new fic: That Charm That Can the Strongest Quell, Harry/Ron
The reveal over at bestmates_xmas has gone up, so I'm free to post my H/R here. Enjoy!
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 11,550
Genre: romance, erotica, humour, established relationship
Betas: rickey_a, auntee_mame and cim_halfling. Thank you!!!
Summary: A few days before Christmas, Ron is struck with a harmless, but thoroughly annoying curse. Figuring out who cast it takes Ron and Harry to Scotland, and Harry wonders: Why can't I just have a normal Christmas, just once? H/R, EWE, kilt!sex.
Author's Notes: Title, as it absolutely must have, comes from Robert Burns, from his poem "Poem on Pastoral Poetry" written in 1791. It's from the final stanza, and the sentiment reflects pretty accurately the atmosphere of this story:
[ ] but that sweet spell
O' witchin love,
That charm that can the strongest quell,
The sternest move.
I have no idea where this rather cracktastic idea came from, but once I was given Abigail89 as my gift recipient and saw a shared interest in Scotland and kilts (and perhaps single malts as well), this story was breathed into life. DH-compliant, ignoring the epilogue.
Harry Potter had faced a great deal of unexpected and downright bizarre situations in his twenty-four eventful years of life. And yet, on this December morning, he was still at a loss. He cleaned his glasses and stared at his chest in the mirror, then down at the pale skin with its rather dense swath of black hair, where an unmistakable Ron-shaped handprint was imprinted across his sternum. A plaid handprint. "Black watch plaid," some inane bit of trivia murmured from deep in his memory and he violently shook his head.
"George must've done something," he mused to himself, wetting a washcloth and lathering up some of Ron's distinctive spruce soap to wash it off. The print didn't fade, smear, discolour, or change in any way at all. Harry frowned, puzzled. He Accio'ed his wand from their bedroom and cast a Terego, a rather painful Scourgify and a glamour before giving up, exasperated, and deciding to brush his teeth. He followed that up with his usual hot shower and was drying off when Ron shuffled in, his hair a riotous mess of auburn as it tended to be in the mornings.
"Hi," he said sleepily, standing in front of the toilet to relieve himself.
The initial tinkling drops had turned to a steady stream as Harry replied, "Morning," wrapping his towel around his waist and taking a wide-toothed comb to his hair. "D'you know why George might've cast some kind of plaid hex thing on me?"
"A what?" Ron asked, confused. As he looked at the handprint spanning between Harry's pectoral muscles, a soundless 'oh' appeared on his lips. He very nearly took to pissing on the floor as he stared, not paying attention to his aim.
"Watch it!" Harry said with a laugh. A few seconds later once Ron was finished, Harry felt his own gaze stare disbelievingly at Ron's shapely, flaccid and equally plaid-imprinted cock.
"Oh fuck," Ron moaned. They both looked at his entirely ordinary left palm, his fingers splayed and moving precariously close to his face.
"I'd be careful," Harry said, instinctively grabbing at Ron's wrist and holding it tight. "I'm sure whatever this is that George has cast on you is temporary, but I don't think that you want green and navy tartan on your nose."
"Fuck," Ron groused mournfully, regarding his dominant left hand much like a traitor that needed to be sent to Azkaban. "I didn't-" he stopped as though suddenly remembering something, rolled his eyes, and pushed down the button so their toilet flushed. "You can let go. I'll be careful."
Harry gingerly let go of Ron's wrist as Ron began to experiment trying to quarantine his movements. Inanimate objects seemed to absorb the pattern, but on skin, only where he actually made contact turned colours. He was left-handed, so until they figured out what in Hades had happened to him, Ron would have to modify everything he did, or wear a glove. A glove seemed by far the most humane option.
"I don't think it's George," Ron said as he brushed his teeth with a now-plaid toothbrush.
"Who else?" Harry scoffed, kissing Ron on the shoulder and wrapping his arms around Ron's midsection. He regarded Ron in the mirror, humbled and acutely grateful that they were together and content. They had each covered no shortage of uncharted, rocky terrain to get to this point in their lives; to others, their days might seem quotidian, even boring. Sharing a flat and the vast share of his heart with Ron was never ordinary, not to Harry. This plaid nonsense, however, was quite unexpected. Given how close it was to Christmas, Harry had absolutely no doubt whatsoever that it was some time-triggered spell George had cast. It had his trickster fingerprints all over it.
"Dunno. But he and Lee have been so busy Up to their eyeballs in orders and Wheezes open extra hours. I haven't even seen them in at least a fortnight," Ron said contemplatively, his fingers brushing against his shoulder at the exact moment Harry cried out.
"Shite! Bloody hell!" Ron seethed at the thin patterned strips where he'd scratched at his clavicle.
"How about we find a glove for you, and hope whatever spell, or jinx-"
"Curse," Ron interrupted with a scowl.
"Maybe. Let's hope it can't work through fabric." Harry had moved to stand in front of him, a low fire of lust smouldering in his groin as he basked in Ron's appreciative gaze. "Keep your arm out," he warned, raising his hands to cradle Ron's jaw and kiss him deeply once Ron had leaned down to meet him. Their tongues slid gently in minty heat, a good morning, thank you for last night's shag greeting they exchanged most mornings, even if there's been only a comforting sleep without sex the night before.
"Tea, and breakfast, then we're going to Wheezes," Harry said authoritatively once they'd stepped apart.
"If you insist," Ron said, looking dubiously at his left hand.
"Did you have some other plan in mind? You can't possibly want to have some ridiculous Midas touch curse any longer than necessary."
"No, of course not," Ron reassured him, looking quite put out since he had nowhere to rest his hand. "Who's Midas?"
"Oh, some king in a Muggle myth. Everything he touched turned to gold."
"That'd be brilliant!" Ron enthused until he seemed to realise the same inherent problems with that curse that Midas did. "Except I'd not want a gold cock. Plaid's bad enough."
Harry's brow furrowed as he stood, trying to shelve his growing annoyance with George. Harry had had plans for he and Ron to relax and maybe do some last minute shopping together since they'd taken the two days off prior to Christmas Eve as part of their holiday.
"Look, don't get bent out of shape," Ron said, seemingly far less perturbed about the situation than Harry was. "I'll put on a glove and get a shower and we'll go. But I want to see Hermione, too. In case George won't fess up."
"Let me find one for you. It'd better work- damn it!" Harry yelped as Ron suddenly pulled himself upright. The left side of the doorframe around their bathroom had turned navy and green tartan where Ron had leaned, temporarily forgetting himself. "This is a bloody mess," Harry growled. "Go ahead, touch the middle top and right, too. It'll make me mental with just one side of it like that."
Ron's expression was wholly apologetic as he placed his hand on the other parts of the doorframe. "At least it's not hideous lime and pink polka dots or something," he said, apparently trying to make the best of things.
"It's bad enough," Harry seethed, now quite cheesed off and ready to declare war on George and tell him what for about poorly timed practical jokes.
They found an old gardening glove of Harry's and transfigured it to fit Ron. After it turned plaid, Ron gingerly touched their tube of toothpaste, which didn't change. They both let out a sigh of relief.
"Good. Because I reek," Ron said candidly. "I'll get washed up and meet you downstairs for breakfast as fast as I can."
"It's okay, really. I'd just wanted to relax some with you, y'know, and now we've got to go and get George to remove this, and I'm not happy."
"I'll find a way to take your mind off of it later," Ron grinned, stepping out of his boxers and shimmying his hips enough to let his tartan-imprinted cock bounce from thigh to thigh.
Harry couldn't help but snort in laughter. "Don't know that I'll be able to concentrate until we get that bloody off!" He left Ron to get his shower, going to their room to get dressed before making their tea and comforting breakfast of oatmeal and toast.
Once they'd eaten and Ron set the dishes to washing themselves, they bundled up in their coats and decadently luxurious cashmere scarves Hermione had given them as gifts after a trip she'd taken to Italy. Harry held out their bowl of Floo powder as Ron scooped up a handful in his gloved hand. His forehead wrinkled and he let the green powder fall back in before grabbing some up with his right hand.
"Don't know if it'll affect Floo powder," he said, his voice resigned. "I'd rather not end up somewhere dodgy by accident."
"I'm going to think of something annoying and very embarrassing to get George back for this," Harry promised darkly, his gaze shooting daggers as he thought about confronting Ron's older brother.
"Hey, now, it's not that bad!" Ron insisted, looking quite worried and almost apologetic. "C'mon, we don't know that he cast it. And even if he did, he'll get rid of it, no harm, no foul. It's still hard for him at the holidays, even with Lee. He might've wanted a family diversion."
Harry couldn't help it, but his anger softened at Ron's astute insight at his brother's mindset. George and Lee had shocked no one when they moved in as roommates and Lee became an employee at the re-opened Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. They had shaken Harry's reality to its axis and knocked his world topsy-turvy, however - and given him images that haunted his wanking life for weeks - when he'd stumbled into their flat from the Floo network one night, rather shit-faced, and discovered them to be much, much closer than just best mates. Over time, Harry's surprise had turned to an envy that ached in him for reasons he wasn't sure he wanted to face. George had eventually promised to kick Harry's arse to the Founders' Age and back if he didn't tell Ron how he felt about him. With his heart in knots, his stomach wanting to erupt in fear and his body desperate to writhe all over Ron's and claim him for his own, Harry and Ron had had an awkward talk which led to an even more awkward but bone-melting night of nakedness and sex. In retrospect, Harry was being a bit harsh on George, especially since it was nearly Christmas.
"Fair enough," Harry acquiesced, taking his own handful of Floo powder. "Leaky first?"
Ron nodded, throwing in his Floo powder and yelling, "The Leaky Cauldron!"
Harry followed right behind, and soon they were in the throngs of witches and wizards doing last minute shopping for Christmas. The day was bright and chill; Harry felt his face smarting against the tenacious, crisp winds gusting down the street, and he pulled up his scarf to protect his perpetually chapped lips. He couldn't keep the smile from his face as they neared Wheezes, hearing holiday-themed snippets of music escaping through open doors while people busily went in and out of the decorated shops. Nutty, cinnamon scents wafted down the road, making Harry think of clove-encrusted apples and stockings on the mantelpiece. Harry adored Christmas, and had ever since he'd discovered he was magical. Being an honourary Weasley only added to his affection for the holiday he'd loathed so much as a child. It was a strange world indeed, now that he received a dutiful Christmas card each year from the Dursleys. Not only that, but he sent one in return, and really did wish them well.
Ron yanked open the door to Wheezes and they were immediately absorbed into the lurid chaos of the thriving jokeshop. Harry's anger at George had all but vanished; they could get him to remove the somewhat comical curse off of Ron, and maybe even help out a bit at the till or with keeping things restocked.
"Ron! Harry!" Lee Jordan yelled enthusiastically from a table in the back corner. A hovering sign proclaimed Weasleys' Patented 'Wait a Spell' Wrapping Available Here with a neon arrow blinking down at Lee. He waved them to him, and after dodging a few flying carpets and accidentally stepping on a few small feet, Ron and Harry managed to get back to him. George had also appeared, his face lit up with mischievous pleasure.
"What're you two doing here?" George asked, pulling them off to the side so Lee could continue dealing with their customers.
"Visiting - I need you to do something," Harry said meaningfully, looking at Ron's hand.
Ron held it up, waving the plaid glove around and looking oddly embarrassed.
"What's the 'wait a spell'?" Harry continued on, pointing at Lee and the queue of witches, mostly, holding bags of gifts, many not from Wheezes but from other shops in Diagon and even further afield.
"It's a fabulous spell that Lee and I came up with; puts a repelling jinx on the present until Christmas morning or Christmas Eve, depending on when they want it set. We can have the package talk back, or break into song, or even move around. Has a cushioning charm on it, too," he said proudly before tilting his head and regarding Ron's hand. "What'd you go and do now?"
"I didn't!" Ron said weakly, his expression one of pleading. "Don't know what happened. Woke up this morning and everything I touch turns plaid."
George let out a warm guffaw, his chest heaving with laughter. "Brilliant. That's priceless." He tapped Ron on the shoulder. "So that doesn't explain why you're here."
"Oh, I think you know why," Harry said levelly, unbuttoning his coat as he was beginning to sweat. Wheezes was full of running children and harried adults, and it was quite warm compared to the frigid air outside. "I can understand why you did it, and it's pretty funny, but go ahead and take off the hex."
"Me?" George seemed incredulous. Lee had picked up on the brewing conflict and waved Zapateous Zonko, the son of the late joke-shop owner and Wheezes' third employee, over to deal with the Wait A Spell casting. "I didn't do this, but I admire whoever did," he said, giving Ron a cheeky grin and making Harry's irritation bloom back full fold.
"What's going on?" Lee asked after assessing Ron's discomfort, George's wicked grin and Harry's increasing annoyance.
"Look. George, it's funny. Really. I see the humour in it, but take the bloody curse off. I'd just like to have a normal, happy Christmas without everything Ron touches ending up with Black Watch plaid. Enough is enough."
"You what?" Lee asked, his eyes shining with mirth.
"Yeah, I've been hexed. Or something," Ron said, looking more and more agitated.
He didn't appear angry, which Harry couldn't comprehend. Harry was beginning to be cheesed off at both George and Lee, who seemingly were complicit in this state of events.
"That's weird. It's funny, but I've never read about any curse like that," Lee said, looking thoughtfully at George.
"I said, enough!" Harry growled low in his throat. "Just do the counter-curse and we'll see you both later. Stop pretending like this isn't your doing. It's obvious, even for you," Harry said peevishly.
"But I didn't cast it!" George said defensively, giving Ron a very hard look as though to back him up. "Make me drink Veritaserum if you insist, but I didn't do this," George rumbled, his forehead furrowed as Lee snaked out a hand to rest comfortingly on George's wrist.
"Harry," Ron warned, wrapping a wide palm around Harry's shoulder. "George has been a lot of things, but he's never been a liar."
Soothing pine wafted toward Harry and he relaxed into Ron's hand. "Fine. Guess we should go see Hermione."
"Sounds good," Ron replied, still obviously out of sorts. "You two okay? Seems like business is going well. See you Christmas Day?"
"Wouldn't miss it," George and Lee said in tandem, obligation heavy in their words.
"Um, good," Ron said awkwardly, tugging at the shirt at his neck. "See you then."
"Look, George, I'm sorry," Harry said, feeling regret at his near-violent reaction with a warm wave of shame. "I've been out of line. Of course you wouldn't lie to me."
"It's the holidays. People can get a bit touchy," George said, his more usual good humour back in his voice and in his expression. "Best of luck finding the counter-curse."
"Thanks," Ron replied, relief flooding his features. "See you, Zap!" he called out over the mayhem.
The gangly young man grinned and waved as Harry led their way back out of the shop. The cold air sent zealous fingers down the open vee of Harry's shirt. With a shiver, he hastily buttoned his coat back up. "Which entrance do you want to use?" he asked as they strode down the footpath. He was nearly ready to tug on Ron's coat and ask him to slow down when Ron seemed to sense he was moving at quite a fast clip, and his legs were decisively longer than Harry's.
"Phone box, I reckon. Hermione'll know what to do, no doubt."
"Can't believe she's still working."
Ron grunted in agreement. She was nearly at full term, and could be having her first child any day, but she insisted that she could work and it would be just fine until her actual labour pains started. After rather a whirlwind romance with a cousin of Dean Thomas' whom she ran into - literally - while going to an interview at Oxford, they'd gotten married and not quite a year later, they discovered they were going to be parents. It caused a twinge of melancholy in Harry's heart to think of his other best friend as a young mum, going down such a different path than he and Ron. That faint heaviness dissipated once he found himself in yet another bustling environment, the one that both he and Ron were used to dealing with every day, caught up in the swirling robes and officious atmosphere of the Ministry. Her door was open, the placard next to the doorframe stating: Hermione Granger-Thomas, Chancellor for Equal Rights, Magical Creatures.
"Hullo, Hermione!" Harry said warmly, smiling as she eased away from her desk to waddle towards them.
"I thought you weren't working today?" she half-questioned, half-stated as she looked Harry and Ron up and down.
"We're not," Ron said quickly. "I woke up with this, um, hex or curse or something." He waved his gloved hand vaguely in the air.
"You remember the legend of King Midas, right?" Harry asked, undoing his coat and standing close to the small fireplace in her office.
"Of course," Hermione said starchly, understanding suddenly cascading across her face. "That's why you've got a glove on? Everything you touch turns to-"
"Plaid," Ron said glumly.
Out of respect for his lover's plight, and his own inconvenience at having to deal with the annoying curse, Harry felt a smouldering of irritation at the grin Hermione had to suppress.
"I just know - knew - George had done it. But we went to Wheezes and after I made myself look like a complete skrewt's bum, I've realised he really didn't cast it," Harry said, chagrinned and embarrassed. "I know it's two days to Christmas and you've got loads on your mind-"
"And stomach," Ron interrupted, his right hand hovering over the rotund space pushing out Hermione's robes.
"It's not my stomach! It's my belly, I suppose," Hermione scolded, but with a good-natured nod she indicated he could touch her distended abdomen. "But of course I'll make time to help you. Tell me what happened, or show me, if you'd like," she offered.
Ron carefully peeled off his glove, shoving it into his jacket pocket with his right hand. As Harry loosened the scarf at his neck, Ron took a hold of the quill Hermione gave him. They all watched as the distinctive pine and navy pattern bloomed on the nib and chased down the feathers. Hermione's eyebrows raised as she took back her quill, twirling it around before gingerly taking hold of Ron's forearm.
"We, it seems relatively harmless, as far as jinxes go," she said diplomatically, glancing over at Harry. "How long does it last?"
"Maybe it goes away!" he said excitedly, his spirits rising as quickly and bright as a Wheezes' firework display. Harry hadn't even considered the idea that it might be temporary. He shucked off his coat and it dropped into a chocolaty leather heap at his feet. He tugged his jumper from the back of his shoulder blades over his head and tossed it down too as Ron said, "Um, mate, the door's wide open "
With one hand Harry yanked his t-shirt up from his jeans, and he brushed the dense patch of hair at the centre of his chest where-
- a plaid handprint still remained.
"Pixie's piss," he growled under his breath, ignoring Hermione's gasp. She'd heard far worse out of his mouth and seen him in far worse shape than he now stood. Albeit he was half-undressed, frustration building in him again like hot cloud clouds of dragon smoke. He let out a beleaguered sigh.
"That's only from this morning, though, right?" Hermione asked, pushing herself carefully away from the edge of her desk, crossing her arms across her bulging robes and tilting her head.
"Yeah." Ron's expression was one of resignation more than anything else. "I'm not showing you where my handprint is, though," he said with a small snort, his gaze flicking down to his groin and back to their friend's face.
"No, that's quite all right," Hermione said, a faint blush staining her cheeks. "People come by to check up on me enough as it is. I don't need someone thinking I'm being sexually assaulted as well."
"Assaulted?" Ron scoffed, putting the protective plaid glove back on his hand.
Harry got himself dressed and presentable again, carding his fingers through his hair.
"Well, my instinct says you should go where a jinx or curse like this must've started, though I'm really at a loss as to why somebody in Scotland would have it in for you like that," Hermione mused thoughtfully. She picked up the colourfully adorned quill next to her cup of tea. "Oh! I'm sorry- I was caught off-guard by your unexpected visit. And curse. Would either of you like tea? Or hot chocolate? It's so cold today."
"No, but thanks," Harry said, retying his scarf. "I'm afraid that whatever's been done to Ron is more than annoying; it's really got me cheesed off."
He looked over to see Hermione giving Ron a searching look, her lips twisted to the side, almost as though she were using Legillimency. In the ensuing silence, she suddenly snapped back to herself, jerking her head over to look Harry up and down.
"You're wearing those scarves I got you! From Italy!" she said, beaming.
Harry realised he was scowling and forced his face to relax. He couldn't blame his other best friend for being a bit off and less focussed than normal these days, seeing as how she could be rushed to St. Mungo's to have a baby at any moment.
"They're brilliant," Ron said gamely, twiddling with the fringe at one of the ends. "So, um, Scotland. Bit of a big country. Any more specific ideas?"
"Oh! Of course. What am I thinking? Sometimes I wonder if I've totally gone around the bend. Accio 'Lochs and Glens: The Sinister Fens'."
A mossy green-coloured book sailed up from one of the bookcases that lined one wall, floor to ceiling. With nimble fingers, she scanned the appendix, biting down on her lip, her bushy eyebrows furrowed. Harry let out a deep breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. This was much more like the Hermione he'd known and trusted since he was eleven. Glancing over at Ron, who appeared similarly relieved, Harry felt the sudden build-up of anger pop gently inside of him. He really was overreacting about this whole thing. It seemed to have come totally out of the blue, granted, but the curse or whatever it was really was annoying more than anything else.
He decided he'd been venting some of his latent resentment towards how coupleish things were this time of year; witch and wizard couples, that was. There was only grudging tolerance for people to fancy their own gender; mostly it was ignored and left unspoken. Since Harry had killed Voldemort, he suspected he could get away with having an unhealthy predilection for bandicoots and he would still be accepted by the Wizarding world, but that was solely due to whom he was. He and Ron weren't shunned or anything, and their friends and mates didn't make a big deal about it, but they were definitely an anomaly. They tended to go out to eat in queer parts of Muggle London on a regular basis, and it was like sinking into perfect bath water, soothing and relaxing.
"The Isle of Lewis," Hermione said authoritatively, tapping at a paragraph on a page two-thirds the way through the reference book. "There's a large stone circle out there, Callanish. I'd bet five Galleons that whatever you have can be removed out there. It's really old magic. At the circle, not Ron's curse. My suggestion," she said, a surprisingly mischievous gleam in her eye which Harry didn't trust at all, "is that you go to Scotland for a day. Give me a day to chase down what I think the counter-curse is. This references a very likely one, but I'd like to fire-call a colleague and then I can send it to you."
"You're barking!" Harry exclaimed. "Why on Merlin's beard should we go to bloody freezing Scotland and break this silly thing - maybe - on Christmas Eve out at a stone circle in in "
"The Outer Hebrides," Hermione chirped.
"I'm beginning to think that perhaps you've been hit with something, too," Harry said, suddenly worried. "As fond as I am of Michael, he's Muggle through and through. Maybe you woke up this morning and you're under some kind of brain-fuzzing spell or something."
"A what?" Ron chortled, his face scrunched up in suppressed laughter. "Brain-fuzzing spell?"
"Whose side are you on?"
"Yours, Harry, promise." Ron said, coming back to himself. "Say, that's not a bad idea. We've actually got an invite to an exhibition match in Glasgow, sent by Oliver Wood."
"We what?!" Harry said, shocked. "Oliver Wood invited us to a Quidditch match and you never bothered to tell me? See-" he jabbed a finger at Hermione, who looked up wide-eyed from her book of Scottish hexes. "This is why I'm pissed off about this whole thing. We could probably spend a whole bloody afternoon going through our post. It'd be a good time, though. I could put on that new Anson Astrolabe album, pour us some egg nog, sit in front of the fire " He began massaging his forehead, fixing his gaze on Ron trying to will away an encroaching headache. "I'm not mad at you, mate, really. But why didn't you even tell me? We could've planned to go to the match."
"Well," Ron sheepishly scratched at his nose with his gloved hand. "Say, let's leave Hermione out of this. I think we'll probably do what you suggest. Just owl us as soon as you know the counter-curse, okay?"
"I will!" she said, her smile radiating excitement that Harry began to find tiring and his own jaw ached in sympathy. "I'm so glad you two dropped by, really." She walked the few steps to enfold Harry in as close of a hug as her belly would allow, then over with her awkward gait to Ron. She held on to him for a bit longer than she had Harry, and even rubbed her fingers reassuringly on his shoulder blades. No doubt telling him she'd find out the counter-curse. Even Harry didn't doubt that, though he suspected it might be early in the new year before it was finally resolved.
As they exited the Ministry, waving and saying "Happy Christmas" to their own colleagues, Ron said, "I'm sorry about the note from Oliver. You know I'm not the best with our post anyway-"
"Neither am I. That's why the basket's overflowing. There's something shaking in it. I've been too afraid to look. Probably another notice from Witch's Weekly," Harry said in distaste.
Ron curled his lip. "You'd think they'd take you at your word when you say you're not an available bachelor."
"Don't get me started," Harry said, keeping his frustration at the magazine away from his mind. "Okay. Here's the plan. We go to the flat, have a couple of glasses of egg nog, at least sort through the post and find the invitation from Wood, pack up stuff for one night, and Apparate to Glasgow. There are worse ways to spend a day off, and we'll be back here for Christmas Eve. I want to be with you, in our bed. Or on the couch, if we don't make it."
A lusty expression settled on Ron's face. "You know I like the sound of that."
Neither of them was particularly showy in their affection out in public, so Harry was glad that they would be back at their place in a few minutes. "I knew you would," he remarked with equal innuendo before a blast of arctic air hit them back outside. "Shite, it's cold!"
Ron put an arm around him, roughing up his sleeve in an affectionate gesture. "Let's get home, then."
Once they'd hung up their coats, Ron plastered himself behind Harry, crossing his arms across Harry's mid-section and letting his hand feather down across the front of Harry's corduroys. He breathed hotly into Harry's ear and Harry felt a familiar, but still-exciting flutter of arousal perking to life between his legs. He leaned his head back against Ron's collar, the height difference something he'd long become used to, and snaked his arms back to cup Ron's arse. He let out a broken sigh as Ron licked around Harry's earlobe and his tongue darted inside. Harry had been shocked to discover how sensitive his ears were and that Ron's lips or breath or filthy promises spoken into them caused a nearly instantaneous reaction in his cock.
"Mmmmmm," he moaned, grinding his arse into the growing bulge behind him.
"Don't really want to start anything," Ron said, his voice rough with arousal. "Just can't keep my hands off you, sometimes." He nipped kisses down Harry's jaw, the rasp of their faint beards exciting Harry even more. Harry turned in Ron's arms so they could kiss properly, a delicious open-mouthed and wet slide of warm tongues and lips. He adored that their kisses could convey so much, since they were both pretty terrible at spoken declarations of any kind. Finally Harry pulled back, his cock mashed against his trousers and his heart beating a fast tattoo fueled by lust.
"So, are we going to do anything?" he asked, running a hand down to cup at Ron's length, equally hidden and yet obvious.
Ron looked apologetic, even though it was apparent from the flush splayed from the base of his throat that he was as turned on as Harry. "Nothing against a quickie, but I'd rather have the time to enjoy you, and if my memory serves, that match is today. I'll make it up to you," he promised, his voice low and gravelly, rutting their erections together.
"You'd better."
After a few more sucks on Ron's lips, Harry stepped backward, feeling a sense of triumph at the whimpered sounds he'd elicited from his lover. They'd definitely get back to this, tonight. He didn't care if they found themselves as far afield as Tasmania; he was getting a long, thorough shag. While Harry poured them tumblers of eggnog, adding a dram of rum to each for a bit more kick, Ron lit a fire and dumped the basket of letters, solicitations and announcements onto the floor. It didn't take long to sort most of it into its new home, the rubbish bin. A few others were put to the side to look at more closely, and then there was Wood's invitation, opened with the card sticking out of the envelope.
"What does Highland dress mean?" Harry asked, after scanning it and seeing that the exhibition match between Puddlemere and the new team, the Green Knights of Glasgow, was indeed that evening at six.
Ron shrugged. "Dunno. Guess we can ask. Here, you do it. My handwriting's atrocious."
Harry quickly penned an acceptance, full of apologies at their tardiness, and asked about the attire requirement.
"Bet it has to do with wearing plaid. Guess I've got that covered," Ron said wryly as Harry tied the note to Pig, who hooted excitedly and went zooming out the window.
"Too right."
Harry made himself another egg nog and headed to their bedroom, got out a duffle and tossed in a pair of jeans, t-shirt and jumper, and was rummaging through a dresser drawer for a pair of plaid boxer shorts when Ron came bounding up the stairs.
"Wood wrote back! Says it's brilliant we're coming, he can't wait to see us, and we've got to be wearing a kilt to get in." Ron's expression was apprehensive. "Well, guess we'd better get going if we have to hire them. Unless you own one "
"Me? I don't think so!" Harry snorted, at last finding the rather garish pair of boxer shorts and adding them to the small pile in the duffel. "The last thing this world needs to see are my bony knees and white legs. Probably blind some people, then Merlin only knows what Rita Skeeter will put in that bloody column of hers."
"They're not," Ron began until Harry gazed skeptically at him. "Okay. They're even paler than mine, and that's saying something. But I think they wear long socks. Blimey, it's going to be cold. Hope they'll have some kind of heating charm at the stadium."
"Well, pack your stuff. I'll get our things out of the bathroom." Harry had shrunk their toiletries down to miniature size when two obvious and thus-unresolved elements to their unplanned adventure came roaring to the forefront of his mind. "Hey Ron," he said, levitating the shampoo and soap and sundries into the duffel. "Where are we staying? And where are we going to find a place to hire a kilt?"
"Oh, sorry, forgot to tell you that, too," Ron apologised, seemingly uncharacteristically flustered. "Wood said he'd booked a room for us at this hotel, as a kind of 'thanks for coming,' and gave the name of a shop."
Something was beginning to feel really off about this whole day, and it wasn't just Ron's plaid-cursed hand. "Ron, is there something going on you're not telling me? Somebody still trying to get back at you after that Skyrunner ruling?"
As an occupational hazard of working for the Office for Broomstick Regulation, Ron had been both bribed and blackmailed over the past few years. Apparently that wasn't currently the case, as confusion ghosted over his face and he shook his head.
"No. Just forgot to tell you about Wood's invite. And to be honest, I didn't really think you'd want to go. You've been going on about a quiet holiday for ages, and while I thought it'd be loads of fun, I didn't want you to feel obliged or anything."
Harry stood straight, looking at his lover and best friend, and decided that no matter what, they were going to have a good time. The next few days might not involve loads of time snogging or reading Quagmire's Quidditch Quarterly in front of the fire, which was what Harry had envisioned for them. That said, as their relationship had changed and Ron had become ever more the primary weft to the weave of Harry's life, he found that as long as he knew Ron was alive and could be found within a few hours, the world could throw anything at him and he'd survive it.
"I don't feel obliged, but thanks for being so considerate. Let's go get some kilts, scare some Scots and see how Puddlemere does against these new Green Knights."
Ron's eyebrows lifted and a wide smile of gratitude bloomed on his lips. "And not that I really have eyes for anybody but you, but I've got to say that Wood looks pretty nice on a broom." His auburn brows waggled suggestively.
"You're impossible," Harry said good-naturedly before finishing his drink. "But you're right. Don't you dare hit on him."
"Me? You're mad!" Ron joked, zipping up the duffle and casting a Nox on the lights before they headed back down the stairs. "He's married, and I've got you. No need to worry about me trying to see what kind of pride Wood's got on under his kilt."
"You don't think they're going to play in kilts, do you?" Harry asked, gobsmacked.
"Bloody hell, no. It was a joke. Or supposed to be. C'mon, let's go."
"Don't know that humour, or intentional humour, anyway, is your strong point," Harry said with a cheeky grin. "Let me put our glasses in the sink and we can side-Along, since you seem to know where all of these places are."
On to part two
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 11,550
Genre: romance, erotica, humour, established relationship
Betas: rickey_a, auntee_mame and cim_halfling. Thank you!!!
Summary: A few days before Christmas, Ron is struck with a harmless, but thoroughly annoying curse. Figuring out who cast it takes Ron and Harry to Scotland, and Harry wonders: Why can't I just have a normal Christmas, just once? H/R, EWE, kilt!sex.
Author's Notes: Title, as it absolutely must have, comes from Robert Burns, from his poem "Poem on Pastoral Poetry" written in 1791. It's from the final stanza, and the sentiment reflects pretty accurately the atmosphere of this story:
[ ] but that sweet spell
O' witchin love,
That charm that can the strongest quell,
The sternest move.
I have no idea where this rather cracktastic idea came from, but once I was given Abigail89 as my gift recipient and saw a shared interest in Scotland and kilts (and perhaps single malts as well), this story was breathed into life. DH-compliant, ignoring the epilogue.
Harry Potter had faced a great deal of unexpected and downright bizarre situations in his twenty-four eventful years of life. And yet, on this December morning, he was still at a loss. He cleaned his glasses and stared at his chest in the mirror, then down at the pale skin with its rather dense swath of black hair, where an unmistakable Ron-shaped handprint was imprinted across his sternum. A plaid handprint. "Black watch plaid," some inane bit of trivia murmured from deep in his memory and he violently shook his head.
"George must've done something," he mused to himself, wetting a washcloth and lathering up some of Ron's distinctive spruce soap to wash it off. The print didn't fade, smear, discolour, or change in any way at all. Harry frowned, puzzled. He Accio'ed his wand from their bedroom and cast a Terego, a rather painful Scourgify and a glamour before giving up, exasperated, and deciding to brush his teeth. He followed that up with his usual hot shower and was drying off when Ron shuffled in, his hair a riotous mess of auburn as it tended to be in the mornings.
"Hi," he said sleepily, standing in front of the toilet to relieve himself.
The initial tinkling drops had turned to a steady stream as Harry replied, "Morning," wrapping his towel around his waist and taking a wide-toothed comb to his hair. "D'you know why George might've cast some kind of plaid hex thing on me?"
"A what?" Ron asked, confused. As he looked at the handprint spanning between Harry's pectoral muscles, a soundless 'oh' appeared on his lips. He very nearly took to pissing on the floor as he stared, not paying attention to his aim.
"Watch it!" Harry said with a laugh. A few seconds later once Ron was finished, Harry felt his own gaze stare disbelievingly at Ron's shapely, flaccid and equally plaid-imprinted cock.
"Oh fuck," Ron moaned. They both looked at his entirely ordinary left palm, his fingers splayed and moving precariously close to his face.
"I'd be careful," Harry said, instinctively grabbing at Ron's wrist and holding it tight. "I'm sure whatever this is that George has cast on you is temporary, but I don't think that you want green and navy tartan on your nose."
"Fuck," Ron groused mournfully, regarding his dominant left hand much like a traitor that needed to be sent to Azkaban. "I didn't-" he stopped as though suddenly remembering something, rolled his eyes, and pushed down the button so their toilet flushed. "You can let go. I'll be careful."
Harry gingerly let go of Ron's wrist as Ron began to experiment trying to quarantine his movements. Inanimate objects seemed to absorb the pattern, but on skin, only where he actually made contact turned colours. He was left-handed, so until they figured out what in Hades had happened to him, Ron would have to modify everything he did, or wear a glove. A glove seemed by far the most humane option.
"I don't think it's George," Ron said as he brushed his teeth with a now-plaid toothbrush.
"Who else?" Harry scoffed, kissing Ron on the shoulder and wrapping his arms around Ron's midsection. He regarded Ron in the mirror, humbled and acutely grateful that they were together and content. They had each covered no shortage of uncharted, rocky terrain to get to this point in their lives; to others, their days might seem quotidian, even boring. Sharing a flat and the vast share of his heart with Ron was never ordinary, not to Harry. This plaid nonsense, however, was quite unexpected. Given how close it was to Christmas, Harry had absolutely no doubt whatsoever that it was some time-triggered spell George had cast. It had his trickster fingerprints all over it.
"Dunno. But he and Lee have been so busy Up to their eyeballs in orders and Wheezes open extra hours. I haven't even seen them in at least a fortnight," Ron said contemplatively, his fingers brushing against his shoulder at the exact moment Harry cried out.
"Shite! Bloody hell!" Ron seethed at the thin patterned strips where he'd scratched at his clavicle.
"How about we find a glove for you, and hope whatever spell, or jinx-"
"Curse," Ron interrupted with a scowl.
"Maybe. Let's hope it can't work through fabric." Harry had moved to stand in front of him, a low fire of lust smouldering in his groin as he basked in Ron's appreciative gaze. "Keep your arm out," he warned, raising his hands to cradle Ron's jaw and kiss him deeply once Ron had leaned down to meet him. Their tongues slid gently in minty heat, a good morning, thank you for last night's shag greeting they exchanged most mornings, even if there's been only a comforting sleep without sex the night before.
"Tea, and breakfast, then we're going to Wheezes," Harry said authoritatively once they'd stepped apart.
"If you insist," Ron said, looking dubiously at his left hand.
"Did you have some other plan in mind? You can't possibly want to have some ridiculous Midas touch curse any longer than necessary."
"No, of course not," Ron reassured him, looking quite put out since he had nowhere to rest his hand. "Who's Midas?"
"Oh, some king in a Muggle myth. Everything he touched turned to gold."
"That'd be brilliant!" Ron enthused until he seemed to realise the same inherent problems with that curse that Midas did. "Except I'd not want a gold cock. Plaid's bad enough."
Harry's brow furrowed as he stood, trying to shelve his growing annoyance with George. Harry had had plans for he and Ron to relax and maybe do some last minute shopping together since they'd taken the two days off prior to Christmas Eve as part of their holiday.
"Look, don't get bent out of shape," Ron said, seemingly far less perturbed about the situation than Harry was. "I'll put on a glove and get a shower and we'll go. But I want to see Hermione, too. In case George won't fess up."
"Let me find one for you. It'd better work- damn it!" Harry yelped as Ron suddenly pulled himself upright. The left side of the doorframe around their bathroom had turned navy and green tartan where Ron had leaned, temporarily forgetting himself. "This is a bloody mess," Harry growled. "Go ahead, touch the middle top and right, too. It'll make me mental with just one side of it like that."
Ron's expression was wholly apologetic as he placed his hand on the other parts of the doorframe. "At least it's not hideous lime and pink polka dots or something," he said, apparently trying to make the best of things.
"It's bad enough," Harry seethed, now quite cheesed off and ready to declare war on George and tell him what for about poorly timed practical jokes.
They found an old gardening glove of Harry's and transfigured it to fit Ron. After it turned plaid, Ron gingerly touched their tube of toothpaste, which didn't change. They both let out a sigh of relief.
"Good. Because I reek," Ron said candidly. "I'll get washed up and meet you downstairs for breakfast as fast as I can."
"It's okay, really. I'd just wanted to relax some with you, y'know, and now we've got to go and get George to remove this, and I'm not happy."
"I'll find a way to take your mind off of it later," Ron grinned, stepping out of his boxers and shimmying his hips enough to let his tartan-imprinted cock bounce from thigh to thigh.
Harry couldn't help but snort in laughter. "Don't know that I'll be able to concentrate until we get that bloody off!" He left Ron to get his shower, going to their room to get dressed before making their tea and comforting breakfast of oatmeal and toast.
Once they'd eaten and Ron set the dishes to washing themselves, they bundled up in their coats and decadently luxurious cashmere scarves Hermione had given them as gifts after a trip she'd taken to Italy. Harry held out their bowl of Floo powder as Ron scooped up a handful in his gloved hand. His forehead wrinkled and he let the green powder fall back in before grabbing some up with his right hand.
"Don't know if it'll affect Floo powder," he said, his voice resigned. "I'd rather not end up somewhere dodgy by accident."
"I'm going to think of something annoying and very embarrassing to get George back for this," Harry promised darkly, his gaze shooting daggers as he thought about confronting Ron's older brother.
"Hey, now, it's not that bad!" Ron insisted, looking quite worried and almost apologetic. "C'mon, we don't know that he cast it. And even if he did, he'll get rid of it, no harm, no foul. It's still hard for him at the holidays, even with Lee. He might've wanted a family diversion."
Harry couldn't help it, but his anger softened at Ron's astute insight at his brother's mindset. George and Lee had shocked no one when they moved in as roommates and Lee became an employee at the re-opened Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. They had shaken Harry's reality to its axis and knocked his world topsy-turvy, however - and given him images that haunted his wanking life for weeks - when he'd stumbled into their flat from the Floo network one night, rather shit-faced, and discovered them to be much, much closer than just best mates. Over time, Harry's surprise had turned to an envy that ached in him for reasons he wasn't sure he wanted to face. George had eventually promised to kick Harry's arse to the Founders' Age and back if he didn't tell Ron how he felt about him. With his heart in knots, his stomach wanting to erupt in fear and his body desperate to writhe all over Ron's and claim him for his own, Harry and Ron had had an awkward talk which led to an even more awkward but bone-melting night of nakedness and sex. In retrospect, Harry was being a bit harsh on George, especially since it was nearly Christmas.
"Fair enough," Harry acquiesced, taking his own handful of Floo powder. "Leaky first?"
Ron nodded, throwing in his Floo powder and yelling, "The Leaky Cauldron!"
Harry followed right behind, and soon they were in the throngs of witches and wizards doing last minute shopping for Christmas. The day was bright and chill; Harry felt his face smarting against the tenacious, crisp winds gusting down the street, and he pulled up his scarf to protect his perpetually chapped lips. He couldn't keep the smile from his face as they neared Wheezes, hearing holiday-themed snippets of music escaping through open doors while people busily went in and out of the decorated shops. Nutty, cinnamon scents wafted down the road, making Harry think of clove-encrusted apples and stockings on the mantelpiece. Harry adored Christmas, and had ever since he'd discovered he was magical. Being an honourary Weasley only added to his affection for the holiday he'd loathed so much as a child. It was a strange world indeed, now that he received a dutiful Christmas card each year from the Dursleys. Not only that, but he sent one in return, and really did wish them well.
Ron yanked open the door to Wheezes and they were immediately absorbed into the lurid chaos of the thriving jokeshop. Harry's anger at George had all but vanished; they could get him to remove the somewhat comical curse off of Ron, and maybe even help out a bit at the till or with keeping things restocked.
"Ron! Harry!" Lee Jordan yelled enthusiastically from a table in the back corner. A hovering sign proclaimed Weasleys' Patented 'Wait a Spell' Wrapping Available Here with a neon arrow blinking down at Lee. He waved them to him, and after dodging a few flying carpets and accidentally stepping on a few small feet, Ron and Harry managed to get back to him. George had also appeared, his face lit up with mischievous pleasure.
"What're you two doing here?" George asked, pulling them off to the side so Lee could continue dealing with their customers.
"Visiting - I need you to do something," Harry said meaningfully, looking at Ron's hand.
Ron held it up, waving the plaid glove around and looking oddly embarrassed.
"What's the 'wait a spell'?" Harry continued on, pointing at Lee and the queue of witches, mostly, holding bags of gifts, many not from Wheezes but from other shops in Diagon and even further afield.
"It's a fabulous spell that Lee and I came up with; puts a repelling jinx on the present until Christmas morning or Christmas Eve, depending on when they want it set. We can have the package talk back, or break into song, or even move around. Has a cushioning charm on it, too," he said proudly before tilting his head and regarding Ron's hand. "What'd you go and do now?"
"I didn't!" Ron said weakly, his expression one of pleading. "Don't know what happened. Woke up this morning and everything I touch turns plaid."
George let out a warm guffaw, his chest heaving with laughter. "Brilliant. That's priceless." He tapped Ron on the shoulder. "So that doesn't explain why you're here."
"Oh, I think you know why," Harry said levelly, unbuttoning his coat as he was beginning to sweat. Wheezes was full of running children and harried adults, and it was quite warm compared to the frigid air outside. "I can understand why you did it, and it's pretty funny, but go ahead and take off the hex."
"Me?" George seemed incredulous. Lee had picked up on the brewing conflict and waved Zapateous Zonko, the son of the late joke-shop owner and Wheezes' third employee, over to deal with the Wait A Spell casting. "I didn't do this, but I admire whoever did," he said, giving Ron a cheeky grin and making Harry's irritation bloom back full fold.
"What's going on?" Lee asked after assessing Ron's discomfort, George's wicked grin and Harry's increasing annoyance.
"Look. George, it's funny. Really. I see the humour in it, but take the bloody curse off. I'd just like to have a normal, happy Christmas without everything Ron touches ending up with Black Watch plaid. Enough is enough."
"You what?" Lee asked, his eyes shining with mirth.
"Yeah, I've been hexed. Or something," Ron said, looking more and more agitated.
He didn't appear angry, which Harry couldn't comprehend. Harry was beginning to be cheesed off at both George and Lee, who seemingly were complicit in this state of events.
"That's weird. It's funny, but I've never read about any curse like that," Lee said, looking thoughtfully at George.
"I said, enough!" Harry growled low in his throat. "Just do the counter-curse and we'll see you both later. Stop pretending like this isn't your doing. It's obvious, even for you," Harry said peevishly.
"But I didn't cast it!" George said defensively, giving Ron a very hard look as though to back him up. "Make me drink Veritaserum if you insist, but I didn't do this," George rumbled, his forehead furrowed as Lee snaked out a hand to rest comfortingly on George's wrist.
"Harry," Ron warned, wrapping a wide palm around Harry's shoulder. "George has been a lot of things, but he's never been a liar."
Soothing pine wafted toward Harry and he relaxed into Ron's hand. "Fine. Guess we should go see Hermione."
"Sounds good," Ron replied, still obviously out of sorts. "You two okay? Seems like business is going well. See you Christmas Day?"
"Wouldn't miss it," George and Lee said in tandem, obligation heavy in their words.
"Um, good," Ron said awkwardly, tugging at the shirt at his neck. "See you then."
"Look, George, I'm sorry," Harry said, feeling regret at his near-violent reaction with a warm wave of shame. "I've been out of line. Of course you wouldn't lie to me."
"It's the holidays. People can get a bit touchy," George said, his more usual good humour back in his voice and in his expression. "Best of luck finding the counter-curse."
"Thanks," Ron replied, relief flooding his features. "See you, Zap!" he called out over the mayhem.
The gangly young man grinned and waved as Harry led their way back out of the shop. The cold air sent zealous fingers down the open vee of Harry's shirt. With a shiver, he hastily buttoned his coat back up. "Which entrance do you want to use?" he asked as they strode down the footpath. He was nearly ready to tug on Ron's coat and ask him to slow down when Ron seemed to sense he was moving at quite a fast clip, and his legs were decisively longer than Harry's.
"Phone box, I reckon. Hermione'll know what to do, no doubt."
"Can't believe she's still working."
Ron grunted in agreement. She was nearly at full term, and could be having her first child any day, but she insisted that she could work and it would be just fine until her actual labour pains started. After rather a whirlwind romance with a cousin of Dean Thomas' whom she ran into - literally - while going to an interview at Oxford, they'd gotten married and not quite a year later, they discovered they were going to be parents. It caused a twinge of melancholy in Harry's heart to think of his other best friend as a young mum, going down such a different path than he and Ron. That faint heaviness dissipated once he found himself in yet another bustling environment, the one that both he and Ron were used to dealing with every day, caught up in the swirling robes and officious atmosphere of the Ministry. Her door was open, the placard next to the doorframe stating: Hermione Granger-Thomas, Chancellor for Equal Rights, Magical Creatures.
"Hullo, Hermione!" Harry said warmly, smiling as she eased away from her desk to waddle towards them.
"I thought you weren't working today?" she half-questioned, half-stated as she looked Harry and Ron up and down.
"We're not," Ron said quickly. "I woke up with this, um, hex or curse or something." He waved his gloved hand vaguely in the air.
"You remember the legend of King Midas, right?" Harry asked, undoing his coat and standing close to the small fireplace in her office.
"Of course," Hermione said starchly, understanding suddenly cascading across her face. "That's why you've got a glove on? Everything you touch turns to-"
"Plaid," Ron said glumly.
Out of respect for his lover's plight, and his own inconvenience at having to deal with the annoying curse, Harry felt a smouldering of irritation at the grin Hermione had to suppress.
"I just know - knew - George had done it. But we went to Wheezes and after I made myself look like a complete skrewt's bum, I've realised he really didn't cast it," Harry said, chagrinned and embarrassed. "I know it's two days to Christmas and you've got loads on your mind-"
"And stomach," Ron interrupted, his right hand hovering over the rotund space pushing out Hermione's robes.
"It's not my stomach! It's my belly, I suppose," Hermione scolded, but with a good-natured nod she indicated he could touch her distended abdomen. "But of course I'll make time to help you. Tell me what happened, or show me, if you'd like," she offered.
Ron carefully peeled off his glove, shoving it into his jacket pocket with his right hand. As Harry loosened the scarf at his neck, Ron took a hold of the quill Hermione gave him. They all watched as the distinctive pine and navy pattern bloomed on the nib and chased down the feathers. Hermione's eyebrows raised as she took back her quill, twirling it around before gingerly taking hold of Ron's forearm.
"We, it seems relatively harmless, as far as jinxes go," she said diplomatically, glancing over at Harry. "How long does it last?"
"Maybe it goes away!" he said excitedly, his spirits rising as quickly and bright as a Wheezes' firework display. Harry hadn't even considered the idea that it might be temporary. He shucked off his coat and it dropped into a chocolaty leather heap at his feet. He tugged his jumper from the back of his shoulder blades over his head and tossed it down too as Ron said, "Um, mate, the door's wide open "
With one hand Harry yanked his t-shirt up from his jeans, and he brushed the dense patch of hair at the centre of his chest where-
- a plaid handprint still remained.
"Pixie's piss," he growled under his breath, ignoring Hermione's gasp. She'd heard far worse out of his mouth and seen him in far worse shape than he now stood. Albeit he was half-undressed, frustration building in him again like hot cloud clouds of dragon smoke. He let out a beleaguered sigh.
"That's only from this morning, though, right?" Hermione asked, pushing herself carefully away from the edge of her desk, crossing her arms across her bulging robes and tilting her head.
"Yeah." Ron's expression was one of resignation more than anything else. "I'm not showing you where my handprint is, though," he said with a small snort, his gaze flicking down to his groin and back to their friend's face.
"No, that's quite all right," Hermione said, a faint blush staining her cheeks. "People come by to check up on me enough as it is. I don't need someone thinking I'm being sexually assaulted as well."
"Assaulted?" Ron scoffed, putting the protective plaid glove back on his hand.
Harry got himself dressed and presentable again, carding his fingers through his hair.
"Well, my instinct says you should go where a jinx or curse like this must've started, though I'm really at a loss as to why somebody in Scotland would have it in for you like that," Hermione mused thoughtfully. She picked up the colourfully adorned quill next to her cup of tea. "Oh! I'm sorry- I was caught off-guard by your unexpected visit. And curse. Would either of you like tea? Or hot chocolate? It's so cold today."
"No, but thanks," Harry said, retying his scarf. "I'm afraid that whatever's been done to Ron is more than annoying; it's really got me cheesed off."
He looked over to see Hermione giving Ron a searching look, her lips twisted to the side, almost as though she were using Legillimency. In the ensuing silence, she suddenly snapped back to herself, jerking her head over to look Harry up and down.
"You're wearing those scarves I got you! From Italy!" she said, beaming.
Harry realised he was scowling and forced his face to relax. He couldn't blame his other best friend for being a bit off and less focussed than normal these days, seeing as how she could be rushed to St. Mungo's to have a baby at any moment.
"They're brilliant," Ron said gamely, twiddling with the fringe at one of the ends. "So, um, Scotland. Bit of a big country. Any more specific ideas?"
"Oh! Of course. What am I thinking? Sometimes I wonder if I've totally gone around the bend. Accio 'Lochs and Glens: The Sinister Fens'."
A mossy green-coloured book sailed up from one of the bookcases that lined one wall, floor to ceiling. With nimble fingers, she scanned the appendix, biting down on her lip, her bushy eyebrows furrowed. Harry let out a deep breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. This was much more like the Hermione he'd known and trusted since he was eleven. Glancing over at Ron, who appeared similarly relieved, Harry felt the sudden build-up of anger pop gently inside of him. He really was overreacting about this whole thing. It seemed to have come totally out of the blue, granted, but the curse or whatever it was really was annoying more than anything else.
He decided he'd been venting some of his latent resentment towards how coupleish things were this time of year; witch and wizard couples, that was. There was only grudging tolerance for people to fancy their own gender; mostly it was ignored and left unspoken. Since Harry had killed Voldemort, he suspected he could get away with having an unhealthy predilection for bandicoots and he would still be accepted by the Wizarding world, but that was solely due to whom he was. He and Ron weren't shunned or anything, and their friends and mates didn't make a big deal about it, but they were definitely an anomaly. They tended to go out to eat in queer parts of Muggle London on a regular basis, and it was like sinking into perfect bath water, soothing and relaxing.
"The Isle of Lewis," Hermione said authoritatively, tapping at a paragraph on a page two-thirds the way through the reference book. "There's a large stone circle out there, Callanish. I'd bet five Galleons that whatever you have can be removed out there. It's really old magic. At the circle, not Ron's curse. My suggestion," she said, a surprisingly mischievous gleam in her eye which Harry didn't trust at all, "is that you go to Scotland for a day. Give me a day to chase down what I think the counter-curse is. This references a very likely one, but I'd like to fire-call a colleague and then I can send it to you."
"You're barking!" Harry exclaimed. "Why on Merlin's beard should we go to bloody freezing Scotland and break this silly thing - maybe - on Christmas Eve out at a stone circle in in "
"The Outer Hebrides," Hermione chirped.
"I'm beginning to think that perhaps you've been hit with something, too," Harry said, suddenly worried. "As fond as I am of Michael, he's Muggle through and through. Maybe you woke up this morning and you're under some kind of brain-fuzzing spell or something."
"A what?" Ron chortled, his face scrunched up in suppressed laughter. "Brain-fuzzing spell?"
"Whose side are you on?"
"Yours, Harry, promise." Ron said, coming back to himself. "Say, that's not a bad idea. We've actually got an invite to an exhibition match in Glasgow, sent by Oliver Wood."
"We what?!" Harry said, shocked. "Oliver Wood invited us to a Quidditch match and you never bothered to tell me? See-" he jabbed a finger at Hermione, who looked up wide-eyed from her book of Scottish hexes. "This is why I'm pissed off about this whole thing. We could probably spend a whole bloody afternoon going through our post. It'd be a good time, though. I could put on that new Anson Astrolabe album, pour us some egg nog, sit in front of the fire " He began massaging his forehead, fixing his gaze on Ron trying to will away an encroaching headache. "I'm not mad at you, mate, really. But why didn't you even tell me? We could've planned to go to the match."
"Well," Ron sheepishly scratched at his nose with his gloved hand. "Say, let's leave Hermione out of this. I think we'll probably do what you suggest. Just owl us as soon as you know the counter-curse, okay?"
"I will!" she said, her smile radiating excitement that Harry began to find tiring and his own jaw ached in sympathy. "I'm so glad you two dropped by, really." She walked the few steps to enfold Harry in as close of a hug as her belly would allow, then over with her awkward gait to Ron. She held on to him for a bit longer than she had Harry, and even rubbed her fingers reassuringly on his shoulder blades. No doubt telling him she'd find out the counter-curse. Even Harry didn't doubt that, though he suspected it might be early in the new year before it was finally resolved.
As they exited the Ministry, waving and saying "Happy Christmas" to their own colleagues, Ron said, "I'm sorry about the note from Oliver. You know I'm not the best with our post anyway-"
"Neither am I. That's why the basket's overflowing. There's something shaking in it. I've been too afraid to look. Probably another notice from Witch's Weekly," Harry said in distaste.
Ron curled his lip. "You'd think they'd take you at your word when you say you're not an available bachelor."
"Don't get me started," Harry said, keeping his frustration at the magazine away from his mind. "Okay. Here's the plan. We go to the flat, have a couple of glasses of egg nog, at least sort through the post and find the invitation from Wood, pack up stuff for one night, and Apparate to Glasgow. There are worse ways to spend a day off, and we'll be back here for Christmas Eve. I want to be with you, in our bed. Or on the couch, if we don't make it."
A lusty expression settled on Ron's face. "You know I like the sound of that."
Neither of them was particularly showy in their affection out in public, so Harry was glad that they would be back at their place in a few minutes. "I knew you would," he remarked with equal innuendo before a blast of arctic air hit them back outside. "Shite, it's cold!"
Ron put an arm around him, roughing up his sleeve in an affectionate gesture. "Let's get home, then."
Once they'd hung up their coats, Ron plastered himself behind Harry, crossing his arms across Harry's mid-section and letting his hand feather down across the front of Harry's corduroys. He breathed hotly into Harry's ear and Harry felt a familiar, but still-exciting flutter of arousal perking to life between his legs. He leaned his head back against Ron's collar, the height difference something he'd long become used to, and snaked his arms back to cup Ron's arse. He let out a broken sigh as Ron licked around Harry's earlobe and his tongue darted inside. Harry had been shocked to discover how sensitive his ears were and that Ron's lips or breath or filthy promises spoken into them caused a nearly instantaneous reaction in his cock.
"Mmmmmm," he moaned, grinding his arse into the growing bulge behind him.
"Don't really want to start anything," Ron said, his voice rough with arousal. "Just can't keep my hands off you, sometimes." He nipped kisses down Harry's jaw, the rasp of their faint beards exciting Harry even more. Harry turned in Ron's arms so they could kiss properly, a delicious open-mouthed and wet slide of warm tongues and lips. He adored that their kisses could convey so much, since they were both pretty terrible at spoken declarations of any kind. Finally Harry pulled back, his cock mashed against his trousers and his heart beating a fast tattoo fueled by lust.
"So, are we going to do anything?" he asked, running a hand down to cup at Ron's length, equally hidden and yet obvious.
Ron looked apologetic, even though it was apparent from the flush splayed from the base of his throat that he was as turned on as Harry. "Nothing against a quickie, but I'd rather have the time to enjoy you, and if my memory serves, that match is today. I'll make it up to you," he promised, his voice low and gravelly, rutting their erections together.
"You'd better."
After a few more sucks on Ron's lips, Harry stepped backward, feeling a sense of triumph at the whimpered sounds he'd elicited from his lover. They'd definitely get back to this, tonight. He didn't care if they found themselves as far afield as Tasmania; he was getting a long, thorough shag. While Harry poured them tumblers of eggnog, adding a dram of rum to each for a bit more kick, Ron lit a fire and dumped the basket of letters, solicitations and announcements onto the floor. It didn't take long to sort most of it into its new home, the rubbish bin. A few others were put to the side to look at more closely, and then there was Wood's invitation, opened with the card sticking out of the envelope.
"What does Highland dress mean?" Harry asked, after scanning it and seeing that the exhibition match between Puddlemere and the new team, the Green Knights of Glasgow, was indeed that evening at six.
Ron shrugged. "Dunno. Guess we can ask. Here, you do it. My handwriting's atrocious."
Harry quickly penned an acceptance, full of apologies at their tardiness, and asked about the attire requirement.
"Bet it has to do with wearing plaid. Guess I've got that covered," Ron said wryly as Harry tied the note to Pig, who hooted excitedly and went zooming out the window.
"Too right."
Harry made himself another egg nog and headed to their bedroom, got out a duffle and tossed in a pair of jeans, t-shirt and jumper, and was rummaging through a dresser drawer for a pair of plaid boxer shorts when Ron came bounding up the stairs.
"Wood wrote back! Says it's brilliant we're coming, he can't wait to see us, and we've got to be wearing a kilt to get in." Ron's expression was apprehensive. "Well, guess we'd better get going if we have to hire them. Unless you own one "
"Me? I don't think so!" Harry snorted, at last finding the rather garish pair of boxer shorts and adding them to the small pile in the duffel. "The last thing this world needs to see are my bony knees and white legs. Probably blind some people, then Merlin only knows what Rita Skeeter will put in that bloody column of hers."
"They're not," Ron began until Harry gazed skeptically at him. "Okay. They're even paler than mine, and that's saying something. But I think they wear long socks. Blimey, it's going to be cold. Hope they'll have some kind of heating charm at the stadium."
"Well, pack your stuff. I'll get our things out of the bathroom." Harry had shrunk their toiletries down to miniature size when two obvious and thus-unresolved elements to their unplanned adventure came roaring to the forefront of his mind. "Hey Ron," he said, levitating the shampoo and soap and sundries into the duffel. "Where are we staying? And where are we going to find a place to hire a kilt?"
"Oh, sorry, forgot to tell you that, too," Ron apologised, seemingly uncharacteristically flustered. "Wood said he'd booked a room for us at this hotel, as a kind of 'thanks for coming,' and gave the name of a shop."
Something was beginning to feel really off about this whole day, and it wasn't just Ron's plaid-cursed hand. "Ron, is there something going on you're not telling me? Somebody still trying to get back at you after that Skyrunner ruling?"
As an occupational hazard of working for the Office for Broomstick Regulation, Ron had been both bribed and blackmailed over the past few years. Apparently that wasn't currently the case, as confusion ghosted over his face and he shook his head.
"No. Just forgot to tell you about Wood's invite. And to be honest, I didn't really think you'd want to go. You've been going on about a quiet holiday for ages, and while I thought it'd be loads of fun, I didn't want you to feel obliged or anything."
Harry stood straight, looking at his lover and best friend, and decided that no matter what, they were going to have a good time. The next few days might not involve loads of time snogging or reading Quagmire's Quidditch Quarterly in front of the fire, which was what Harry had envisioned for them. That said, as their relationship had changed and Ron had become ever more the primary weft to the weave of Harry's life, he found that as long as he knew Ron was alive and could be found within a few hours, the world could throw anything at him and he'd survive it.
"I don't feel obliged, but thanks for being so considerate. Let's go get some kilts, scare some Scots and see how Puddlemere does against these new Green Knights."
Ron's eyebrows lifted and a wide smile of gratitude bloomed on his lips. "And not that I really have eyes for anybody but you, but I've got to say that Wood looks pretty nice on a broom." His auburn brows waggled suggestively.
"You're impossible," Harry said good-naturedly before finishing his drink. "But you're right. Don't you dare hit on him."
"Me? You're mad!" Ron joked, zipping up the duffle and casting a Nox on the lights before they headed back down the stairs. "He's married, and I've got you. No need to worry about me trying to see what kind of pride Wood's got on under his kilt."
"You don't think they're going to play in kilts, do you?" Harry asked, gobsmacked.
"Bloody hell, no. It was a joke. Or supposed to be. C'mon, let's go."
"Don't know that humour, or intentional humour, anyway, is your strong point," Harry said with a cheeky grin. "Let me put our glasses in the sink and we can side-Along, since you seem to know where all of these places are."
On to part two