What Happens in Denmark

2.

“But
you don't even need
a bodyguard,” Ron complained as he rummaged around in his
pockets in search of a glove that was probably on his kitchen
counter. One glove, unfortunately, wasn't going to do him any good in
Denmark. Denmark was North, right? So it must be cold there. He
rubbed his hands together, just the thought of braving a Northern
winter chilled him to the bone.

Snape shrugged blandly. “It is the Ministry's mandate that I
ought to have an Auror with me at all times should I leave the
country,” he answered. Was he happy about it? No, of course
not. Was he going to let it control his life and keep him chained to
the UK until his dying day? That, also, was a resounding no. “There
is only one Brewers' Convention every five years. I have been asked
to attend, and that is precisely what I intend to do. It is not my
concern if the Ministry considers you so expendable that you will not
be missed until the holiday season.”

“You're a real bastard, you know,” Ron complained, still
shuffling about for a glove it was now rather obvious he was not
going to find.

“Oh for pity's sake, Weasley, do you honestly think they do not
sell gloves in Denmark?” Snape finally snapped. The fidgeting
was driving him mad.

“I
had it ten minutes ago,” Ron groused. He had always had
horrible organization skills. It was the one thing he missed most
about being married to Hermione – he'd always been able to find
his crap. And knowing that
was what he missed most made him feel like the world's biggest arse.

“And now you do not, and it is time to go,” Snape stated
the obvious. “I will not miss my portkey over a lost glove,
least of all one that isn't even mine.”

Ron grumbled the entire way to the portkey, and made a face when he
got stuck with the toe end of a holey sock. “Why's it always
got to be footwear?” It was the last thing either of them said
before they were warped across the Atlantic.

Ron never did manage to master portkey landings. Apparating was
cooler, after all, but not always as practical. He crashed to the
ground in an awkward tumble and rolled down a steep hill before he
managed to stop himself.

Snape skittered down the hill behind him and continued their
conversation precisely where it left off. “Perhaps you would
prefer a glittering trophy? As I recall, that did not go well for
your friend, Potter.”

“I would prefer something that doesn't smell like feet,”
Ron answered as he dusted himself off, adjusted his shirt, and
retrieved his lone glove from the frosted grass. “Say, a rake,
or a glove. A left-hand glove would be right handy about now.”

There was a little twitch at the corner of Snape's mouth that Ron had
very nearly mistaken for a smirk. Hard to tell, but knowing Snape, it
was probably a grimace. “Oh, shut up. If you think my jokes are
lame, then you try to do better.”

“Knock Knock,” Snape said dryly.

“Who's there?” Ron tried skeptically.

“Your village, Weasley. They want their idiot back.”

Ron laughed. He couldn't help it. It wasn't that the joke was bad, it
was that it was so bad that it became funny in its
horribleness. The dry delivery helped. He figured Snape was just
trying to tell him to can it in the snarkiest way possible, but
still. “That was the worst joke ever!” he
chuckled.

“And yet, you laughed,” Snape said as if this wasn't news
at all. “Perhaps the humor of a joke lies more in fact than
fiction after all.”

“You're a jerk,” Ron blanketed.

“And you are a nuisance. Now that we have both said something
pointless, go purchase a pair of gloves,” he nodded toward a
small shop that looked like little more than a cottage around the
bend of the hill. “It is a long walk to the hotel and I would
prefer to have my affairs settled into a room before dinner.”

“Yeah yeah,” Ron sighed, waving it off. “You really
are an all-work sort of guy, you know.”

“You are entitled to your opinions, as I am entitled to ignore
them.”