter-Weasley.

Dear Mr and Mr Potter-Weasley,

Quite a mouthful, I must admit. Please excuse my jest—this letter is intended to be entirely civil. I remain, as always, deeply grateful for the support Harry offered me at the close of the war. It’s a debt I shall never forget.

I suspect you’ve already perused the invitation enclosed on separate letterhead, but I felt compelled to add a more personal note. The garden party I’m hosting will be semi-formal, and I’ve taken the liberty of inviting a number of Gryffindor couples, including the illustrious Hermione Granger and her... shall we say, rather plant-obsessed beau, Neville Longbottom. Astoria is particularly eager to host what promises to be a lively and engaging gathering, and we would be most pleased if you could attend.

I do hope you’ll be able to join us—please do let me know at your earliest convenience.

Yours sincerely,

Draco Lucius Malfoy

Three days later, Friday,
The Hog's Head, Hogsmeade Village, 8:15 PM

(Present and accounted for: Harry J. Potter-Weasley, Ronald B. Potter-Weasley, Hermione J. Granger, Neville A. Longbottom)

"Oh, I don't think I've been back here since the war... it's, um, as... intimate as ever. Did Mr Dumbledore always have the tables crammed quite so close together...?"

"I did invite you a few times, dear. I've still kept up with Aberforth at least every few months—have a pint, check in on his amaranth for the animals and whatnot."

"You're a good man, Neville. Better men than us; I was surprised off my arse to wake up here last weekend. You too, right, Harry? Felt a bit guilty though, it had been a couple of years since I saw Aberforth."

"I expect we'll be seeing more of him, considering The Hog's Head is the only chance Ron and I have of dodging the press for pints. At least for an hour or so. Ron! Careful, you're splashing."

"Ah, sorry about that, mate. Anyway, what about this garden party at Malfoy's? That will be a shit show, he'll definitely let journalists squirm their way in."

"Ronald, siphon up this spill before it gets to the floor!"

"Sorry—"

"I'll get it."

"Thank you, sweetie. Ron, this party is nothing to get worked up about. Neville and I have already sent our RSVP to Draco, but if you don't want to deal with interviews, just tell him so and decline. None of us are looking to curry his favour."

"This will all blow over in a few weeks, Harry. How's the new flat, by the way? Did you end up getting one with balcony space? You should be growing fluxweed, at least; it's so finicky if it's not fresh, or if it was grown poorly."

"Oh, the flat's a fairly good size. Yeah, thanks for the advice, Nev. Do you want to pop over sometime to help us get the basics set up? Everything I learned in herbology has flown completely from my head by now."

"I'm surprised Snape's not got you toiling in his garden."

"He won't let me touch it."

"It is a nice plot, for sure..."

"Harry, Nev, you ready for another?"

"What about me?"

"You're just having pumpkin juice. Besides, you've got half a glass left."

"It's still rude not to include me"

"Fine. Why don't you get some Giggling Gin or something? It's been a hell of a week."

"Fine, if you're offering—a gin then, please."

"Bloody okay, then; I'll pay for you. You're lucky I love you, Hermione."

"Yeah, one more beer for me. The hops were good last season..."

"I'll have a firewhisky. I'm paranoid that we've about to be sniffed out by someone from the Prophet any minute now."

"You two ought to be careful; I don't know if you knew Harry, but polyamorous marriage bonds are a thing; you don't want to wake up with more rings on your fingers."

"Oh shut it, Nev."

The pattering of rain would normally lull Harry into a peaceful daze. Yet, as wind rattled branches and rivulets coiled down the inky black window of the living room in their new flat, Harry’s skittering nerves kept him restless. He was crouched down rustling through one of the many cardboard boxes they had yet to unpack.

“Harry, we’ve done enough for the day, haven’t we? It’s past ten.”

Harry turned to see Ron standing in the doorway, a bottle of beer in each hand. Huffing a sigh, Harry stood and accepted one.

“I suppose so.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday, we can finish off the rest in the morning.”

“Yeah.”

They ended up on opposite ends of the sofa Hermione had helped them pick out.

It had all happened in a whirlwind week. They told most of their friends and family the whole story and swore them to secrecy. They explained how their marriage would be platonic, open, and subject to divorce whenever Harry found another partner or a better way to manage his rampant magic. Despite this, the reaction from most of them had been positive and celebratory. The press hounded them until they got a dry statement from Harry declaring the bare-bone details of what everyone already knew—Harry Potter was off the market and now Mr Harry J. Potter-Weasley.

Thanks to Percy and Hermione, they had a new flat by Wednesday, allowing them to completely avoid Twelve Grimmauld Place, which was swarmed by reporters. Between dodging questions, moving their things, and scrambling to catch up on work with Snape, Harry was fraying at the edges.

It hadn't helped that he'd had another magical outburst at Snape's shop—two hours before the end of his final shift of the week, no less. Thankfully, there hadn't been any customers to witness it, so the whole ordeal remained under wraps.

Using Protego shields to wait out the swirl of raging magic, they’d got through it unscathed and with minimal damage. Snape barely contained his anger, though, and Harry had nearly been spattered with spittle as the man hissed that he had better come to work 'well and truly fucked and magically fettered to Mr Weasley,' leaving the threat hanging—and Harry wishing he could Obliviate himself to scrub from his brain the memory of his ex-Potions Professor saying fucked.

Harry took a gulp which was mostly beer foam and realised they had been drinking in silence for a long stretch of time. He clutched the condensation-damp bottle, wondering if there was any sweat on his palm. His heartbeat stuttered as the silence pressed in.

“You know,” Harry croaked, clearing his throat. “I can take the sofa tonight. I know we said it makes the most sense to share the bed, and we bought a queen size, but we haven’t… er, finalised the marriage yet…”

Ron heaved a relieved sigh and leaned back, setting his beer bottle down. “Oh, yeah, maybe. I kind of thought we were aiming to get that out of the way tonight, but honestly mate…”

Their eyes met, hesitant but sharing the same weight of relief—an empathetic harmonising in the small, apologetic quirk of Harry’s lips and in the tilt of Ron’s head.

Ron chuckled and stood. “Another brew, hubby?”

A zip of embarrassment and inexplicable pleasure sped through Harry’s body. Averting his eyes, he hauled himself off the sofa and stretched out a hand to summon his wand, a feat he'd become used to since reaching magical maturity. On the table across from him, his wand twitched feebly.

Frowning, Harry poured more will into his wordless Accio and snatched his stick of holly when it came wobbling unsteadily towards him. Harry swished it and began closing up the tops of boxes across the room, muttering, “Merlin, that was uncalled for, Ron. Don’t expect me to be calling you ‘dear’ or anything.”

From the kitchen Ron called, “Too right. We are more ‘darling’ or ‘sweetheart’ sorts of blokes.”

With a smile ringing in his voice, Harry chastised his new partner. “Ron…”

There was a rattle and sharp snap of the clunky cold box door shutting—they’d opted for a magically charmed one, even though their flat was in muggle London.

Harry stared down at the gold wedding band and wished the rush of rain in the night beyond would wash his spirit free of all the jittery unease and swirling feelings. It was just Ron; just like sharing a dorm in school.

As he accepted his second beer, Harry blurted out, “It’s going to be kind of like if we shoved our dorm beds up next to each other, don’t you think?”

Ron smiled, the blinding sort of smile that made Harry grin back. He nudged Harry’s shoulder and said, “Don’t expect me to tolerate your pants strewn all over the floor like in eighth year.”

Ron didn’t draw away, standing with their upper arms brushing together. He took a sip of beer, staring out the dark window and adding softly, “I will be there for you if you have nightmares still, though. Just like our final year.”

Drinking another swig to open up his tight throat, Harry whispered, “Thanks, mate.”

“Do you still get them?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well then, I can’t very well let you risk sleeping alone—especially in an unfamiliar new place.”

Harry couldn’t find a way to squirm out of it, and frankly, he didn’t have the emotional energy to try. They finished their beers and started getting ready for sleep.

Already changed into boxers and a t-shirt to sleep in, Harry was brushing his teeth and staring at himself in the mirror; he looked haggard. Dodging the press and mumbling along to all their family’s reactions took its toll.

As he set down his toothbrush, vertigo struck, swaying his vision. His knees buckled, and he crashed to the tiled floor.

“Harry!” Ron’s voice sounded distressed and distant. Then Harry felt it—a sort of empty pit within him, like the still eye of a storm, a centre devoid of power as his magical essence pulsed outward and thrashed around him.

As suddenly as it started, the outburst abruptly stopped. Strong, bare arms were squeezing around him from behind. Sound, sight and magic wooshed back to him and fell to a peaceful stillness. Ron was hugging him too tightly, making Harry choke out a cough as the chaos settled.

“Blimey, give me a heart attack, will you?” Ron rasped, and Harry stared around the small bathroom. The mirror was shattered and objects were strewn around the floor, but otherwise everything looked undamaged.

“My magic…” Harry said dully. Ron didn’t draw his arms away even as they struggled to stand while entwined. Harry glanced at the largest intact shard of mirror. Ron had his face buried down into Harry’s hair, bare freckled shoulders hunched protectively as he clung to him.

We look like a proper couple.

The thought choked him up and he closed his eyes.

Ron heaved a sigh. “We can’t put off doing… it, for much longer.”

Harry nodded, and Ron dragged him out of the cold bathroom. They pulled apart from the embrace to work in silence, throwing the crisp new sheets and huge patternless navy duvet onto the new bed, then crawled into either side.

A queen-size was pretty huge, Harry realised. He’d never lain in one. Hermione could easily join them in the middle—actually, if that ended up happening for some reason, Harry should take the middle to lie next to Ron, his husband.

Across the gap, Ron stretched out his arm and wormed his hand under Harry’s head to cup the back of his neck. Harry's sagged into the touch.

Lying on his side with the bathroom light casting enough glow to light his hair, Ron murmured, “Can we get it over with tomorrow night, then? It’d be for the best. I want to keep you safe from something worse than that happening.”

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Bollocks I don’t. Do you think I’ve ever stopped?”

“I can and have handled plenty of things on my own.”

“Of course, mate, but I don’t want you to have to.”

Emotion welled in Harry’s throat again, and he just nodded his acquiescence.

Ron didn’t pull his hand back; he just yawned and grabbed his wand. After casting Nox and dropping the room into darkness, he said, “Let’s figure it out in the morning.”

It. Figure it out.

If Harry wasn’t so drained, he would have tossed and turned as anxiety crawled up his spine—as it was, despite the task awaiting them the next day, he fell asleep with Ron’s warm touch soothing him.

Chapter Text

As dawn light seeped across their bed, Harry stirred from sleep. With a startle, he snapped his gaze over to the red mess of hair on the pillow next to him. A sinking feeling struck. Sharing a marriage bed was nothing like pushing their dorm beds together. Ron was still out cold, a hum of air wheezing softly into Harry’s dark locks with each exhale, but he had a long leg and muscled arm thrown over Harry, and a distinct hardness nudged Harry’s thigh.

“Whoa!” Harry shot upright when his brain caught up to the fact that Ron had a hardy morning wood situation going on, his exclamation waking Ron. They bolted apart, and Harry was grateful for the width of the bed, otherwise he would have careened onto the floor.

Face pink, Ron swept the sheet off the bed and curled it around himself like a cloak, with an attempt at a nonchalant grin. “Chilly this morning,” he commented as an excuse for being wrapped in the fabric, and he stumbled off to the ensuite bathroom.

It’s not like Harry had never seen Ron with a stiffy in the morning at the dorm, but waking up tangled with each other was more than Harry’s heart could take on their first full day of cohabitation. His chest was pounding, spurring blood, hormones, and—with a warm wash of shame, Harry realised that he too was hard.

The embarrassment of having reacted to Ron’s arousal helped Harry get the situation under control more quickly than he usually did; he dashed to the kitchen and splashed his face with cold water. To further stifle his morning eagerness, Harry stood in front of the cold box—empty except for some leftover beer and a half-carton of eggs—with its door open, wafting chilly air onto his stomach. He forced himself to carefully read the piece of parchment still lying on top of the new magical device, detailing its usage instructions and warnings about not using additional freezing charms on it, etc.

After shaking off the incident, Harry grabbed the bag of bread he’d brought from Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, and tore off a corner of the uncut loaf. Still holding the paper bag, he was walking over to where his Dark Arts books were boxed when Ron entered the kitchen, already dressed in a casual wizarding robe, his hair neat but damp.

Ron looked from the bread to Harry’s face again and raised a brow. “Please don’t tell me this is your regular breakfast.”

Rather than ripping off another chunk of the loaf, Harry let his hand fall, pausing as if caught in the act. Unbidden, his face creased into a frown. He was antsy to get some reading done about siphon stones and other power-draining artefacts, since Snape had warned him they’d be working on such research when he got to the office tomorrow.

“Um,” Harry started dumbly, but Ron just gave a grin and Accio’d a frying pan with a flick of his wand. “This won’t be anything near the level of a Burrow breakfast, but I can at least get some protein in us. We’re married, we might as well eat breakfast together, yeah?”

There was a hopeful glimmer in his eye as Ron looked over his shoulder at Harry. Hoping to shake off his worries about the evening’s plans, Harry set the loaf aside and settled at their round kitchen table.

As Ron rustled up a simple breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast and canned beans, Harry thought it would be nice to eat next to Ron, like being at the Gryffindor table again. But even then, they’d often subsided on a bun with meat shoved into it, having slept in and missed the chance to have a leisurely meal.

By the time the plates were on the table and milk, pumpkin juice, and instant coffee were arrayed for Harry to choose from, he realised this was different from grabbing a quick bite prepared by the house-elves. The bacon was crisp, the toast well-buttered, and Ron was saying, "If you’re having coffee, there’s no milk, but you just drink it with a touch of sugar, right?"

Ron had prepared all this for him. A shy satisfaction bubbled up in Harry’s chest, and he said, “Yeah,” as he twisted to stretch and grab the sugar from the counter behind him, suppressing his pleasure.

Although, come to think of it, why did he feel compelled to hide how pleased he was from Ron?

“Thank you for all this, Ron.” His voice was oddly emotional. He hoped Ron didn't catch it.

“Of course, we’re doing this all for your health. Can’t let our diets slide on the first morning.”

Harry swallowed a bite of toast, grateful but still awkward and nervous about it all.

They chatted as they ate, and Harry noticed Ron munching slower than usual. Perhaps it was the lack of siblings or classmates to compete with, but rather than wolfing down mouthfuls, he was smiling at Harry and bringing up all the little tasks they should get around to in the next week if they could find time after work.

In fact, Harry finished first, and as he pushed his chair back to stand and wash his dishes, Ron caught him with a request.

"Oh, before you get stuck into anything, I thought we could have a quick word about the groceries for the week?"

Harry got the distinct impression Ron wanted to spend more time together, whereas Harry would love to shove his head in a book and resurface when their moment to get the sex thing over and done with came up.

But saying that bluntly didn’t seem kind, and how long could listing up food items take?

Several cups of tea and two hours later, Ron stood from the living room sofa where they had convened their first Tasty, Time-saving, Thrifty Meal Planning Taskforce meeting (at least, Harry secretly felt like he was an advisor on some sort of committee like that). He flourished the list they had penned together with a triumphant expression.

The shopping preparation had been a surprisingly good distraction. At first, as they sat with quills and a scroll, Harry had a flash of deja vu; sitting at low tables in the Gryffindor common room, working on an assignment together.

Despite the sense of familiarity, Harry was pleasantly surprised by Ron’s practical, straightforward approach. Ron didn’t drag his feet, and planning their meals wasn’t some inane exercise set by a professor—Ron was focused on organising things for them, for their life together. His enthusiasm spurred Harry’s own, and his competence with food prices was unexpectedly amusing. The triumphant grin on Ron’s face as he scanned the page of notes was downright endearing, amusing—adorable.

Harry batted away that thought like a pesky pixie and, clearing his throat, brought up something that had popped into his mind while they were discussing.

“You know, I’d rather do things before dinner tonight. It’s kind of queasy for me on a full stomach, you know?”

The second it burst from his mouth, Harry gnawed on his lip and a bristle of anxiety quickened his pulse and constricted his chest. Merlin, why did he bring that up?

Ron rolled up their meal planning scroll and stared off towards a corner of the room, his mouth forming a thin, concerned line. “Oh, right. Well, that makes sense. Around six, then?”

Godric’s balls, scheduling it like a meeting or something… Harry didn’t know why, but having a time made a new wave of nervous sweat trickle down his neck. He looked down at the floorboards, twisting his fingers into his t-shirt before saying in a rush, “Hey, Ron, I’m—I’ve been a bit freaked out about it, which I know is probably normal. I mean, it’s not normal for two best mates to accidentally get married and have to have… sex, but I can’t even think about it, so I’m wondering if it’s going to be super difficult? I just thought…”

Ron was silent during his frantic seconds of chattering, which prompted Harry to glance up.

But Ron had already turned, heading towards the door. He waved a hand in the air, but his shoulders were stiff, and he wasn’t looking at Harry when he said dismissively, “It’ll be something, alright. Don’t you worry though, I’ve already called in the cavalry for advice—Charlie, I mean, of course. Listen, I’m just going to pop out to get started on this list then, right? If I don’t get a move on, the bakery will be out of sandwich bread loaves. Then I've got to go to Gringotts and pick up some stuff from Mum.”

“Oh, right. Definitely,” Harry gritted out, not understanding why he felt so let down seeing Ron’s trim shoulders disappear into the next room.

A few minutes and a quick goodbye later, Ron disappeared through their floo with a tote bag thrown over his shoulder. Harry retreated sullenly to the boxed-ridden study.

After just twenty minutes, he gave up reading his Dark Arts textbook and began unboxing some books, floating them onto shelves. It didn’t occupy his mind enough, however, and worries about how to handle what they were planning to do tonight flickered through his mind.

It wasn't like Harry hadn’t had chances to fool around with witches—they were just very few and far between. As much as he didn’t care about rules at Hogwarts, eighth year was a lot of trauma recovery for Ron, Hermione and himself. So when girls had implied they wouldn’t mind a walk around the castle after dark, Harry found excuses.

As their final year swiftly came to an end, Harry was slapped out of the blue with a demand from Snape to apprentice under him. The preceding years were a blur of intense study, experimentation and surviving the mutual irritation which festered between him and his former professorial nemesis. Surprisingly, the arrangement morphed into one of grudging respect and unexpectedly effective teamwork—especially once Harry had set aside his studies of Occlumency for the time being.

Harry had simply been too preoccupied to have sex.

He dug through the box neatly packed with his potion ingredients—his stock significantly more advanced than the average household, given who his mentor was. His apprehension wasn't just about doing anything sexual with Ron, or with a bloke; it also was about this being his first time doing anything more than snogging and running hands under Ginny’s top.

A vial of Anti-Swelling Solution almost slipped out of his hands as it dawned on him—he hadn’t mentioned anything about his inexperience to Ron.

Even sitting alone on the floor of the flat, his face heated with embarrassment—he’d foolishly assumed Ron would have known that. They were best mates, they knew all the important things about each other, right? But as Harry cast back in his memory, anytime Ron brought up a witch he was seeing, even Ron would skirt around any details and never pried into Harry’s love life. Harry had the sense Ron had done things, since he was calm about their plans for the evening.

And exactly how would it go? Harry knew the mechanics—vaguely. He tried to imagine who might do what tonight, but... It was freaking him out just imagining being skin to skin with Ron, touching that recently toned expanse of chest and stomach he spied last night as they got ready to sleep…

The afternoon slipped by painfully fast, as thoughts about how he would tell Ron that he was still a virgin flitted through his frantic thoughts. Maybe he shouldn’t mention it, it might just make Ron feel weird? But wouldn't he feel weirder to hear about it after? What did it matter, anyway; Ron had never been with a bloke before, right?

It was late afternoon when the floo flared and Ron stepped in, ladened with a full tote bag as well as a sack of potatoes. Harry startled at Ron's sudden appearance, his grip on the book tightening as his train of thought derailed.

They spent another hour speaking in clipped phrases. All the while, Harry struggled not to look at the clock, but failed spectacularly.

Five o'clock.

Five ten.

Five twenty… thirty-five… forty… fifty-three…

It wasn’t even six when Ron poked his head into the study, where Harry was doodling on a scrap of paper. Ron said, with a strain in his faux-casual voice, “I’m just going to pop in the shower first, then?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Harry stared out the window as Ron showered, orange twilight spreading over the trees in the lane below. When it was his turn for a shower, the water rushing over him passed in a blink.

He nearly forgot to cast a drying spell on his hair. After changing into a fresh t-shirt and loose shorts, he stepped into the bedroom. Showering so early felt strange, with golden-pink evening light soaking over the honeyed wood of the bed. Stranger still was his decision to not bother with pants under the casual sports shorts.

Ron was sitting on his own side of the bed with his back to Harry, looking at the sky beyond the window. He had also changed into muggle clothes, but Harry was surprised to see he was wearing a light brown button-up and casual slacks, something he might wear for a night of drinks at a muggle pub. He’d left the collar open, exposing the full length of his lightly freckled neck. Harry swallowed and flourished a hand at himself. “I’m underdressed.”

Ron twisted around and stared at Harry, not saying anything for a long moment before giving a shrug and placing his wand on the bedside table. “It’s not a date or anything.”

Harry plunked down onto the far side of the mattress, toying with the hem of his shorts as if stretching it would help cover more thigh.

“So," Ron began, adopting the tone he used when thinking through a case, "ever since we got ourselves into this mess, I’ve been doing some reading.”

“Did Hermione lend you the books?” Harry asked, but his teasing tone was taut with nerves.

Ron didn’t pull out any of said books. Instead, he leaned back against the headboard, staring blankly at the end of the bed. His voice was unnervingly light as he joked, “Do you think she keeps guides on gay wizard sex lying around somewhere?”

“She could. We don't know what she's into." Harry's chuckle came out nervous, and he cut it off by adding, "Her curiosity is kind of scary sometimes.”

“Well, I went to a pro, like I said; wrote back and forth with Charlie. Especially since he and Ken are married wizards, it was really helpful to know the, um, extent to which we have to do things, to consummate the marriage.”

Ron’s voice carried a note of relief, and after turning the words over, the meaning clicked for Harry. “Are you saying we don’t have to… in…?”

“Bloody relief, isn’t it? Charlie said as long as there's an emotional, empathetic bond and mutual fulfilment for both of us—by which he means we both come—it should settle it.”

Harry wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he just forced a smile and said, “Oh.”

“Don't look so down about it,” Ron remarked, his elbow jabbing lightly at Harry’s upper arm. The hesitant, fleeting glance Ron shot him made Harry realise that even he knew the joke had fallen flat.

“Just, still getting my head around everything. And, well, I… it does feel good. There.”

Ron turned to face him, staring with his mouth parted until he managed to say, “You mean you’ve…? Why? Have you thought about going with…?”

“No, no! I’d never thought about blokes like that!” Before this whole marrying you thing, he couldn’t bring himself to say. “It’s just… it sort of happened before I even knew the mechanics of anything about… going with a witch, or wizard, you know? Just when you’re young, you figure out what feels good, take a guess about what else might feel good, and try a bunch of things, yeah?”

Ron blushed and flitted his hands around in a fluster. Calming himself, he lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t think there are many young blokes who stumble their way into fingering themselves without porn giving them the bright idea.”

“I don’t know what made me try, it was a long time ago!” Harry knew his cheeks were scarlet, they were blazing.

“So do you still…?”

“Don’t ask me that,” Harry groaned, which was a clear affirmative.

“We’ve got to talk about this, we’re minutes from doing it. We’re not first years—not even virgins.”

Harry’s teeth clacked together as his jaw stiffened.

It must have been all over his face, because Ron said, “Bloody hell, Harry—you definitely did it with Ginny, that weekend you thought you were going to get back together! You basically told me you did!”

“What, no I didn’t! We didn’t!”

“You said you felt relieved for having at least tried before calling it off.”

“Why does that mean we had sex? Ron, anyway, I don’t want to talk about your sister right now—I didn’t. I haven’t. With any girl.”

Ron stared and Harry threw up his hands. “With anyone, woman or man, magical or muggle.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron muttered, throwing himself onto the bed.

Harry curled in on himself, shoulders hunched and feeling pathetic. He didn’t really care if he was a virgin and Ron wasn’t. He didn’t get what was so amazing about the first time, anyway. People are usually shit at whatever they do the first time, and he was certain sex would be no different.

Knowing he could stumble through this experience with Ron gave Harry some relief. All day he had been panicking about having gay sex, but an obvious fact never occurred to him; that Ron would know something about how to behave in bed, at least when it came to the basics of being with a woman.

With a determined nod, Ron declared, “So, we’re not going to do it from the back.”

“Why not?” Harry assessed Ron from the corner of his eye, still too mortified to face him. “Do you think it’s gross or something?”

“No, I mean—you use cleaning... like, hygienic charms right?”

“Well, now I do. Until I learned them, I used to just keep it to the shower at school.”

Ron was looking as red as Harry felt. Scrubbing a hand through his red hair, he took a breath and said, “I’ve never done any up-the-backside stuff, alone or otherwise. The few girls I’ve been with haven’t exactly requested that, especially since I met up with them so few times.”

A lightbulb pinged in Harry’s mind. “Then we should try it; to be on an even footing.”

Looking sceptical, Ron waved at their laps and said with exasperation, “Shouldn’t we just be trying to get it over and done with, with a couple of quick handjobs?”

“You’re the one who passed on to me the amazing teachings of Wizard-on-Wizard Sex Guru Charles H. Weasley—it’s emotional depth, and like, vulnerability. And orgasms. And, um, I already know it feels good for me there. You could at least use your…” Harry swallowed and dropped his voice, “fingers.”

Ron worried his bottom lip with his teeth as he looked sidelong at Harry. He also quietened, murmuring, “Okay. For sure. If this is your first time, I want to do whatever you want. Whatever will feel good for you.”

Harry’s pulse spiked and his chest tightened with embarrassment and restlessness. Keen to dispel some of the awkward tension, Harry turned away, set his glasses on the bedside table, and pulled his T-shirt over his head, shaking out his hair.

When Harry glanced back up, Ron was still unable to look at him head-on. There was an arm's-length span of bed between them; Harry scooted closer to the middle, tentatively bridging the gap.

Trying to gather his nerve, Harry examined the back of Ron's freckled hand, splayed on the navy coverlet. The time to settle this unexpected situation had rushed upon them.

Chapter Text

All day, Harry’s mind had been dancing around the thought of how they would have sex. The jumble of ideas left him scrambling to make sense of what was supposed to come first.

Ron beat him to the obvious conclusion. “We haven’t kissed before,” he blurted.

“Yes, we have.” Harry countered, and was met with a confused expression. “One of the photos Aberforth gave us has our wedding ceremony kiss. I, uh, maybe forgot to show it to you.”

“Well that hardly counts, does it?” Ron shifted closer to the middle of the bed, too.

Harry gave a shrug, a nervous flutter racing through his pulse and tightening his chest, making him unable to speak.

Ron lifted his wide palm and cupped Harry’s face, pausing and blinking nervously as he met Harry’s eyes—Ron's brilliant blue gaze was so blindingly beautiful that Harry squeezed his eyes shut.

Dry lips pressed against his for a second before Ron pulled back to hover—Harry could feel the light puff of his breath. “This okay?” Ron murmured, and Harry nodded as Ron slid his fingers from his jaw around to his nape and added, “I guess that was a little third-year of me. Here goes…”

This time, the press of lips was followed by movement as Ron coaxed Harry to open up for the kiss, and a warm, timid tongue slid along his bottom lip. Harry’s chest quivered as he exhaled the tension of anticipation and leaned in to answer Ron’s lead.

Harry’s mind buzzed with pleasure, thankfully drowning out any doubts or panic. They kissed with hesitant exploration, as if still clinging to the borders of platonic acceptability. But there was a stirring in Harry’s gut that was already heating, coiling—demanding.

A trickle of frustration made Harry pull back a second to mutter, “Let’s—just… just go for it, okay?”

“Yeah.”

They pounced back into the kiss, more fervent than before. Harry gripped Ron’s upper arms—a doubting voice began to leak through his arousal; Damn it’s been too long since I’ve had a snog, am I doing okay?

Kissing Ron—a man—was so different from the few girls Harry had kissed (Ron’s sister among them). Just the way he moved, the fact that he was bigger and taller than Harry, his scent, and the firmness of his mouth. Harry’s heart was pounding—he supposed it was the embarrassment of making out with his best mate that had him flushed.

After a minute or so, they came to a mutual, silent decision; that was enough snogging, at least for now. They sat huddled in the middle of the bed, foreheads pressed together and staring down at the duvet rather than meeting each other's eyes.

Ron used his faux casual voice again. “So, you okay to do the cleaning and safety spells?”

“Oh,” Harry considered as he twisted and retrieved his wand. “I… Could you do them? I’ve only done the prophylactic one as practice, like, years ago. And, shouldn't we be worried about my wonky magic?”

“Oh, sure. All right, then.”

As Ron mumbled the spells and swished his wand, Harry sat awkwardly on the mattress, as antsy as he would be if he were taking a practical exam. It was good that the charms could be done while clothed—Ron was still in his shirt and trousers.

It was embarrassing that Ron had to reach behind Harry to point his wand at his arse, but the magic tingled the way it was supposed to. Ron cast again, and his magic fell upon Harry like a soothing covering below his navel and over his crotch. Harry bit his lip and stopped breathing. Recovering quickly, he commented with a feigned nonchalance, “That one always stung a lot whenever I practised it. Yours felt fine though. Nice work.”

“All in the wrist,” Ron replied woodenly, and Harry noticed him scritch his forearm and fidget the way he always did when self-conscious.

A silence hung between them, growing thicker the longer neither moved nor spoke, until Harry reached out and placed a reassuring hand on Ron’s shoulder. He wanted to give Ron an out, to say, "We can do this another day if it's too much," but what he said was, “We’re a little freaked out, but let’s just dive in. Whatever weirdness might happen—we'll laugh about it later, right?”

Ron chuckled uneasily but nodded. He darted a look over and Harry found himself pinned by a look he’d never seen on his friend’s face—simmering intensity behind fierce fixation. “Lie back then,” he rumbled with a voice that also caught Harry off guard. Harry slid down and back onto the pillows as requested, swallowing.

Ron followed, stretching out beside him on his side. “Bit more snogging then? Then… I’ll touch you, all right?”

Harry could only nod briskly, and then they were kissing again. Ron hovered over him, propped up with a palm pressing into the mattress on either side of Harry’s shoulders. Lying on his back, Harry felt exposed and overwhelmed, as he raised his hands and set them on Ron’s shoulder blades, which shifted under his shirt.

Harry’s pulse thudded as the kiss deepened, his world narrowing to the sensation of Ron’s lips against his. His hands moved instinctively, tracing over Ron’s back—he knew the splay of freckles beneath the fabric, unintentionally burned into memory by familiarity. Harry’s lips puffed out breathy hitches whenever Ron drew his tongue out of his mouth and changed the angle of the kiss.

Ron lifted one hand, supporting himself with the other, and his long fingers delicately cupped Harry’s neck, thumbing along his Adam’s apple.

Harry was aware of a rising need, a raw, consuming feeling, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before—unfiltered, undeniable, and all-encompassing, washing over him like an inevitable tide. It pulled him under, leaving him breathless and struggling with a growing ache, like he was being scooped emptier and emptier with each pull of lips. Ron’s fingertips began a slow skim down past Harry’s collarbone, chest, stomach…

Abruptly, Harry realised he was hard, and a sweep of shame flooded him—was Ron affecting him like this so quickly? What would Ron think—

Astonishment replaced his humiliation, a gasp escaping as Ron cupped the erection straining against the fabric of Harry's shorts.

As Harry’s mind scrambled to comprehend why it felt so fucking good to have Ron’s large hand touch his length so delicately, Ron murmured, “Harry, yeah; good. So… just, good,” as if he couldn’t hold himself back from prattling on. Harry exhaled, a tremble following as his face heated and the words reverberated through his mind; Harry, good, good, just good…

Harry sunk his teeth sharply into his bottom lip to try and regain some sense of control as his mind reeled with pleasure at the simple praise.

Ron must have sensed his unease because he shifted and sat up on his knees, and with the hand not pressed to Harry’s crotch, Ron picked up Harry’s left hand and guided it down. “Hold my wrist—right, like that—and if I’m going too fast or something you can slow me down, or tug my hand away if something’s too much or not good.”

“Th-thanks,” Harry stammered, his throat tight with arousal. He caught a glimpse of their hands—his clutching Ron’s wrist, with Ron’s covering his bulge, and the sight was too much stimulation, so he stared up at the ceiling.

Though he did want Ron to continue, he was momentarily frozen in shock. When Harry didn’t move, Ron took it as consent—and Harry was fine with that. The warmth of Ron's hand cupped him more firmly. Ron's fingers curled along Harry's length trapped beneath the loose fabric, and he stroked. As if caught in a rising tide, Harry simply clutched at Ron's wrist, his hand sweatily moving with each shift of Ron's exploratory strokes. Harry closed his eyes, determined to shut out what was happening, because the squirming pit of pleasure in his gut made him sure he'd be ready to burst in seconds if he gave in.

In a blessed moment of reprieve, Ron moved his free hand away a moment to brush his fingertips under the band of Harry's shorts.

"Do we want these off now or later?"

"Yeah."

Ron huffed a laugh. "That wasn't a yes or no question."

Harry was somewhat relieved that his pink cheeks would be interpreted as embarrassment instead of arousal. "Sure, off—let's just hurry it up." Before Ron realised how bothered Harry was getting.

Ron got his wand again and cast Evanesco before clattering it back onto the side table.

Now fully naked, Harry shivered at the deft flick of magic, the pointed way Ron didn't look at Harry's now clothless crotch and at being exposed. He sank back into the pillow and drew his knees up to hide as much as he could of his erection, at least momentarily.

A resolute glint flashed in Ron’s eyes, and his lips tightened with seriousness. "Lie back, then."

"You're still completely clothed and I'm butt naked," Harry protested weakly. "And I haven't even touched you yet."

"Where d'you want to touch?"

Was Harry imagining that Ron's voice had dropped into a deeper, almost sultry timbre?

Harry's mind blurred into white noise before he cleared his throat. "I dunno. Wherever you'd like me to," he deflected. "We're both supposed to come."

"All right," Ron heaved himself off the bed, stood, and started unbuttoning his shirt at the wrists. Harry looked sidelong at him and was happy that at least his fingers were trembling, though his face still looked determined. Ron took his time with the buttons on his cuffs, and then as he slowly started to work open his collar, he glanced up and caught Harry's eye.

Ron looked like he was about to say something but shut his mouth again. His long fingers worked open the shirt... Adam's apple, collar bone, the dusting of ginger hair over pale chest, and paler stomach and—that's when Harry realised he was staring as Ron strip teased in front of him. Even if it wasn't intentional, there was no other word for it.

Feeling frustrated that his hard-on wasn't ebbing at all, Harry grabbed a pillow and threw it at Ron, scolding, "I asked you to hurry up, come on!"

"I don't want to just spring it all on you."

"I've seen your cock in the locker rooms, Ron."

"Well, it's kind of in a different state now, isn't it?"

Unwittingly, Harry's gaze dropped to Ron's trousers, which were tented. Harry bit back a swear.

Ron tossed away his shirt at last and asked, "Do you want to... uhm, pull it out? Might be less of a shock that way."

His heart was rushing in his ears, but Harry silently agreed with Ron. He couldn't verbally reply, so he nodded and shuffled across the duvet, still feeling strange—he might as well be sitting naked on the moon, not just bare and about to have sex with Ron.

As Harry set one hand on Ron's hip and hovered the other at his zip, a short whine sounded in the back of Ron's throat. Gripped by sexual frustration, Harry took his own advice and dove in, working away the button, zip, pulling down trousers and pants and all and—

Ron's perfect, heavy cock was jutting out amidst auburn curls, and even here, Ron's skin was scattered with light freckles. Harry's mouth, parched with anxiety, now flooded with saliva. He wanted—

"Lie back," Ron said—and again, was his voice always so low? This time, Harry didn't protest, feeling lightheaded with excitement and nerves. Harry stiffly remained on his back facing the ceiling, not seeing the plaster. Still seeing Ron's freckled thighs.

Ron crawled back onto the bed, hovering nearby. He set a hand over Harry's hip bone and it sent another frisson of arousal through Harry. Harry just lay there on his back, willing his pulse to steady. Ron settled down on his knees and thumbed Harry's hip, hovering over Harry's prone lower half but keeping his blue eyes trained on Harry's face instead of his stiff cock. More embarrassment struck Harry. "You're not going to touch me while, like, staring at me there?"

Ron moved again, sprawling out next to Harry on his side, head on the pillow with just an inch between them. So near to each other, Harry felt the light heat of Ron's body... or was it his magic?

"This better?" Ron asked, close enough to feel his breath on Harry's ear.

"Yeah. Go on then," Harry urged him, tensing in anticipation.

What he wasn't expecting was Ron caressing his face to turn his jaw and claim his lips again. Harry gave a little jerk before opening his mouth and letting Ron lead the kiss. He was sure Ron could feel his pounding pulse as their bare chests touched, and the brush of their thighs.

Ron broke away and twisted towards the table to grab a small jar, already uncapped. There was a slick sound as he took a dollop and the clunk of the jar being set down. Ron shifted lower, his chin resting on Harry's shoulder.

"Lift your knees; fold them to your chest a little." As Ron spoke, he snaked a hand under Harry's thigh and Harry jumped to do as he'd asked. Not sure what to do with his hands, he figured holding his knees would be a fine enough idea, and it left his cock less exposed—while exposing another part all together.

"Good, now just relax." Ron guided one of Harry's hands back to Ron's arm. "This is my first time doing this. Just give a squeeze if you want me to slow down or change anything," he advised, and Harry curled his fingers around the creamy skin of Ron's bicep. Ron snaked his hand around the underside of Harry's thigh, hovering for a tense moment.

Harry squirmed and closed his eyes. Just like touching myself, right. I suggested this.

With a fortifying inhale, Ron brought his slick fingers to stroke tormentingly lightly over the tight ring of muscle between Harry's arse cheeks, and Harry stifled a moan. It was the first trickle of the flood of pleasurable sounds Harry would have to hold back, as Ron's forefinger worked its way past tight muscle, and deeper, stroking Harry intimately from the inside. His fingers twitched where he clung to Ron's arm.

In trembling silence, Ron worked another finger into the tight, aching heat of Harry's arse. Harry struggled to keep whimpers at bay, limiting himself to hitching breaths and cut-off gasps. Ron's cheek pressed onto his shoulder, heavy but comforting. Harry glanced down, only to see a mass of red hair. He wished he could see Ron’s face, yet at the same time, he was grateful they weren’t meeting each other’s gaze.

Changing position slightly, Ron curled to make enough space to pull his left arm out from under his side. Feeling the rhythm of movement at his side, Harry realised Ron must have taken hold of his own cock. Without giving himself a chance to consider if it was a bad idea or not, Harry stared down and forgot to bite back his groan, seeing the pink head of Ron's cock disappearing into his fist.

As if in response, Ron murmured, "Touch yourself, too." His voice was gruff with arousal. Harry gave in—the pleasure being stoked within him as Ron nudged that sweet spot was maddening. His left hand let go of his thigh, and he palmed his cock in a swift, satisfying jerk, realising he was dripping with pre-come. "Fuck."

"S'good?" Ron murmured the question, picking up the pace of his thrusts and whispering—as if by saying it quietly it might not become real, "Do you like the way I'm touching you? Fucking you?"

Like a sudden burst of sparks, Harry gave a loud moan in response. Blazing with need and embarrassment, he couldn't stop watching the counterpoint jerks of their hands over their cocks next to each other, while the intrusion of Ron's fingers made his whole body quiver with desire while gradually levelling his pleasure thrust by careful thrust.

Just as Harry was starting to feel sweat beading and his heart was demanding to be set free from his chest, Ron's fingers paused deep in Harry's arse, and he leaned away to look up at Harry. Their eyes caught, both their breath hitching, but the soft, wet sounds of their palms on flesh didn't stop. Ron had become this wrecked in only these few short minutes—his eyes glazed, mouth parted, and disbelieving pleasure etched into every twitch. Ron moaned, "Harry..." before squeezing his eyes shut. Spurts of hot wetness spattered over Harry's stomach, but through his daze he just studied Ron's slackening face.

Ron's eyes snapped back open with a determined spark in their blue depths. The slide of his lubed fingers picked up pace, and Harry clasped Ron's arm with one hand and his own cock with the other, looking away as the overwhelm rushed back over him.

A hot tongue lapped at his neck, and Harry became completely instinct—making all sorts of sounds as he focused on the delicious pressure and sensation of his arse filled with firm, searching fingers, all his muscles taut and trembling as he stroked his own cock.

Then Ron's come-sticky fingers were covering Harry's greedily, and Harry stopped tugging his straining length and let Ron take over. He let go of Ron's bicep, both hands grasping the sheets instead.

Ron leaned up, twisting around to kiss along Harry's jaw while one hand teased Harry's arse, the other his cock. Ron claimed his mouth, interrupting Harry's gasps with a searching tongue, and everything was wet and hot and—

It was nothing like touching himself.

With Ron's fingers in him, Harry could hardly think about anything beyond the full pressure and the aching jolt of Ron's stroking that sweet spot. Harry was reeling from the dizzying thought that it was Ron strumming this pleasure from his body.

Ron changed rhythm and angle, hitting that perfect spot again and again, and Harry moaned—almost whined—with each short thrust.

Harry’s knuckles strained as they clutched the sheets, and the impending surge of his release caught him off guard—he went to warn Ron, but all that sputtered from his gasping lips was the other man’s name; “Ah, Ron, R…ron…!” His body tensed as pleasure roiled over him, the warm gush of come coating his stomach and dripping between Ron’s fingers.

Panting and struggling to clear his blurred vision, Harry’s head spun with a jumble of emotions and thoughts. The one that floated to the top was—

Holy hell.

He collapsed onto the pillows on his back, and his gaze snagged on Ron’s and held; they stared, and Harry had never seen such an open, vulnerable expression on Ron’s face. Ron licked his lips and lunged forward to kiss Harry, but it was soft and full of reassurance instead of passion.

As his eyes fluttered closed, Harry’s heart pattered a mantra of I want him, I want him, I want him.

When Ron finished the kiss by pulling back with a final affectionate peck to the side of Harry’s jaw, Harry’s mind revved back into panicked action: Fuck, do I like men? Does Ron? Does he want this too? Why the fuck did that feel so good? What next? Was that the last time for us?Can I do this?

“Ron…” Harry croaked, throat dry from all the panting and arousal. Ron knelt and stretched over Harry, and Harry stared at the perfect, gorgeous shape of his arms, shoulders, and chest as Ron grabbed his wand and cast some clean up spells. Ron’s magic floated over him like a blanket, and Harry’s throat tightened with emotion. He barely resisted the urge to sit up and fling himself back into Ron’s arms. Uncertainty was settling over him, so instead Harry drew in his knees and tugged up a corner of the sheets to cover his lower half.

Ron grinned at Harry, his face still flushed and undeniably lovely—clearly, Cupid’s arrow had struck Harry deep.

Yet the next moment, as if something grave suddenly occurred to him, Ron's brow furrowed and he stared down at the duvet.

“Well, that was a workout,” Ron said too loudly, theatrically shaking out his right hand, which had done most of the work. He Accio’d his trousers and shirt, and as he sat on the edge of the bed putting his clothes on, he rambled, “I reckon that’s sealed it, don’t you? What should we celebrate with? Merlin’s tits, I should have bought champagne or something... there’s butterbeer and lager, and… Yes, well, it ought to be firewhisky, then!” He jumped up from the bed, his trousers hanging open around his waist, and his shirt still unbuttoned.

Ron’s stance was taut with tension, his shoulders stiff, his eyes deliberately avoiding Harry’s.

Did Cupid miss his chance to spear the youngest Weasley man for Harry’s sake? What about that tender kiss right after? Harry rubbed his face as he realised it was beginning to crease in concern, and made a show of looking for his wand, glasses and clothes.

“I’ll be there in a moment,” Harry muttered, disappointment growing alongside an oddly contradictory sense of relief.

Ron had it right—it would be better not to complicate things. They had already talked about where they stood… and Harry; he wasn't meant for romance, or being a real husband. He’d never be able to support Ron like a lover, and he’d only ever been able to do it as a friend half the time because of Hermione’s steady presence.

After Ron strode out to the kitchen, Harry rolled over on his side in the wide, empty bed still ruffled and scented with their sweat. He closed his eyes and inhaled the faint trace of Ron, pleasure-spiked flashes of what they'd just done already haunting him.

A weighty sadness settled over his heart, still racing as it came down from the intense pleasure and embarrassment of what they’d just done. That was it—his first sexual experience, and almost certainly his last with Ron. As they had agreed, Ron probably wanted nothing more from him... yet Harry couldn’t ignore the feeling that Ron hadn’t entirely disliked it.

Harry wished he could go all in on the firewhisky tonight, but he didn’t trust what might come out of his mouth if he did.

Chapter Text

Fifteen minutes had passed since Ron disappeared into the kitchen when he called, “Harry? I've heated up the soup, you coming?”

In the afterglow of the amazing sex they’d just had, even the timbre of Ron’s voice sounded different to Harry. Merlin, Harry wanted Ron.

I have him—don’t I? But if he wants this union to be more than a magical-legal bond, wouldn’t he have said something?

Anger flickered through the mess of emotions inside him—which seethed, thick and layered like custard, cake and jelly in a trifle; muddled flavours of sweet and bitter. Why hadn't Ron stayed? Why had he fled like that? Would it have been too much to face this new reality together? Could he not have paused, just for a moment, to ask a single question…?

Harry desperately wanted to feign a stomach ache to get out of dinner, but that would be too pathetic even for him. It’s just Ron. Pretend it was some other freckled, ginger bloke who fucked me and then fucked off without a word.

Hauling himself out of bed, he called back, “Just going to find some clean robes.”

As he pulled on pants, Harry realised his simmering anger was masking a quiet, inner panic—Harry wasn't the kind of romantic partner Ron needed, even if Ron also felt the attraction. Which it seemed like he maybe had?

Our marriage arrangement is temporary. Eventually, I'll have to let Ron go—I’m not made for relationships. I’m a mess, I've been through too much to live a normal life. Maybe if my mum and dad—or even Sirius—were here, they could help me understand what love is, how to be a good partner… maybe, if they’d had the chance to grow up themselves.

Shoving down the torrent of thoughts, Harry dressed and left the bedroom determined to steady his churning emotions. What Ron had done for him was already so much—Ron was prepared to lose years of his young life married to a man just to save Harry. Regardless of the foolish things Harry's heart was now entertaining, he owed Ron at least that: to accept the terms of their union and give his best for Ron. And if that was all Harry could have—a platonic marriage—then so be it.

Ten minutes later, they perched on the edges of their chairs, both of them with their arms folded protectively in front of their chests. Harry sincerely regretted how small their round table was.

“Soup’s great, thanks,” Harry said, belatedly noticing he hadn’t taken a bite yet. He scooped a spoonful of the tomato-based broth, keeping his eyes on the floating beans and other stewed bits.

“Yeah, thanks. For tomorrow, you can do that chicken dish we talked about, yeah? Before the greens I bought start to wilt,” Ron remarked dully.

Harry took some garlic bread and chewed it sullenly, forcing himself to look in Ron’s direction to mitigate the awkwardness.

When their eyes met, Ron smiled tentatively. His voice dropped a notch. “It went well enough, right?”

After giving Ron a generous pause to say something more, Harry replied, “Right. Get the water for me?”

Without hesitation, Ron lunged towards the counter behind him to grab the glass carafe and pour Harry some.

Harry couldn't help staring at Ron’s fingers around the handle, remembering where they’d been less than an half an hour ago.

Chugging the water, Harry cursed his inability to learn Occlumency. If Ron figured out any of what Harry was feeling, it would make everything so, so much worse. Harry desperately wanted it all to be settled, for their new roommate-ish married life to chug on for the next handful of years until Ron found someone who could treat him right. So that Ron could focus on his own life, not be stuck with a selfish, sullen arse like Harry.

At the same time, Harry wanted to resolve the simmering tempest within him. But Ron was already onto other things—talking about the cases he was diving back into tomorrow, musing about whether Neville was free next weekend. Harry interjected with some Sures and All rights and mustered up a question or two.

He realised he had missed his chance to say… what, exactly, about the sex? Something. Harry should say something to resolve the situation and ease the stupid, fantastical notions and physical attraction.

His inability to do something as basic as voice his concerns became the new thing Harry's mind clung to. Resigning himself to staying morosely silent, Harry excused himself to take a shower.

He stood behind the fabric curtain, forehead on the cool tile. What did he want to say about the sex? That it was a revelation, mind-blowing, that for the rest of his life he would be wanking to the memory of Ron coming next to him; his fingers in him; his eyes on him.

But what could he say to Ron that wouldn’t lead him to believe Harry wanted to make their marriage a real relationship?

This union was supposed to be platonic—that’s what made it so easy to accept when it was a matter of Harry’s magical stability and wasn’t supposed to mean any change for their friendship.

What they’d done tonight made them officially married in law and magic. Pain seized his chest as he thought about how having sex may have changed his relationship with Ron forever—and not for the better. Now Harry had to live remembering the pleasure and possibility that was just out of reach.

He scrubbed soap over his tawny skin and tried to imagine how he would have reacted if none of that pleasure, connection, and revelation had been present. Even though Ron had never wanted to touch a man sexually in his life, he had sex with Harry in order to protect him. He’d given up being married to anyone else, at least for the foreseeable future, to help Harry.

Beneath all the swirling emotions, Harry pinned down the most basic reaction he had to their lovemaking: gratitude. Even if he hadn’t been cracked open at the core, made to splatter into a cascade of technicolour reactions to their coupling, he would have been grateful. Grateful for the way his friend cared for him, the gentleness and selflessness with which he touched Harry and carried them through a scary, uncomfortable situation.

In a way, Harry was grateful that the scales had fallen from his eyes, and at least tonight he’d had a taste of something he might never have otherwise; sexual satisfaction.

Yet, he couldn’t convince himself that his sullen, ill-adjusted attitude was what Ron—or anyone—deserved. Perhaps Harry's unexpectedly acquired advisor Severus Snape was rubbing off on him. Snape’s life was the sort of grim existence which Harry now imagined for himself—finding fulfilment solely in his work and only engaging with others when absolutely necessary.

Harry exhaled slowly, pushing away the weight of his emotions. It would be easier to keep things platonic. He’d focus on work, like Snape, and avoid the complication of romance. That would have to be enough until Ron could meet someone who would be good for him.

Life settled into a routine for Dark Arts Apprentice Harry Potter-Weasley and his platonic husband, Auror Ron Potter-Weasley.

Harry was used to shoving away his problems, only allowing himself to dwell on them in the safety of his bed. He lay awake every night, staring at the moonlit ceiling, Ron snuffling intermittently in his sleep. Ron’s body heat next to him. Ron shifting nearer, throwing his arm over Harry’s side. Harry’s heart ached—they were living so close, yet their hearts were so far apart.

In the daylight, Harry found himself caught by Ron's smiles that, despite being no different from a few weeks ago—back when they weren’t married—had the power to blind him, leaving him weak at the knees.

Harry hated his weakness.

He jumped at accidental touches, the warmth of Ron’s hand now charged enough to spark Harry’s heart to thumping in his chest. He inhaled breaths of Ron’s cologne or freshly showered, natural scent before he could catch himself. Guilt and embarrassment weighed heavy on him. Over and over, Harry's eyes flicked to Ron, dreading the moment Ron would notice the glances, but unable to stop.

Harry lamented his lack of control.

They went to dinner several times a week with friends or family. Harry sat there determined not to betray how absurdly good it felt to sit thigh-to-thigh with Ron in public. How pleased he was by the flashbulb of a camera capturing The Man Who Defeated You Know Who and his newlywed husband.

At meals, Harry found himself watching Ron, struck by how naturally congenial he was—his easy camaraderie, offering warmth and support to everyone around them. Noticing this again and again fed Harry's gnawing, disparaging thoughts about himself, which clouded his mood. He truly was taking after Snape; half the time he ended up gloomily poking at his plate. Ron deserved someone who could keep up with him, someone who could appreciate all these social outings.

Harry detested his inadequacy.

Weeks passed, and the magical world moved on to other scandals. Photographs of Harry and Ron Potter-Weasley made The Prophet less and less. Yet Harry’s dissatisfaction never waned, even though the purpose of their marriage had been achieved: the tension and sluggishness—which he hadn't even been aware of—lifted from his magic. Harry's power flowed freely, and there were no more mishaps of accidental magic. Snape gave him a clean bill of health, and Harry thought he even saw relief flicker in the man's dark eyes.

It wasn’t uncommon for Harry to find himself doing the washing up or folding laundry during their rare weekends alone together, while Ron occupied the other room, leaving Harry lost in libidinous daydreams that made his stomach flip and his chest tighten. Their demanding work schedules—combined with Ron’s unhesitating agreement to every dinner invitation—left little room for privacy. As he listened to Ron in the living room, absorbed in his solo chess game with the sound of pieces clacking against the board, Harry’s thoughts would drift back to that night—Ron’s skin, the flare of want in his blue eyes, the deft way he used his hands…

Ron had felt something similar, hadn’t he? That recurring thought lingered, holding on to hope by a fragile thread, keeping the possibility of being with Ron from slipping away entirely.

Yet reality loomed. Even if Ron had somewhat enjoyed giving his best mate a brilliant first sexual experience, that didn’t mean Ron was eager to do it again, nor that he had any romantic interest in Harry. At the end of the day, Ron deserved an amazing, loving wife who could offer him a bright, fulfilling life.

The end of Ron and Harry's arrangement was likely only a few years away—unpleasant as it seemed, some woman would inevitably throw herself at Harry. Even if Harry were married, that had certainly never stopped Charlie's fans from throwing themselves at him. Harry would probably accept any offer, setting Ron free in the process.

So Harry continued clinging to routine as his heart corroded under the weight of his pining.

The mild dampness of June transitioned to the swelter of summer in London.

Harry was in the middle of sprinkling anti-doxie powder from a vial into the back of their wardrobe when Ron—who was taking a break from paperwork in the kitchen—commented, “Oh, I didn’t mention Mum’s hosting a summer party this weekend, did I? She says it’s because she wants an excuse for all the littles to come, and to get most of the family over. S’been a while since Easter.”

Harry thwacked his head on a shelf as he pulled out of the wardrobe, suppressing a groan.

He loved the Weasleys—really, he did. Harry thought his mild resentment and discomfort was a pretty normal way to feel about one’s family, judging by how his other dorm mates would groan about their parents or family gatherings. And now, Molly and Arthur were not only his de facto parents, but now also his parents-in-law.

“Oh, all right,” Harry said simply. Ron stepped closer and, as usual, Harry held his breath and tried to be inconspicuous as he caught the scent of him. The redhead just reached into the wardrobe and pulled out a tie hanging from a hook.

At least being surrounded by Weasleys might distract Harry from his stupid crush on his stupid husband.

“You should invite Snape,” Ron mused, turning his back to Harry as if he wanted to give Harry a good view of his tall, lean back.

“What?”

“Snape. He doesn’t get out much, does he? He gets on all right with Dad and Bill—most of us are veterans, after all. Oh, Lupin might pop by, too.”

His surly Dark Arts Master was capable of human interaction, but on the whole, unwilling. Snape had very little patience for customers who popped into the shop for curse assessments or to purchase talismans, hence why he had Harry handling that most of the time. Harry let his fame speak for him, nodding along as he served their starstruck clients.

Snape likely wouldn’t want to attend, but Harry wasn’t keen on becoming the sort of old bat who was never invited to anything. Therefore, as far as he could manage, he wasn’t about to let that happen to Snape either.

“Pr—Mr Snape. Would you want—?”

“I decline.”

“I haven’t even said what it is yet.”

"If you insist on delivering your proposition in such a gratingly inane manner, I assume it is as frivolous as it sounds. Moreover, the worth of an invitation is often evident in the character of the one extending it."

“Ouch. I’m used to your brutality but, just ouch,” Harry replied in a deadpan that he sensed Snape approved of.

They sat across the workbench from each other, each whittling runes into wood with an engraving instrument. After a moment, Harry tried again.

“It’s just, the Weasleys are having a get-together at the Burrow. Lots of Order Members will be there, so Ron wanted to invite you.”

"Ah, how utterly convenient—shifting the blame for this tiresome social obligation onto your esteemed spouse. How delightfully domestic of you."

“What? No, of course I agreed with him. We want you there.”

Snape heaved a sigh and didn’t deign to reply. They continued carving their runes on the chunks of dragon-fire treated oak.

“It’s just—”

“Potter.”

“It’s ‘Potter-Weasley’ now.” Harry couldn’t help the tinge of sullenness in his tone as he reminded Snape.

The dour ex-professor set down his work as if it pained him, and stared intently at Harry across the workbench for several moments before drawling, "Explain to me, if you will, why it is of such importance to both Mr Potter-Weasleys that I grace this merry luncheon with my presence?"

“It’s not—well, no, you’re right, it likely is a luncheon. I just don’t understand how you can really be fulfilled, stuck in this shop for eighty per cent of the day. You’ve even slept here if there were potions to keep an eye on.”

"Just because I choose not to parade my private life in front of others does not mean it is non-existent."

I think excursions into remote wilderness for materials doesn’t count as part of one’s private life. Or torturing kittens, or whatever Snape does in the three hours he isn’t sleeping. If he even sleeps on a regular basis…

Harry’s scattered thoughts were interrupted by Snape's dramatic sigh and assent of, "Very well. Should my schedule permit, I shall make a brief visit to the Burrow. Leave a note with the date and time on my desk."

Surprised but considering it a win he could take home to Ron, Harry nodded. Before he could be reprimanded for slacking on the job, he hurriedly resumed his careful carving.

Harry wasn’t any more excited for the weekend now that Snape might be in attendance. Yet, it made him feel better to know that even grumpy, anti-social curmudgeons like Snape could come along to sunny family events. There was hope for Harry’s bleak vision of his future after all.

Also, having Snape around—someone Harry was now so familiar with—probably wouldn’t do any harm. If Harry got fed up with any of the Weasley’s chatter, Snape would make a suitable guard dog. Though he was more likely to hiss and snarl than bark.

Chapter Text

The Burrow was in greater chaos than usual; the walls were creaking from their base posts as tiny kids stomped around the house, led by their fearless leader Teddy. Mothers and grandmothers called half-hearted scoldings in their wake, their words lost in the whirlwind of shrieking laughter and thudding footsteps.

Harry and Ron were shuffled into a loveseat that sagged, forcing them to press against each other in the middle. Harry had miscalculated and worn robes today; a casual cut in rich brown, but it was too warm for such a day, and he wished he'd gone for a t-shirt and trousers. When he'd seen Ron pull robes out of their wardrobe, though, he did the same. Ron's navy blue ones were quite fetching. It would only hold so long, but Harry re-cast another cooling charm over them both.

They each nursed a bottle of butterbeer, dripping with foam and condensation. Luckily, it was warm enough that anyone observing Harry’s sweaty brow could chalk it up to the heat. Harry regretted not taking care of his needs by himself that morning, as Ron’s lean muscles were very… stimulating, to keep it scientific. Harry was soaking up too much of Snape’s influence.

Speaking of the devil, the man was chatting with Lupin—Snape still clad head to toe in black, buttoned up to cover his entire neck. That made Harry’s chest pang in sympathy—he often wondered if Snape would try wearing something different if it weren’t for the snakebite scars.

“Harry!” Fleur leaned down to peck Harry and Ron on the cheeks, then summoning a footstool and plopping down in front of them.

"Ah, it is so lovely to see you! We have not had much of a real talk since the wedding—I do wish I had been invited! I did tell you that, didn't I? The wedding planning would have been magnifique, and now I have no choice but to wait for Ginny and Gwenog."

Ron smiled, “As we explained, it was impromptu, you know? Besides, it would only be a stressful repeat of your wedding planning; Mum wouldn’t let you take care of it alone.”

Fleur looked dismayed at the thought, and nodded gravely. “You are quite right, Ronald. Although, if Gabrielle stays in London as she’s planning to, perhaps the two of us can get the best of Molly.”

“Oh, I thought I spotted her,” Ron said, perking up. Harry knew he liked Gabrielle—and Ron insisted it wasn’t because of the Delacour blood. In fact, Ron had fessed up to the fact in eighth year that he’d just been stupid over Fleur, and that he didn’t actually think she had any magical allure. Just spectacular genetics. Which—Ron insisted—he had grown accustomed to, given that Fleur (and by extension, Gabrielle) was his sister-in-law.

Throughout the exchange, guilt trickled through Harry. He should jump in and say something—anything. But his spirits were sinking second by second, and he found himself unable to drag them up again.

As if sensing something was wrong, Ron slid his arm around Harry’s shoulders and gave a squeeze before standing. "Sorry, Fleur, we turned up absolutely starving. Purposefully, mind you; it’s not every day I get Mum’s cooking anymore. So, we’d best grab something before we keel over."

Fleur flicked her blonde braid over her shoulder and smiled. “Fine, but I will catch you again, handsomes!” With that, she turned to Audrey, both pestering and praising her over some detail of her outfit.

Harry wasn’t hungry, as they’d actually had a late meal. Ron was simply looking out for him.

Ron dragged Harry into the other room and nudged him towards the back garden. “Why don’t you get some air? I’m going to give Dad the update about the bathroom upgrades we were working on, see if he has any charms that might help.”

Harry flashed Ron a grateful look, but darted his gaze away when Ron responded with a smile potent enough to dissolve his heart, brain and inhibitions.

Out in the garden, there was a warm breeze, but lots of shade. The wind stirred the tangle of grasses and wildflowers, overgrown hedges, and leaves of the unruly vegetable patches, where gnomes scurried. A weathered table with mismatched chairs sat near the house, always ready for a noisy gathering. The air buzzed with distant laughter, and the occasional clatter from the kitchen, making the chaos feel alive and a welcome respite. Harry could almost imagine he was still part of what was going on inside.

After one step towards a rickety beach chair under a sprawling oak, the brush of nearby magic shivered down Harry's spine. He whirled around, his wand outstretched towards a shed behind the chicken coop. Tangles of vine and bushes obscured the figures, but Harry had already cast a wordless Revelio.

“Very good show, Harry,” Remus said in a hush, poking his arm out of the thicket and waving Harry over.

Still on his toes—with the burst of adrenalin unwilling to settle—Harry loped over to the area behind the shed, cluttered with old farming equipment. The rush of fight-or-flight energy surged as he found himself nose-to-chin with his Master.

“Snape! Pro— Mist— …Snape, Remus, what are you…?”

Snape assessed Harry with a thin-lipped glower. Remus sighed, chastising Snape. “You’re always putting off discussions if you even find them slightly disagreeable, Severus! We wouldn’t have to have this conversation five times over today if you had just confided in Harry weeks ago.”

"Disagreeable? No. Tedious and pointless? Yes."

Harry looked between the two of them, and narrowing his eyes, a sudden suspicion dawned. “Are you two behind the garden shed because…?”

“Yes, Potter. We’ve taken up gnome-watching as a hobby. Riveting stuff.”

“It’s Potter-Wea—”

“It’s not like we’re being intentionally secretive,” Remus butted in, although even he didn’t sound convinced as he rambled on, “It’s just not the best idea to give various Weasley’s heart attacks on a sunny Saturday for no reason, right? We’ve been circulating the news slowly, though.”

Harry pressed a palm over his mouth and considered them; and it all made a lot of sense now that the two of them stood shoulder to shoulder under a peaceful, pale blue sky.

“Remus,” Snape said, his tone of voice shifting into something Harry wasn’t sure he’d ever heard before. “Might I have a moment with Harry? I would prefer to speak to him without… distraction.” His ebony eyes laddered their way down Remus’ body from salt-and-pepper hair to boots and back.

The passionate look warmed even Harry, who wasn't the intended target.

Remus chuckled, his ears tinged pink. Grinning like a smitten schoolboy, he leaned in to peck Snape on the cheek. Thanks to his smarter attire—courtesy of his recent position at the Ministry—and the thoughtful gesture, Remus looked positively dashing.

As Remus rounded the shed corner back towards the house, Harry remembered to breathe through the shock. “Wow, Snape—I had no idea.”

“That is the extent of what you are entitled to know about our situation,” Snape said brusquely. The fact that he ignored Harry’s omission of ‘mister’ came across to Harry as an unprecedented generosity, coming from this wizard.

Blinking, Harry tilted his head. “So, why do you want a word with me?”

“I merely intend to mitigate the aggravating scene I have endured since setting foot in this soirée."

“What?”

Snape sighed and massaged his temples as if a headache were coming on. “I shall put this as plainly as I can, so even someone of your intellectual limitations cannot misunderstand: if you do not tell a Weasley precisely what you mean, a Weasley will not have the slightest inkling of what is happening."

Uneasiness prickled along Harry's nape. He averted his eyes, remembering that he was face-to-face with a master Legilimens.

Snape snorted at his belated attempt to protect his mind. He continued to spear sharp tongues of truth through Harry’s insecurities: “You are likely harbouring some convoluted mix of the following cognitive distortions: I’ve got no right to suggest a romantic development of what is already working well; it’s a foolish risk to change anything; he could never love me back; I have nothing to contribute to a committed adult relationship, etcetera etcetera.”

Harry’s gaze fell to the grass under his sneakers, and he heaved a sigh. After stewing for a long, bitter moment, he mumbled weakly, “This is so weird coming from you.”

These past few weeks, Harry had mapped out his sombre future: refine his craft, focus all his energy into research and serving his clientele—charging the bare minimum for his services—then simply exist as a quiet, sullen man for his long, magical lifespan. He expected he might turn out like the wizard before him; grudgingly respected and an expert in his field.

Except that Remus had just shattered that illusion as he pressed a kiss to the pale cheek of infamous traitor-turned-war-hero Severus Snape.

“So you love him?” Harry asked, steeling himself to look Snape in the eye (and trusting Snape wouldn't intrude into his thoughts).

“I did insist that I had a vibrant, passionate private life." Snape retorted, and Harry gave him a playful grimace.

Snape half-turned, angling to head out of the tangle of branches back to the party, as he said definitively, "Your mooning is an eyesore; half the room sees through your pretence of a ‘platonic’ union. Spare us all—if you’re not good enough for Mr Ron Weasley, let him say it outright. Yet, I guarantee that if you are lacking, that boy will smarten you up. And, you will do the same for him, with another measure of sense drilled into you both by Miss Granger and the other miscreants in your cohort."

Harry followed him back to the house in a daze. He had been less shocked to wake up married to Ron than he was to discover that Snape was dating Remus. The scolding Snape had just delivered would be something to mull over in bed tonight, not a topic to consider surrounded by family and friends. Harry pushed it from his mind.

Harry recommitted the rest of the afternoon to keeping his eyes off Ron, but unfortunately that meant more or less avoiding him. It helped that Luna, Hermione and Neville finally showed up. Harry stuck to them like glue, except if Ron seemed to be closing in, at which point he'd drag Luna away for a short, off-topic deep dive into something random.

As their little group made their way around the Burrow, the most frequent topic of conversation was Hermione and Neville. They endured light-hearted teasing about when they would follow Ron and Harry's example, and drunkenly elope. They took it in stride, even if Neville was flustered.

Fred and George were entertaining the toddlers, creating chaos greater than the sum of its parts, much to the unhappiness of their parents—except Remus, who had again disappeared with his lover. Percy was cornering anyone he could to brag about recent changes he’d help push along at the Ministry (Gabrielle was the one caught in his claws last Harry walked past), and Molly was in her hosting element. Harry chatted with Luna as she poked around the Burrow as if she owned it, examining corners of the garden and house while everyone chatted around her. Various other Weasleys and friends floated in throughout the day, until the sun began to set.

Molly was starting to talk about rustling up dinner for guests when people insisted it was enough to have had lunch at their expense, and those who were not family began to say their goodbyes and trickle away.

As Luna made her goodbyes, she clasped Harry's hands with deep sincerity. "You'll be able to do it," she assured him in a placid tone.

"Do what?"

"Whatever it is." She pecked him on the cheek before following Hermione and Neville towards the kitchen for the floo.

Ron caught up with Harry, about to say something, but before he could, their attention was drawn to Snape and Remus. The latter had a grumpy Teddy clinging to his hip like a koala, his small arms squeezed around his dad's neck. Snape’s hand rested lightly on the small of Remus’ back, steering him towards the door.

“We’ll be off now, then,” Remus beamed, and Harry swore he saw a love bite under his shaggy salt-and-pepper curls.

They said their goodbyes, and as the two headed for the floo, Ron mouthed with his eyebrows wide, 'What was that?'

Harry chuckled, so amused that he forgot to hold back his affection, sliding his palm along Ron’s upper arm.

Ron’s expression morphed from confused amusement into something soft and questioning.

With a lurch, Harry snatched his hand away and backed off a few steps. “I’ll tell the twins dinner is on the horizon, and the kids should probably be hosed off before they’re let inside again.”

Harry’s face flushed with embarrassment. If his feelings were so painfully obvious to Snape and, supposedly, others... had Ron noticed already? Was he holding back from saying anything, perhaps for Harry’s sake?

Ron let him rush off without a word, and Harry found himself back in the garden, now softened by twilight. At the edge of the trees, the navy sky was already sprinkled with stars.

Harry was surprised to find sodden mud, grass and wet footprints of various sizes leading into the house. Fred and George must have already rounded up Teddy, Victoire, Dominique, and Little Molly. The garden was empty, except for some chickens, and one gnome who was in the process of dragging away one of said chickens. Harry flicked his wand at the offender, and he scampered off.

Relieved to have a moment to gather himself, Harry strode to the far side of the garden, where a sloping path ended in a quiet nook with a lopsided birdbath. A stone bench was half-buried in a wild sprawl of shrubbery. Harry cast a spell to vanish half the branches and plopped onto the seat, slumping.

Of course, Harry had thought about coming clean to Ron a million times since they consummated their marriage and these feelings rushed upon him like a sudden syndrome. Snape seemed to be implying something like, 'There’s no reward without risk'—which sounded suspiciously Gryffindor to Harry. Perhaps it had been an attempt to communicate in a manner Harry might understand?

No matter how Harry looked at it, he couldn’t see how he was any good for Ron. What could he bring to the brilliant, upbeat, straightforward, and competent wizard who had been his first friend? First fuck. First love.

Sadness threatened to spill over as he sat lost in thought, when a voice cut through the twilight hum of insects. Harry shoved a stopper on his emotions faster than flicking a wand.

“Harry?” The lovely lilt was from Gabrielle, approaching with a hesitant smile. “If I’m bothering you, please say so. It’s just, we didn’t have much time to talk, and…”

Straightening up and plastering a smile on his face, he asked, “Oh, are you heading off soon then? Congratulations, by the way. Securing an on-field healer position with the Magpie’s is amazing.” Harry tried to pour as much enthusiasm as he could into his words, but it was a strain. He stared past her, shredding a leaf as he spoke.

"Oh, yes. Thank you, Harry," she said, threading her fingers through her luscious golden hair. Her accent was much softer now, he could even catch the faint H of his name. Harry's gears started to whir, grasping at what topic of conversation he could dredge up next. It wasn’t as if he disliked Gabrielle; they’d crossed paths at family gatherings on and off over the years since the war and become friends. Quidditch was the natural topic of conversation—she was an avid fan, amateur player, and would soon be working in the industry.

Relief washed over him as she spoke first, sparing him the struggle for words. "Actually, Harry. There's something important I've been wanting to... well, sort of discuss with you."

Letting the shredded leaves drift away, he tilted his head. What could she be planning to ask? Some favour? Harry shifted on the stone bench, sitting up straighter.

Gabrielle took a deep breath, her chest rising below the shimmering peach fabric of her delicate sleeveless dress. Watching the way her swishing wand trembled, Harry realised she was nervous. Gabrielle levitated a small object out of a flowerbed across the lawn near the Burrow's back door. It was a tiny ivory box, which floated closer as she said in a weighty, serious but joyous way:

"I know this is a somewhat strange situation, given that you got married several months ago. And, in fact, are still married, but—I heard the details of your situation from my sister and other family members, of course, and... Harry, this may be very, how would you say... 'out of the blue'? But I won't drag it out with any more small talk, or I might go insane."

Her loose hair fluttered, tinged pink with the last light of the dying sun. Harry's mind was buzzing with surprise, and through it he had a distant thought that this was an undoubtedly beautiful scene, with a gorgeous woman—and that woman, Gabrielle, was lifting the hem of her knee-length dress, sinking to the dark grass on one knee. She plucked the floating box out of the air, set it in one of her pale palms, and cracked open the top to reveal a glittering platinum ring.

"Harry, will you marry me?"

His mouth fell open. "What?"

Gabrielle beamed at his obtuse reply, eyes glittering with excitement and apprehension as she said matter-of-factly, "I told you it's strange. But, it's ridiculous for Ron to be the one bonded to you, just because your magic is unstable. Harry, I... I believe we could really work."

Still holding the ring box up, she scooted closer and set a hand on his knee, peering up at him earnestly. "I've always admired you. I know we have a lot of respect between us. With my recent move to England, and learning more about this absurd situation with Ron... It would be kicking off the relationship extremely fast, but would you give it a try with me, Harry?"

Stunned, Harry couldn’t even gather his thoughts enough to ask her not to touch him so forwardly. She pursed her lips expectantly, and the moment hovered. Harry dropped his eyes, catching sight of the ruby-encrusted gold band on his ring finger.

"No," he murmured, gently, the single syllable laced with disbelief. He'd spoken before he even defined the swell of longing, the sting of loss, when in a flash at her proposal he had imagined divorcing Ron to be under someone else's care, to try a relationship with someone else. Even if it was with a woman as wonderful as Gabrielle, there was no one other than Ron that Harry wanted to belong to.

"I'm sorry," he added, embarrassed at his bluntness and giving her a guilty, condoling smile

Gabrielle wilted, clutching the ring box to her chest. "No, I'm... I'm the one who should apologise. Perhaps it was too forward of me, springing the suggestion on you like this."

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but across the dark garden Ron's voice called tentatively, "Harry...?"

Gabriele still hadn't removed her hand from Harry's knee. Realising this, Harry leapt up from the bench, brushing away her arm in a panic. She also stood, the box hanging at her side, as she turned to see Ron loping towards them with long strides.

Ron looked concerned and confused to find Harry in the farthest corner of the garden with the beautiful Gabrielle. "What are you two up to out here...?" His gaze dropped, catching sight of the ring box in her hand.

"I simply had a proposition for Harry—of course, we would have discussed it with you, if..."

"Is that a ring?" There was a hint of incredulity in Ron's voice that Harry knew might ignite into anger.

Harry caught Ron's forearm. "I told her no. I turned her down."

"Merlin, Gabrielle. I'd never have taken you for the type of witch to go after someone's husband."

Gabrielle sparked with defensiveness. "It's all a façade though, isn't it? You're just his friend."

Tension sizzled while Ron glared at her, and Harry's heart slid down into the dejected pool of emotions in his stomach.

But then—

Ron seized Harry by the shoulders and pulled him in close, chest to chest. He cupped Harry's jaw to angle his face up, pressing in for an intense kiss, shifting it deeper with laps of his tongue.

Gabrielle squeaked, "Mon Dieu!" which then trickled into flustered giggles.

Harry felt just as giddy as she sounded, melting into Ron and curling his arms around his waist. The kiss was heady, perfect, washing away all the tension and torment within him for the long seconds that Ron held him.

As if satisfied with his claim, Ron finished the passionate kiss with a peck to Harry's forehead and hugged him closer, strong arms around his shoulders. Not unkindly, Ron said, "Gabrielle, we'd really, really like a moment alone now, if you could just...?"

From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Gabrielle nod, glancing at the ground before raising a limp hand to wave. Her voice dripped with embarrassment and regret as she said, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to upset anyone. Harry, I hope we can still be friends, yes? I'll see you both later."

"Bye..." Harry replied breathlessly, mind buzzing with awe at the delightful feeling of the rise and fall of Ron's chest and his warm body.

They stood alone in the dim garden, the night a stretch of sparkling stars above.

Ron raised a hand to Harry's face, tucking a lock of wild black hair behind his ear. Sighing, Ron took a half-step away to leave some space between them, while his arms remained encircled around Harry's back. He hesitated. "Harry, I... um..." Ron's arms tensed, and his unease transferred to Harry like a spark from one tree to the next.

Merlin, what was Ron trying to do with that kiss? Stake his claim on Harry, that much was clear. Harry had been pushing the thought out of his mind, but he was fairly certain Ron had enjoyed touching Harry all those weeks ago. There might be some possibility of comfort and connection through sex—but Harry wasn't willing to blur the lines that they had painstakingly drawn; this marriage was a façade, like Gabrielle accused them of. It was all for the purpose of keeping Harry safe and well. Ron was an amazing, generous man who would throw away years doing this for Harry.

Right, they intended to keep this up until one of them found a real partner to be with. The thought seized in Harry's chest, knocking the breath out of him. His hands clenched in Ron's shirt, and Harry bit out.

"Ron, I... I don't ever want to be married to anyone else. I..."

When Harry glanced at him, Ron was staring back, his eyes indigo in the dim light, frozen in expectation—even his breath was still.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry summoned the sensation of the heart-melting kiss moments earlier, holding it close as his comforting truth. When he opened his eyes again, he gazed straight at Ron’s handsome, freckled face and spoke with certainty.

"I'm in love with you. Like, I... I want to do all this husband's thing for real."

Ron's breath wooshed out of him. He repositioned his grasp on Harry, hands sliding to his hips. Ron was quivering as he hurried to reply, "Merlin, Harry, me too. I love you."

As though saying that had eaten up too much time, Ron impatiently drew Harry against him, dipping down to claim his mouth in another affirming kiss.

Harry wasn’t certain which he enjoyed more—speaking and receiving their confession with words or with their tongues. With every shift of their mouths, the aching affection seemed to intensify, his pulse singing Love you, love you, love you...

His body was flushed with delighted warmth as Ron pulled away to create some space. He murmured, "Can we get out of here? Make our apologies later? We should..."

"Talk?"

Ron chuckled. “Um, maybe after…?” His broad hand slid up to cradle the nape of Harry’s neck, thumb tracing the short hair there. He pulled Harry flush against him—and there it was, undeniable proof beneath Ron’s trousers. Proof that this was more than platonic affection, proof that the attraction, the simmering desire Harry had harboured for weeks, was fully reciprocated.

"Ron..." Harry's face heated when he realised how close to a whimper he'd said it.

"I'll side-along you, yeah?"

Harry leaned up to plant a gentle kiss on the corner of Ron's mouth—he didn't want to distract them, but he had to mitigate the swell of affection within him with some gesture.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, and reality swirled as they were yanked through space together. It seemed like a logical thing for reality to do after their surreal conversation.

Chapter Text

The second they reappeared in their living room, Harry took a half-step backwards and banged his ankle on a low stool.

"Ow!" he yelped, stumbling. Ron caught him, only to pull him in for another kiss, and then toss Harry over to land on the sofa. Harry hardly had time to collect himself before Ron straddled him, leaning down to lick his way into Harry's mouth again. Looping his arms around Ron's neck, Harry revelled in how new this felt; kissing when they knew they truly wanted it; wanted each other.

"Since when?" Harry asked between kisses.

"Hm?"

Harry nudged Ron backwards enough to look up at him. "Since when have you felt like this about me?"

"Isn't it obvious? I thought... you also figured it out when we had sex. Or maybe—when we first kissed?"

A laugh bubbled up from Harry's chest. "Then why didn't you tell me?"

Ron scowled in mock accusation. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Harry ran his hands down Ron's firm back, revelling in the feel of it. "It's obviously not because we were scared. We're Gryffindors." They grinned.

Caressing the side of Harry's face, Ron murmured. "I just didn't want to make the whole situation weirder for you. The marriage was about keeping you safe, not... not whatever horny, selfish things I was dealing with."

That had Harry chuckling. "I thought you said you liked me—not that you just wanted another go at my arse."

With sincerity burning in his bright eyes, Ron insisted, "I love you. I said, I love you."

That trickled heat through Harry, and he blushed.

"Besides," Ron added, lowering himself so their hips were pressed together. "I was hoping for both?"

"There's no room for it here on the sofa; we're two grown men, if you hadn't noticed."

"Hadn't noticed."

"Oh." Speaking of their first kiss—a thought occurred to Harry. He drew his wand from his sleeve and cast, "Accio Wedding Photographs". The three photos flew one after the other to land in Harry's palm. He took the last one and held it out to Ron, chewing his lip. "You haven't seen this yet."

Ron took it, and the fondness that bloomed on his face made Harry's toes tingle and his cheeks hurt from grinning. Ron watched the fumbling repetition of their first wedding kiss loop a few times. He laughed. "We were daft fools in love from the start of all this. I'm sure Luna could have told us we were head over heels for each other that afternoon at her cottage, if we'd just thought to ask."

"Did you know you were... gay or bi or whatever? Did feeling like this freak you out?"

Ron pecked him again and stood, shrugging. "I'd sort of thought about other blokes sometimes. Having a gay brother makes you take stock of things. You?"

Taking the hand Ron extended and letting himself be pulled to his feet into a hug, Harry snuggled his cheek into Ron's shoulder and sighed. "Dunno. I... I was more worried that..." His throat closed up as doubtful thoughts swirled again.

Cupping Harry's face, Ron looked down at him, face etched with concern. "What's wrong? I knew something was off with you, but..."

Harry cleared his throat before tugging on Ron's arm to lead him towards the bedroom, mumbling, "Let's lie down and talk about it."

As they sprawled onto the bed, Ron rolled himself on top and gave Harry a thorough, slow kiss.

Harry smiled faintly. "You did say you wanted sex first, talk later."

"No, it's fine." Ron propped himself on his side with one elbow, trailing a finger in circles around Harry's stomach. "I can tell it's still bothering you, whatever stupid thing is rattling around your head."

"It's not stupid." Harry loosened the bronze buttons at the collar of his brown robes.

"If it's nothing serious, I'm going to fuck the worries out of you," Ron declared. "If it's something we have to deal with... I'm obviously here for that, too."

Harry took a breath, closing his eyes. "I didn't think we would work as a... real couple. And you could get someone so much better for you. You deserve som—"

Harry was pinned by his wrists to the bed, with Ron smiling down at him. Grimacing, Harry snapped, "What? It's—"

"Bollocks. Which means it's time to shag the living daylights out of you," Ron nuzzled Harry's ear with his nose as he said it, rendering Harry's mild struggles ineffective as he melted.

Rallying, Harry rambled some more. "I've just become more and more withdrawn since the war; I don't know how to talk to anyone. I'm on the way to dying in my sleep after a long, quiet, dank life, essentially alone..."

Harry's curls puffed as Ron snorted. "Fat chance. Seriously, Harry..."

Ron flopped off Harry, then dragged him close so that they were lying facing each other. Ron smoothed his fingers along the line of Harry's waist, and then gathered Harry's hands into his. Their rings glinted amongst the tangle of knuckles. He kissed Harry chastely. "We've been best mates since we were eleven—over ten years now. We've always been a great pair, haven't we? Encouraging each other, making each other laugh, figuring out problems around us and between us. We've had rows that have gone on for months, and we bounced back from those even stronger. We've already been proven compatible by trials and time. So, just stop beating up on my favourite person, will you?"

A paradoxically horrible but wonderful feeling—as though he were on the verge of tears—swelled within Harry. Fighting to hold it back, he surged forward to kiss Ron hungrily. A tear still slipped out; he noticed it when he tasted it between their lips.

"I'm your favourite person?" Harry whispered, gripping Ron's hands and huddling closer.

"Definitely. Have been since the start."

"Okay."

Ron peppered his face with eager kisses. "Okay what?"

"You can fuck the worry out of me now." Harry looked up somewhat mischievously, elation rising in his chest and breaking out as a wide smile.

"I can definitely do that. If you... do you want to try something more...?"

Harry blushed and nodded, throat dry with nervousness. "It will be good, being as close as we can get." He stepped forward and pressed his hips against Ron’s.

Ron groaned when he felt Harry's hardening cock. Then Ron pulled his fingers away from Harry’s and threaded them through his unruly black locks, saying in a low, intimate voice, "You've been driving me mad the last few weeks..."

"Very unintentional—I was trying my best to keep things—"

"Platonic," Ron scoffed. He rolled on top of Harry again, diving in to ravage his neck and pull open more buttons. "I'll show you bloody platonic."

Lightheaded with anticipation, Harry snatched a kiss and then pressed his palms to Ron’s chest, urging him off the bed. “Go on, then; clothes off.”

Once on his feet, Harry shrugged off his robes, set his glasses aside, and toed off his shoes and socks. Beside him, Ron stripped down and fumbled his trunks off. Ron turned to him, fully naked, but Harry’s hands had faltered at his waistband, unable to take his eyes off every inch of skin Ron was revealing.

Ron turned to him, a smile creeping into his eyes as he caught Harry staring. Ron spanned the few steps between them, sliding his hands over Harry's, still hovering at his clothed hips. "Need a little help out of these?" Ron nonchalantly traced the elastic of Harry's pants.

Shivering at the touch, Harry trailed his fingers along Ron’s bicep and said, “If you’re offering.”

Ron stooped, drawing the cotton down over Harry's thighs, calves, ankles; Harry's heartbeat escalating with each slow inch. Harry gripped Ron's shoulders as he shakily stepped out of them. Ron took a deep breath, leaned forward, and pressed his mouth to Harry's bare hipbone.

Ron's face so close to his filling cock was the tipping point for Harry's control—Harry's breath came in little gasps, his senses clouding over with desire. Ron's warm lips caressed the skin of his thigh. Harry's fingers curled into Ron's hair, and the tension in his body emerged as a quiver in his voice. "Shouldn't we do the charms first?"

The sound of Ron inhaling deeply made Harry flush with embarrassment—Ron was taking in his scent. "You smell amazing—a little taste can’t hurt."

'A little taste' was the slick slide of Ron's tongue along Harry's stiffening shaft. Harry whined, anchoring his hands in Ron's hair. Ron hesitated, glancing up. "Was that okay? Do you want me to back off?"

Lust flared brightly at the timbre of Ron’s voice between his legs, and Harry's mind swam with delight. "No... no, you can..." Harry trailed off, stroking through his red hair.

Ron worked his mouth, exploring Harry’s length, even nuzzling it with his nose. Pleasure pooled in Harry's stomach as another lick lapped across the ruddy, sensitive head. Harry bent his neck, heartbeat racing, desperate to see what Ron looked like with the tip of his cock in his mouth. Harry whimpered at the sight.

"So good, so hot," Ron muttered before fitting his mouth over Harry's aching length, his lips and tongue mapping the shape of it. Ron swallowed down as much as he could of Harry, gripping the base of his cock and fingers brushing the nest of dark hair at the base.

Harry stood quivering with the strain of remaining still while at the mercy of Ron's mouth. Through the tension, Harry revelled in his first experience of such an erotic act and the thrill of letting Ron do what he wanted with him. Ron’s touch slid along the backs of Harry's thighs, cupping his arse and pulling Harry closer.

Harry made more pitiful sounds as Ron sucked him deeper into his mouth. The pleasure was heading towards a problematically quick finish. Ron seemed to sense this; he languidly pulled back, freeing Harry's wet cock and peering up at Harry with those baby blues. Harry saw an outpouring of adoration in Ron’s eyes, and a mutual gush of love flooded Harry’s chest.

Floating on the feeling, Harry watched in a daze as Ron backed off, snatched up his wand from his clothes, and quickly cast the cleaning and protective charms.

Ron got to his feet and wrapped his arms around Harry's shoulders, chests pressing together as they embraced. He pressed his nose into Harry's hair and breathed him in. It made Harry's lips quirk.

Harry mouthed along the soft skin behind Ron's ear, down his neck and around to his Adam's apple. Without warning, Ron pinned Harry to the bed and hovered above him, ravenous delight dancing in his eyes.

The expression drove Harry closer to desperation. Supporting himself on his elbows, Harry stretched up, kissing and nipping at Ron's collarbone. Ron moaned, encouraging Harry, who raised one hand to trail along Ron's ribs then shimmied down, lips exploring Ron's chest.

When he was level with Ron's navel, Harry lapped at it too; Ron shuddered and squirmed above him. Taking Ron's cock in his palm, Harry hummed appreciatively and tilted his chin up to murmur up to Ron, "Mind if I return the favour?"

Ron gave a sound of approval, so Harry took Ron’s flushed tip into his mouth, his heart hammering with nervous excitement. The novel taste of Ron’s dick was mostly the bitterness of his precome. It wasn't wholly disagreeable—kind of sexy in its perverseness—and Harry lapped his tongue enthusiastically around the firm length.

Lying on his back under Ron’s hips, Harry couldn’t shift his head much, but he licked what he could, wrapped his palm around the base, and massaged the sack under the gingery hair.

"Mm, Harry that's—! I'll... before we even..." Harry persisted until Ron gasped, "Stop!"

Chuckling, mouth wet and swollen with his efforts, Harry dropped his hands and drew away from Ron’s throbbing cock. Ron rolled over onto his back next to Harry, heaving a shaky breath. His erection stood at attention, begging for more.

Harry scooted back up to the headboard, settling with his shoulders on the pillow near Ron.

Recovering quickly, Ron sat up and fumbled blindly behind him for the jar of lube, as if unable to take his eyes off Harry next to him. Ron reached down to drag Harry’s knee back, splaying Harry’s legs wider, before shuffling forward to get between Harry’s thighs. Harry smiled; Ron was an eager pup waiting to get his promised reward. Harry didn't mind being Ron's treat.

Ron lay on his front between Harry's legs, and mouthed wet kisses along Harry's inner thighs. Embarrassment and pleasure bloomed in his gut, making Harry's cock throb. Last time, Harry asked Ron not to get close like this, but after their confession in the garden, Harry longed to expose his heart and body as intimately as possible. His cheeks felt hot, but he simply brushed his fingers through Ron’s fringe and soaked in the sensation.

Ron licked a wide stripe up Harry's length at the same time he circled his lube-slick forefinger over Harry’s tight entrance. Harry's breath hitched before a moan slipped from his throat.

Through both his desire and the excited unease of this wonderful, unfamiliar experience, Harry remembered something—

"I... um, practised a new spell."

Ron was nudging two fingers into Harry's entrance as he raised his face, a bemused grin dancing across his features. "Is this really the best time for a chat?"

Harry laughed too. "No, I mean for sex. A new sex spell."

"Yeah?"

Harry summoned his wand wordlessly, then pointed it down between his legs. Ron jerked his head away in mild alarm at having a wand flourished in his direction, but Harry explained. "It's to loosen... um, me up. I tried it, it's good—more effective than stretching with fingers."

"I was going to enjoy that, though."

Harry blushed. "My heart might explode if we play around any longer," Harry offered in a hesitant whisper.

That had Ron's cheeks colouring, too, in a pleased sort of way. "Have at it, then."

Harry cast the spell, and felt the warm, slackening sensation in his arse which was more pleasant than not. He threw his wand aside with casual irreverence and beckoned Ron up. "Kiss me some more."

Ron yanked Harry close, and they threw themselves into fervent kisses before Harry drew away, panting. Closing his eyes, Harry muttered with feverish desire, "Want you in me."

Ron repositioned himself between Harry's legs, shoving a pillow under Harry's hips. Precome dribbled onto Harry’s abs from his twitching cock, his heart pounding wildly—he loved the feel of this vulnerable position.

"Is it okay like this? You don't want to do it on all fours? I heard that's easier." Ron asked, but Harry shook his head fervently.

He had to swallow the saliva pooling in his mouth at the sight of Ron kneeling before him, reddening cock so close to his entrance. "S’good like this. So I can see you."

Ron swiped a finger over Harry's hole, then pressed it in up to the second knuckle. "Oh—you're so ready for me..."

Harry nodded again, trying to regulate his heartbeat with steady breaths. Ron slicked his cock with lube, blush extending over his chest in his eagerness.

"Let me know if it's not good," Ron said. He lifted Harry's legs.

Antsy and eager to make it as easy as possible, Harry grasped himself under the knees to hold the position.

Ron alternated between staring down at his cock and flitting his gaze up to meet Harry's eyes, then he carefully pressed just the tip of his cock in.

"Ron..." Harry moaned, a little plea to just do it.

Ron slid in a bit further with a shudder, falling into babbling. "Oh, fuck, you're so tight—hot—" He cautiously rocked forward.

Harry's fingernails dug into the plush skin of his inner thigh, his mouth hanging open as he savoured the foreign push of Ron's cock into him. As much as he loved fingering himself, Harry hadn't tried anything thicker; Ron’s girth was absolutely perfect. Another trail of moans and whimpers escaped Harry.

Ron leaned forward, bracing one arm on the duvet as he cupped Harry's jaw with the other. "Okay, Harry?"

"So okay. The best," Harry said, voice choked with emotion. Ron gave one thrust and shuddered, and Harry felt Ron's bollocks against his skin as he filled him completely.

They rested like that, panting while Ron thumbed tenderly along Harry's cheek. A swell of affection caught Harry off-guard again, and he raised one hand from where he clutched his thigh to mesh his fingers together with Ron’s at his cheek.

"Ron... Please, I need you, you don't know how much... "

"Harry, I do—I get it. Love you, too. I love you..."

The first few thrusts ached—more pain than pleasure—yet the discomfort melted under the momentous weight of elation that fizzled through Harry. He was stunned that someone like him was allowed to have Ron’s attention and love.

Their little gasps and expletives mingled, Ron's voice sinking deep into Harry's chest and filling him with affection, heightening his desire—how could he still want more, tangled as close as their bodies could ever get?

Struck by this sudden urge, Harry clasped Ron's shoulders, then slung his elbow around the nape of Ron's neck as he tried to draw him down.

A pleased groan left Ron, but instead of changing his angle and sinking down on top of Harry, Ron wrapped his arm around the small of Harry's back and—with a jerk of his hips—heaved Harry into his lap, Ron's legs splayed out and Harry's thighs wrapped around his waist.

Harry had to steady himself on Ron's knee with one hand, adjusting to this new angle, seated on Ron's cock.

Then Harry got what he was begging for; Ron seized his mouth in a deep kiss as Harry tangled his free hand in red hair. They kissed insatiably, as Harry moved his hips and Ron met his movements with languid thrusts—Harry’s latent desires for love and intimacy, finally all his.

When they broke off to breathe, Ron wrapped his hand around Harry's cock which was dripping between their stomachs. "Want me to take care of you, love?" His sapphire eyes cut through Harry's heart, the words barely audible over the haze of desire clouding his mind, his breath and racing heart dulling the words.

Harry nodded. "Wanna come on your cock." His throat was tight with arousal, hooded gaze lost in Ron’s.

Ron started stroking him, and Harry keened in pleasure. He fought the urge to bury his face in Ron's freckled shoulder, instead mapping his auburn eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, the speckling across his cheekbones, his kiss-ravaged lips—as if seeing his husband for the first time.

The pleasure mounted until Harry instinctively scrunched his eyes shut, the rush of orgasm amplified by the sensation of his twitching hole clenching around Ron's full cock. Warm come spurted between them, and Harry finished with ragged gasp. Blinking down, he saw he'd made a mess of both their stomachs, translucent spend dripping down Ron's abs.

Harry only had a hazy second to admire it before Ron was pushing him into the mattress, spreading Harry out on his back. Hiking one of Harry's legs up, Ron supported himself on his elbow with his other arm and rutted into Harry, consumed by desire.

Harry clung to his shoulders, lolling in his post-orgasm daze, and it was only a few enthusiastic thrusts before Ron grunted, "Ah, Harry—!"

The feel of Ron's cock twitching and warming his insides with his come made Harry flush with pleased exhilaration.

After steadying his breathing, Ron sunk low to plant a tender kiss on Harry's lips. He pulled out, and landed next to Harry with a huge exhale, throwing his arm over his own forehead in an expression of stunned disbelief. "That was mind blowing. Best I've ever..." he trailed off, radiant in his happiness as he turned to admire Harry sprawled next to him.

Ron’s smile fuelled a bliss within Harry which was so expansive that he wanted to yell his joy into the universe. He just bit his lip and smiled back.

Ron continued, "Well, obviously you were the best." He wiped his less sticky left palm on the duvet. Harry's eyes tracked the golden ring adorning it as Ron raised his hand, caressing Harry's nape before pulling their foreheads together. "Love you, Harry."

"I love you too," Harry never tired of saying or hearing it, now that they could.

Harry shifted, wanting to snuggle closer, but Ron squeezed his shoulder with a laugh. "Hold up, where's my wand? We're absolutely filthy."

"I like you filthy," Harry said, giddy and grinning.

They spelled themselves somewhat clean, and Harry Accio'd a thinner blanket from a drawer, its plush warmth falling around their shoulders. Their legs tangled as they nuzzled closer.

Ron carded his fingers slowly through Harry's tangles, again inhaling the scent of his hair. Harry couldn't stop kissing Ron's collar bone and revelling at the flush that was slowly receding from his pale skin.

Harry wasn't sure he'd ever felt so loved, and so without regrets. He sighed happily. "This feels like the real first day of the rest of our lives."

Ron squeezed him tighter, nodding against his hair. "It is, then, if we say it is. I dunno if it's possible, but, I feel like... maybe the bond has settled even stronger? Do you feel that in your magic, too?"

Harry paused, searching deep within himself. He felt warm and buzzing, like a circuit rushing smoothly, power flowing strong. He leaned back on the pillow to look at his lover again, and smiled. "Definitely. Not just my magic, either—it's soppy, but..." He bit his lip.

"What?" Prompted Ron, curiously.

"In my, um, heart, too." Harry blushed at his saccharine sentiment.

Ron dragged him in for another kiss, and feeling Ron's pulse beating beneath his firm chest, Harry had the inkling that Ron's heart had settled too, tethered to Harry just as securely.

Sunday 21 of July, 2002
The Burrow, 4:07 PM

"We're getting married... again. For real, this time."

"..."

"RONALD BILIUS POTTER-WEASLEY!"

"Harry!"

"Oh, Cerces! Harry, dear, how many months do we have for the wedding planning?"

Chapter Text

"It doesn't make any sense to be this nervous, Harry; you're already married, and nothing can go wrong."

Harry glared at Hermione's unhelpful commentary, as Neville tugged at the hem of his wedding ensemble’s cream waistcoat. Harry made a point of avoiding the full-length mirror in Molly and Arthur's bedroom, where he was preparing while Ron was getting ready in his old bedroom. From the corner of his eye, Harry caught a glimpse of his robes, the palest shade of apple-blossom green, accented in glimmering gold.

Neville hummed in satisfaction. "I think you're about ready, Harry—just the boutonnière." He summoned the delicate arrangement with a flick of his wand. It floated into his palms, the white-tinged green of the holly leaves nestling the pale holly buds and white cherry blossoms, all splayed around the centrepiece—a yellow-orange rose blossom, charmed to be more petite than usual.

"You've outdone yourself, honey." Hermione sat on the wide bed in a gold tulle dress with her hair more intricately pinned than Harry ever imagined possible. Her brown eyes shone with emotion, as she looked between her boyfriend and her best friend.

Neville blushed. "It was mostly Harry's idea." Nev glanced expectantly at him, as if biting his tongue and wanting to let Harry elaborate.

Harry stood staring at the twilight colours sweeping over the trees in the lane that led to the house, observing the shadowy forms of guests pop into existence and stroll up the lit pathway to the Burrow. Neville's searching look brought him out of his nervous stupor. Harry focused on the delicate flowers Neville was holding and said, "Yeah. I asked Remus about my parent's wedding—if there was any detail I could use in their honour. So, this boutonnière is similar to the one my dad wore."

"Harry, that's terribly sweet of you. I know their absence is hard, especially today. Even Sirius..." She trailed off, averting her eyes as though she wished she hadn't brought him up.

A sigh heaved unbidden from his chest, but Harry smiled at her. "It is hard, but… there's so much to be happy about, and I feel a strange peace, like they'd all be thrilled about this. I can't believe we get this. Everyone agreed to witness our marriage, even though we're technically already bonded."

"Of course!" Molly exclaimed from the doorway. "If you announced your affections for each other without planning another wedding, I wouldn't have stood for it, Harry dear."

Harry, Neville and Hermione each managed to smile at her, but their eyes flickered to each other in silent exasperation. Molly had her fingers in everything going on today, naturally, but it was tiring. At this point, Harry wasn't sure if her boisterous mood would help or hurt his nerves.

Molly swept in and surveyed the three of them. "Oh dear, you haven't even pinned on the boutonnière yet? Ron's took ages to get just right, the fabric of these robes is a little finicky with the usual charm, you know—Neville, dear, shall I?"

Neville shook his head and grinned at her—a feat of sheer bravery, or so Harry thought. "Don't worry, Molly; it comes with the trade, I've practiced pinning these for display for a few years now." Neville held the arrangement in one hand and his wand expertly in the other.

Fanning herself with a hand, Molly whipped her head around, searching for something else to keep busy with. Hermione stood and levitated the tray with champagne flutes over. Laying a hand on the matriarch's shoulder, she suggested, "How about a sip, Molly? It seems like everything's more or less ready."

With a determined nod, Molly swiped up a glass and took a mouthful. Then, she darted over to Harry. He flinched as she dove forward and started patting down his wild hair, holding the champagne away so as not to spill it. "Have you really still not found any charms for this bird's nest? Did you use Sleekeazy's this morning, like I suggested?"

Harry couldn't give in to the urge to be irritated at her; she was radiating both joyous and jittery energy. He plastered a smile on his face, batting her hands away. "Unfortunately, no charm I’ve tried holds—and I told you, I hate the feeling of that Sleekeazy stuff, and I wouldn't look like myself at all."

Molly huffed, and Neville and Hermione clinked their glasses one more time before downing the last of their champagne. Neville pulled Hermione from the bed, and still clasping hands with her, cast a Tempus. "Merlin, hadn't we better get a move on, Molly? Everyone will need to find places in the next fifteen minutes."

"Is that the time already?" Molly squeaked in alarm. She seized Hermione's other hand, and dragged the couple from the room while yelling back to Harry, "Do not leave this room, young man! Remus will come and collect you when we're all ready to start—relax, have another drink. Not too many, mind!"

Left standing alone in the bedroom in the finest robes he'd ever worn, Harry shuffled around in front of the mirror. The bustle of the guests below stirred his excited agitation even more. With a frustrated grunt, he strode to the door while opening his mokeskin pouch which was tucked into his inner breast pocket. With a flourish, Harry pulled his shimmering Invisibility Cloak through the small drawstring mouth into existence.

He never attended a crowded event without it, after all.

Donning the cloak, Harry cast a spell to make the door one-way transparent. No one was in the corridor beyond. He slipped out and down the stairs, his nerves settling with this familiar invisibility and seeing the lively crowds of friends and family. He pulled the cloak tighter, stepping forward into the fray.

There were guests milling around on stairwells, in the sitting room, in the kitchen—where delicious smells were wafting, everything under stasis for the late evening buffet post-ceremony. In the back garden, Harry glimpsed the rows and rows of chairs, some already occupied. As he trod carefully around witches and wizards big and small, he got a good view out a window into the front yard.

A handful of Weasley men were greeting the arriving guests. Charlie and his husband, Ken, were an effortlessly charming pair as they clapped Seamus and Dean on the back and struck up conversation. Arthur was ushering people towards the back garden, laughing at something Minerva was saying. The scent of fresh grass lingered in the evening air from the open window, but Harry wasn't tempted outside yet.

In the sitting room, Harry spotted Teddy and Victoire, who had Percy occupied. Victoire clung to his sleeve, blue eyes wide with innocence as she asked a series of oddly specific questions about Portkey regulations. Teddy nodded along, hair flickering between purple and blue, making thoughtful hums of agreement. Behind Percy, George and Fred prowled like kneazles honing in on a mouse, smirks creeping across their faces—unmistakeably up to something. Not eager to ruin the fun but also not wanting to get caught in any chaos, Harry dodged Andromeda and Bill to escape the room.

Across the corridor, Fleur and Gabrielle were caught up with Molly, who was attempting to herd the wedding party outside. Fleur had a smile on her lips and a hand on her hip, while Gabrielle gestured emphatically. Molly replied in huffy, short retorts. Harry caught snatches of the conversation as he passed—something about Snape. His Mentor hadn’t turned up yet, which made sense to Harry; Harry wouldn't be navigating through this lot either, if he didn’t have his cloak.

In the kitchen, Ginny swayed and grinned, well on her way to tipsy. She draped herself over Hermione’s shoulder, snickering into her ear while Hermione half-heartedly tried to shoo her towards the garden. Neville hovered at Hermione's side, his head swivelling between Ginny and Percy—who was now spluttering in outrage, thoroughly coated in pink glitter. Ginny's fiancée Gwenog howled with laughter.

Near the kitchen, Hagrid had squeezed his face into an open window, and was chatting with Tonks. She was dressed in a fantastic rainbow ensemble, her hair shimmering through every shade to match. A handful of guests leaned in to listen, laughing as Tonks rattled off some animated story, her bangles jingling with every exaggerated gesture. Camera flashes glittered off her jewellery; Colin Creevey was kneeling nearby, bubbling with enthusiasm as he angled for a good shot.

Hidden beneath his Invisibility Cloak, Harry took in the warmth, the chaos, the effortless joy of a Weasley wedding. Their Weasley wedding. His nerves were still there, buzzing under his skin, but they weren’t all bad. They were the kind that came before something big, something inevitable, something wonderful.

Being part of the Weasley family was like that; his love for Ron was like that—huge, fate-driven and inevitable.

Outside the back entrance, Harry leaned against the slanting walls of the Burrow, staring at the decorations and the extra space carved into the beautifully transformed back garden. It was dark now, but the whole space was illuminated in shimmering gold, silver and white light. He had come to find a breeze; the cloak was overly warm, and it had been getting muggy inside the house. Someone might notice a sudden cooling charm, and he couldn't afford to work up a sweat in his wedding robes.

Besides, he was starting to wonder where Ron was. Molly must have been serious about keeping them separated for good luck.

Harry was starting to wonder when Molly would realise Harry was missing, when a calm voice made him jump, "Hello, Harry."

Luna sidled up to him, wearing the same silver and yellow dress that she had for their first wedding. Except, instead of white asters, her head was adorned in holly flowers and huge yellow roses—the very same Harry was using for the wedding's floral arrangements. Both flowers suited her perfectly: the holly petals representing happiness, peace and optimism, and the jovial roses signifying friendship.

"Luna, how are you so perceptive?" Harry said in a wondering voice, peering down to check if his feet were visible or something.

She shrugged, gazing over the garden with him. The criss-crossing overhead lights would have blocked out the night sky if it hadn't been for Bill's charm work; as it was, the stars glittered brilliantly, the scattered constellations shining down as if eager to witness the marriage. Along the edges of the wooden chairs—already filled with guests—were more vibrant arrangements of Lily and James' wedding flowers; the deep green of the holly leaves and their white blossoms were layered beneath branches of pale cherry, which supported luscious yellow-orange roses, all sprinkled with baby's breath.

The ceremony's focal point was the largest of the Weasleys' five cherry trees, its blossoming branches spread out over the dais looked like snow against the dark sky. The tree was another reason Harry and Ron chose the Potter's classic arrangement, with cherry sprigs from the Weasleys provided by Molly and Arthur. As a celebratory touch, more roses hovered amongst the white blossoms.

Luna took so long to reply that Harry had nearly forgotten he'd asked the question. "Well, when I couldn't find you in the master bedroom where Mrs Weasley said you'd be, I knew you must be exploring with your cloak. Given how long you've been missing, I assumed you'd be here waiting to see Ron. You're not very patient."

Blinking, Harry chuckled. "Well, that's true. Still, Luna, you're amazing as always."

"Also, you're standing in Molly's Tittering Tansy's, and your shoe print is unmistakable."

Harry looked down at the dirt, yeah, his footprints were starkly visible amongst the puffy yellow blossoms. "Amazing," Harry repeated. He glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention, and slipped the Invisibility Cloak off with a cheeky grin. Luna leaned forward and pecked him on the cheek. "I'm so happy to be here with you, again. Thank you for inviting me."

"Of course. We would never leave you out, Luna."

"It just seems unfair that I get to enjoy this beautiful moment twice... well, myself and Mr Dumbledore. It's a pity Molly rejected the suggestion about the goats."

Molly burst out of the doorway next to them and pinned Harry in her sights. It had taken her less than a minute to notice him once he became visible. "Harry! What are you doing here?! You can't be here, no no; apparate to the front door this instant and wait for our signal, dear! We found Severus, he'll wait with you there." She folded her arms and glared at him.

"Okay, okay, Molly." Harry drew a deep breath, the anxiousness springing to life again. Luna's silver eyes calmed him for another breath as he said, "I'm off then, Luna; wish me luck."

"That's not necessary, I've done all the luck charms ahead of time; lots of four-leaf clovers and even some tea with a black cat. Anyway, Harry—you'll do lovely."

Unable to find words as his mind started to buzz with excited apprehension, he nodded before popping out and then into existence again. With all his anxiety, apparition—even the distance from the back to the front of the house—made his stomach roil. He clutched his abdomen, and someone else's stiff palm landed on his shoulder.

"Mr Snape," Harry greeted through gritted teeth, as he willed bile back down his throat. His mentor's pale hand floated in front of his face, with a small vial.

"Drink," he offered blandly. "For both your stomach and your overexcitement."

Harry downed the bottle and the soothing effect coated his throat and mind. He got a proper look at Snape and almost hurled out the contents of his stomach onto the grass in shock—silver. Snape was wearing a silver robe, lustrous with elaborate white stitching, and underneath it a pale grey waistcoat also patterned with glittering silver. The only consolation was that his whole neck was buttoned up to the hinge of his jaw, although the shirt was ashen silk rather than stark black.

"I thought I was getting married," Harry exclaimed.

He was treated with a snarling retort. "Had I known your sensibilities were so delicate, I would have arrived in tatters to ease your distress."

"You've got a twig in your hair," Harry added, though he was starting to wonder if he'd make it to the altar if he kept this up.

Snape cast him a cold glare as he pointed his wand at his head and vanished the leaves that remained nestled in them.

Harry smiled. "That's much better. I guess I know where you were when Molly was hunting for you. I hope Remus also checked a mirror before joining the wedding party." He handed the vial back. "Thank you for this."

Snape observed him for a long moment, jaw tight, before he turned resolutely away to stare up the dark path leading off to the village. Harry waited, until in a gruff tone Snape mumbled, "Your mother would approve."

That threatened to choke Harry up. He knew Snape had never made it to his mother's wedding, as they had already fallen out. Harry swallowed and forced a smile, thinking of his groom standing at the dais. "Yeah, I think she'd have loved Ron."

Any further sentimentality was interrupted as a silver wolf materialised next to Snape, looking up at him and saying, "All right, everyone's in their places. When you hear the music, you can make your way through the house to the start of the aisle."

"Thank you, Lupin." Snape said it blandly, but Harry caught the affectionate look he cast at the shimmering canine as it faded.

Staring at the closed front door, Harry stood straight, clasping his hands in front of himself until he realised they were sticky with sweat, and dangled them at his side.

A violin and piano began to twinkle Salut d'Amour (Lily's choice, again). Snape waved a hand to hurry Harry off, and followed him like a loyal shadow through the dimly lit house. It felt like a fraction of a second before the back door opened on its own, and the ethereal glow of the decorations against the sparkling night sky flooded into view.

Harry hovered on the back step, taking it all in but not really seeing the familiar faces turned towards him. Colin and his colleagues were snapping shots, flashes dazzling Harry's vision momentarily. His gaze was drawn along the bright evergreen aisle carpet to the man waiting for him.

His breath faltered, eyes wide as every impression of Ron’s tall frame made his heart thud more wildly. Ron’s brilliant smile, full of unreserved joy and affection, filled Harry with warmth, like the touch of sunshine on shaded stone. Harry took in every handsome detail of his husband: his light champagne robes, trimmed with cream and gold; the incredibly endearing twitch of his fine hair in the breeze, the coppery-red strands catching the golden light; his arresting blue eyes, vivid even from this distance, beckoning Harry to rush forward into his arms.

Harry almost did run, but the music and the expectant press of the crowd's eyes reminded him of where he was. Snape set a hand on his shoulder again, this time more tender than before, and with a nudge sent Harry striding down the aisle.

It felt like only a few steps along pillowy clouds before Harry was flanked by the front row of guests. Mr and Mrs Weasley and half of their children sat, all craning over to peer at him, while at the far end of the row, Remus beamed, teary-eyed, an empty seat next to him that Snape would soon take.

Fleur was holding back Teddy and Victoire—dressed adorably in matching ivory and gold robes—as they were itching to pass over the phoenix-born rings resting on the pillow that they clutched with tiny hands. Harry glanced to the left and to the right of the dais and received encouraging smiles from Hermione, Neville and Luna—his groom attendants, and smirks from Fred, George and Ginny—Ron's self-styled "groom brigade".

Ahead of Harry, looming tall on the low platform, Ron waited, taking a deep breath before extending his hand towards Harry, inviting him up the single step. The wooden boards creaked as Aberforth shifted his weight; he was leaning against the altar behind Ron, repositioning his oddly patterned robes self-consciously. Harry almost hadn't noticed him. Everyone, including the old barman, faded away from Harry's focus as Ron hauled him up close.

Harry almost stumbled, but Ron caught him around the waist—they were nearly chest to chest, too intimate an embrace for a wedding ceremony in front of a hundred guests. Fred and George must have been the ones to start whistling and hooting laughs, but other people joined in before a swell of music calmed the attendees.

"Hey," Ron whispered as Harry straightened, facing Ron.

"Hi," Harry replied, embarrassed by the shyness in his voice and his warm cheeks.

"We're doing this husband's thing for real." Ron beamed as he said it. Harry could only nod. The fact that they were in front of all their family and friends was buzzing energy through his limbs, and he was forcing himself not to slouch or fidget.

Whether Ron was supposed to or not, Harry had forgotten—the rehearsal was a useless blur—Ron took both of Harry's hands and squeezed them gently. Harry kept his eyes on Ron's face, wondering whether he would perfectly map each freckle into memory over the decades of their long life to come.

The music trailed off, and Aberforth coughed and muttered, "Sonorus." He then boomed, "I suppose I'm to say a few things, which I will be upfront about—Miss Granger wrote this whole spiel for me." Aberforth pulled a parchment from his pocket and began to read.

All Harry could catch over the boom of his heart and the swooning, radiant happiness were snatches—

Best friends from the start—

Hard times have already been—

A perfect union, bravery and kindness beyond—

Wishing happiness—

When Aberforth finished and silenced his Sonorus, there was an expectant quiet, the twinkling of elegant piano rising again. Harry was about to burst with nervousness, joy and gratitude, with only Ron's touch anchoring him.

Pulled on the tide of sentiment—ready to explode into laughter or sobs if he didn't vent it—Harry leaned up and caught Ron's lips, cupping his jaw. Ron jerked in surprise but then answered the kiss with parted lips and his hands on Harry's hips. It was just perfect—it was so them, and so good to show their love before everyone they cared for.

The attendees burst into whistles, raucous laughter and clapping. Harry pulled back, dizzily satisfied, and heard Hermione's incredulous voice through the uproar. "Harry! Harry, it's too early! The kiss is after the vows and rings. God, you... you dolt!"

Ron was biting his bottom lip to avoid breaking into guffaws, tears glinting at the corner of his eyes. Harry failed to contain himself again, and wrapped Ron in a hug, leaning in to whisper.

"We love getting ahead of ourselves, don't we?"

Harry had rushed forward into countless unbelievable circumstances, and through it all, this man had been by his side—fighting, running, laughing, crying, loving alongside him.

In this most incredible moment of his life—his heart overflowing as met Ron's familiar blue eyes—Harry realised that they weren't made to live without each other, and now, they never would.