Always The One

Written for elenauial.


~~~ ALWAYS THE ONE ~~~


"Bloody owls!"

Harry flopped down into his squeaky office chair to a flurry of anxious hoots and a frenzied flapping of wings.

"Off with you all!" he snapped, waving an arm. "Out, out now!"

Most of the birds heeded his request, dropping their letters or packages before flying out of his office and into the hallway. A few lingered, jockeying for position and holding out their legs.

"Oh for Godric's sake..." Harry untied the handful of tiny scrolls as quickly as he could, shooing the rather disgruntled owls out into the corridor. He stared at the pile of parchments and tiny boxes with intense trepidation, one hand rubbing his forehead. After a moment, he stood up and shrugged out of his battered denim jacket, flinging it at the row of hooks mounted on the wall nearby. It missed, per usual.

"Balls," he muttered, running his hand through his disheveled hair. He sat down and began to pick his way through the deluge of owl post. The onset of the holiday season had caused a drastic increase in his daily load of mail. For some reason, this year was the absolute worst. He picked through the pile of perfumed and luridly decorated envelopes, shoving most of them across his desktop and into the rubbish bin. When he was finished sorting, there were exactly three pieces of mail remaining: Christmas cards, most likely, from Seamus, Luna Lovegood and The Royal Wizarding Bank of Britain.

"Shite," he sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temple.

"More fan mail for Hero Harry?"

Harry swivelled about and peered through the fingers of his hand with a heavy sigh. "Hey, Ken."

Ken Towler smirked and bent over to look into Harry's rubbish bin. "Nice haul today." He waggled an eyebrow. "Mind?"

Harry waved a hand. "Help yourself."

Ken reached down and retrieved a handful of the owl post.

"I don't understand what you want with those," Harry said, tearing open the envelope from the Bank of Britain.

Ken sat down heavily into his own chair, a scant few inches from Harry's. "I've told you hundreds of time before, mate, these are hilarious!" He plopped a pile of envelopes on his desk, tearing into a pink, octagonally shaped parchment with relish. “You never know what you’re going to find.” He chortled shamelessly.

"What is it?" Harry asked.

Ken sniggered a bit longer, holding up a hand while he finished the letter. "You know the rules, Harry," he admonished. "Give up your rights to 'em, and you've no business asking."

"Merlin," Harry growled, turning his attentions to Seamus' envelope, which was running through a range of colours from red to green to purple and back again.

Ken was right, of course. He truly didn’t care to slog through a mountain of post, mostly from lovelorn witches professing their deepest, heartfelt desires for him, marriage proposals, or offers of a sexual nature. That sort of thing came with the territory, he supposed, but it still mystified him that the volume of mail over the years hadn’t decreased in the slightest. Especially considering that he’d publicly come out as queer nearly four years ago. His announcement had been a media circus, as he expected, but it had done little to quell the voracious public interest in his personal life. The only difference after his announcement was that he now received a fair amount of correspondence from obviously gay wizards as well.

He'd been partnered with Towler for nearly three years now, since the official end of the War. Ken was a decent bloke, and had a predilection towards bald humour and practical jokes. Which made sense, of course, as Ken was a close mate and cohort to Fred and George Weasley during their Hogwarts years.

Harry'd been awarded a cushy position within The Ministry upon his release from St. Mungo's. He'd always wanted to believe that his knowledge, skills and experiences had been a factor in his being offered his job in the Department of Aurors; sadly, it quickly became apparent that Scrimgeour had merely created Harry's position to further his own political gain and for guaranteed columnar space on the front page of The Prophet.

Scrimgeour had been ousted barely six months after Harry had been set up in a sumptuously appointed corner office; the new Minister had wasted no time in 're-assigning' Harry to a department and position 'better suited' to his abilities. Abilities that apparently merited a basement cubbyhole.

"Fuck," Harry murmured to himself. Seamus wouldn't be able to make it back to London for the holidays, either. Seamus was unable to tear himself away from his new pub in Boston; business was too good, the help too new, the boys too gorgeous. He dropped the letter, pinching the bridge of his nose. That seemed to be the trend this year. Nearly everyone had found something better to do than attend their annual celebration...

Ken chuckled deviously as he read another one of Harry's discarded letters.

It had been a tradition of sorts, since the end of the War, that everyone came together on Christmas Eve, no matter what, to celebrate. Everyone that had survived, that is. Sure, it was a bittersweet thing, but it was amazing what a case of firewhiskey could do to one's spirits. Harry shifted in his chair, reading Luna's nearly illegibly scrawled note.

This year had been different, however. For whatever reason, folks were either unavailable or just not in the mood. Charlie had been called back to the Preserve to oversee a particularly testy clutch of Horntail hatchlings. George and Remus were still in Madagascar investigating some heretofore undiscovered magical standing stones. Bill was still somewhere in Australia, researching lycanthropy. Neville, Justin and Cho had begged off with vague excuses. Draco and Snape were still in the States sojourning with some native American wizards in the Sonoran desert. Molly was a bit under the weather at Fleur's villa in Montenegro. Tonks and Moody had extended their honeymoon in Sri Lanka. Add Seamus and his pub woes to the list...

"Balls," Harry hissed under his breath, dropping Luna‘s note.

"What’s that?" Towler asked absently, tearing open another parchment envelope.

"Nothing," Harry replied. What sort of twisted turn of events had occurred to where Luna Lovegood had a 'previous engagement'? Really, who would be left in attendance? No real point in hiring the usual banquet room in the basement of The Leaky Cauldron...

"Hey, Harry!"

Harry looked up to see Hermione peering around the door frame of his office. "Hiya, Herm," he replied listlessly.

Hermione pulled a face and entered their cramped office, hands on her hips. "Rough day?" She walked up behind Harry, her hands quickly falling on his shoulders, kneading away in earnest.

Ken snorted. "Yeah, anther challenging day for Aurors Potter and Towler, Ministry agents extraordinaire!"

“Hey, Ken.”

Ken twiddled his fingers in response.

“More rabid doxies?” Hermione asked.

Ken harrumphed. “If only.”

“What, then?” Hermione prodded gently.

Harry winced as Hermione massaged a sore spot at the base of his neck. “Some dolt got it in his head to cross-breed horklumps and nifflers. The sodding things escaped, and ran amok in Kent.”

“Oh, dear,” Hermione commented, the amusement in her voice plainly evident.

“Yeah,” Harry murmured. “I think I’ve still got some spines embedded in my fingers.”

“You have to admit,” Ken added wryly, “that it really got interesting when the little bastards stormed the manicurist’s shop.”

Harry groaned.

Hermione chuckled softly.

“S’not funny,” Harry said.

“Yeah, it was,” Ken replied.

“Sorry, love,” Hermione offered, her tone at least somewhat soothing.

“Aurors. Bah!” Harry spat. “Bloody little more than glorified dog catchers anymore.”

“Harry,” Hermione said, “You know that’s not true; there’s a lot more to your position than you think. We’ve still some renegade followers of Voldemort at large that need rounded up.”

Harry snorted. “Right. When’s the last time we brought one in?”

“Year ago last February,” Ken chimed in helpfully.

“A real danger that one was,” Harry said, shaking his head. “A flipping florist in Kensington. He threatened us with a rather startling wildflower arrangement.”

Ken laughed some more, but Harry couldn’t be sure if it was due to his comment or an especially amusing bit of post.

Hermione was giggling out loud now.

“What are you doing trolling about down here in the bowels, anyway?” Harry asked rather pointedly. “I’d have thought the Undersecretary to the Minister would have better things to do with her time.”

Hermione dug her thumbs into Harry’s shoulder blades.

“Yowch!” Harry yelped. “Easy there!”

“That’s what you get for your cheek,” she replied. “And I’ve never anything better to do where you’re concerned. After all this time...”

Harry tried to sit up. “Right, yeah, sorry.”

“No worries,” Hermione replied.

“Going to be a rather light turnout tonight,” Harry mused. “The house elves will be stumbling all over each other to serve those few of us that will be there.” He craned his neck as Hermione withdrew her hands.

“Oh, yes, well actually, Harry,” she began, turning away to peer over Ken’s shoulder.

“Don’t tell me,” Harry replied.

Hermione threw up her hands. “I’ve cancelled our reservation at The Cauldron tonight. No point in having that huge room, really.”

Harry stared at her. “So much for tradition,” he sulked.

“Look, that’s why I’ve come down,” Hermione said. “How about we meet at The Mirthful Monk for dinner and drinks? I’ve already firecalled Duncan, and he’s set aside a section of booths in the back for us.”

Ken twirled about in his chair to eye Harry knowingly. Hermione grinned as coquettishly as humanly possible.

“Sure, why not. Good fish’n chips there, at least,” Harry admitted.

“Fine!” Hermione beamed. “Be there at half-seven.”

“Viktor coming?”

“Of course.”

“I haven’t heard from Ron,” Harry admitted.

“I have. He’s a bit tied up in Osmington. He’ll meet us all at the pub.”

“All?” Harry queried, eyebrows rising into his black fringe.

Hermione blew out a breath. “Will we be seeing Dylan this evening?”

Harry sighed and shook his head. Dylan was a bloke from up in Memory Modification that he’d been dating on an off for a few weeks. “Nope. He’s...we’ve...no, he won‘t be there.”

“Big ocean,” Hermione offered brightly.

“And bloody deep, too,” Harry snorted.

“Sorry.”

“Whatever.”

“Just be there.”

“Bang on, madame Secretary!” Harry replied loudly, giving her an exaggerated salute.

“Wanker!” Hermione winked and strode out of the office and into the corridor.

“Quite a witch,” Ken murmured approvingly.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “Just don’t piss her off.”

Ken pulled a face and returned to his trove of Harry’s discarded fan mail.


~~~~~~~


The remainder of Harry’s afternoon passed by blessedly and painlessly fast. He flooed into his flat by half-five and had showered, shaved and dressed by six. He decided to go for comfort, choosing his favourite pair of black denims, a simple ivory pullover, and his usual chunky, black boots. He stared in the mirror, poking and smoothing his hair to no obvious effect. He then stalked about his sitting room nervously, at once anxious to leave but strangely hesitant as well.

He absently flipped through the latest copy of The Quibbler for a bit before almost firecalling Dylan. He stood before his hearth for a full ten minutes, debating whether or not to ask the hunky Obliviator to join him at The Monk. Dylan was a fine bloke, and they’d had some good times, but clearly, the spark had been missing, and they both knew it. They’d more or less agreed to stop dating, officially, and remain friends. So there was nothing wrong with asking a friend to a celebration, was there? Then why did it feel so, well, desperate to call Dylan up late on Christmas Eve to see if he was free?

Probably because that’s exactly what it was: desperate.

“Lame tosser,” Harry muttered to himself.

Hedwig watched him intently from her perch, her gaze annoyingly pervasive.

“Well, what do you think?” Harry asked. “Am I that pathetic?”

Hedwig hooted twice in response, finishing with a menacing click of her beak.

Harry snorted. “Yeah. Thanks. Haven’t sunk that low, I reckon.” He shrugged into his leather cycle jacket and grabbed a handful of powder, flooing directly to The Mirthful Monk.

There was a decent sized crowd in attendance as Harry strode into the pub. A good portion of the wizarding world observed Christmas in a traditionally Muggle manner, while the remainder chose to celebrate the Winter Solstice.

Harry took a seat at the end of the long bar, and Duncan appeared before him in an instant.

“Well, Happy Christmas, Harry! Right good to see ya,” Duncan said in his thick, warm brogue. “What kin I get ya? Firewhiskey?”

“Some Oban, please,” Harry replied.

Duncan waggled his eyebrows. “Brilliant!” The bottle of scotch and a tumbler levitated over, and he filled Harry’s glass. “Leave the bottle?”

Harry nodded and sipped at the Oban.

“Very good,” Duncan replied, sauntering away to serve another customer.

Harry didn’t know why he felt so out of sorts lately. He’d always enjoyed Christmas, at least once he’d gotten to Hogwarts, anyway. His favourite holiday memory of all was that Christmas during first year, when it was just himself and Ron. It had been grand, quiet, wonderful, and just what Harry’d always dreamt of. Sure, there’d been some other most excellent Christmases since then, particularly at The Burrow before the War, and then their celebrations after.

But this year was different. Something was off, and Harry hadn’t a clue as to what it was.

Yeah, his job at The Ministry, well, sucked. Big time. He’d been shoved into a basement office with Ken, who was a prat, certainly, but a decent fellow and a competent partner. But Harry knew that not everyone had a job they loved, so that most likely wasn’t the key element. And yes, he’d just broken up with Dylan, sort of, but that wasn’t really it either. He truly enjoyed the holidays, unlike some, so that possible explanation was off the table also.

“Circe’s tits,” he murmured to himself, filling his glass. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be well into his cups before anyone else showed up. And he was most eager to seen Ron, as they hadn’t been able to chat much at all of late. Ron’s new position as a junior healer at St. Mungo’s took up a great deal of his mate’s time. In addition, Harry knew that Ron was dating someone on the Henwald Heath Brigadiers' Quidditch team...Kellen? Kilby? Something like that. Keeper, if Harry recalled correctly. He hadn’t met the bloke; most likely Ron would bring him round this evening. Regardless, he’d be happy to see his best mate, new boyfriend notwithstanding.

Harry glanced up at one of the widescreen Muggle televisions spaced throughout the pub. Some sort of home improvement programme, with a definitely barmy looking bloke slinging puce paint on a wall. He was just about to flag Duncan down and request a different channel when someone clapped him firmly on the back.

“Those contraptions are murder on your eyes, don’t you know.”

Harry whirled about on his stool, a smile spreading across his features. “Thanks, healer!”

Ron stood there, big hands on hips and a similar smile on his face. He nodded to Harry’s glass. “Gettin’ a head start are you? Where’s mine?”

“I’ll give you yours,” Harry replied, sliding off his stool and hugging Ron tightly. “So good to see you, mate,” he said into Ron’s chest.

“Same here,” Ron replied, returning Harry’s embrace.

Harry closed his eyes and breathed deeply, the aroma of Ron’s cologne nearly as intoxicating as the scotch. He didn’t care that he was hugging another bloke right in the middle of The Monk; it’d been far too long since he‘d seen Ron, and it felt too bloody good. Very, very good indeed. Ron felt fantastic, all warm and solid and muscley. Harry pressed a bit closer as Ron made no attempt to break their hug. “Been too long,” Harry said into the fabric of Ron’s jumper.

“Yeah, it has,” Ron answered, his hands making small circles across Harry’s upper back. “That’s the way of it. No rest for the wicked.” And still Ron made no movement to pull away.

It was only when Harry felt a stirring in his groin that he decided that a bit of discretion was in order, reluctantly stepping back and hopping onto his stool. He signalled Duncan, and another tumbler floated over, landing next to the bottle of Oban.

He watched as Ron shrugged out of his vintage Muggle military jacket, spreading it over his stool and sitting on it. Ron looked fabulous; his new job obviously agreeing with him. His healing skills had come to the fore during the War, and he’d enrolled in an accelerated program at St Mungo’s, receiving his degree in record time. Most people were astonished that Ron had handled the difficult courses so well. But Harry wasn’t. He knew better than anyone how sharp Ron truly was. Ron’s prowess at Wizard’s Chess was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

“Happy Christmas,” Harry said, filling Ron’s glass and sliding it over to him.

“Pleasant Solstice,” Ron replied, hefting the tumbler and taking a deep swallow. “Oi, been a while since I’ve had some of that!”

Harry nodded, realising that he was probably grinning like an idiot. Bugger it. Perhaps it was the Oban, but he felt positively giddy. And the slightest bit aroused. But then again, Ron looked completely fantastic. He’d let his hair grow out again, and the ginger locks were touching his wide shoulders. Ron was sporting a nicely fitting moss green jumper, the long sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He also wore his now trademark low-slung Muggle denims, this pair with holes worn at both knees. Harry chuckled at the condition of Ron’s vintage trainers...the sodding things looked about ready to fall apart.

“What’s so funny, mate?” Ron asked, grinning crookedly as he sipped his scotch.

Harry nodded to the trainers. “Your shoes. When are you going to spring for a new pair? Don’t they pay you at St. Mungo’s? Might as well go barefoot, yeah?”

Ron looked at his trainers, turning his feet this way and that. “Don’t see anything wrong with ‘em. They’re just getting comfy.” He gestured to Harry’s boots. “You’re one to talk, clomping about in those monstrosities.” He raised an eyebrow and smiled.

Harry snorted. “These are nearly new, and very high quality, I’ll have you know. Besides, not being a ruddy giant, I sort of like the, um, lift they give.”

Ron shook his head. “You’re not that short, mate.”

“Bah,” Harry replied, scooting his stool a bit closer to Ron’s.

“So, we’re the first, eh?” Ron said.

“Looks that way.”

“Hermione says that it’ll be a small gathering this year.”

Harry nodded, unable to stop his gaze from travelling across Ron’s broad chest, the outlines of his sizable pectorals easily visible beneath the fabric of his jumper. He then lingered for a moment on the thin traceries of scars on Ron’s forearms. He finally realised that he’d been staring too long and looked up, slightly horrified to find Ron grinning at him, almost knowingly.

“So,” Harry said as nonchalantly as possible. “Where’s Kellen?”

“Who?”

“Oh, uh, Kilby?” Harry stammered.

Ron rolled his eyes. “You mean Kirby.”

“Yeah.”

“Dunno, really. We broke up a month ago.”

“Oh, sorry,” Harry replied, doing his best to sound supportive.

Ron waved a hand. “Don’t be. He’s a good bloke, but we just weren’t suited.” He sipped his drink. “Hermione says that you’re seeing someone at The Ministry?”

Harry shook his head. “I was, but we went our separate ways a few weeks ago.”

“That’s too bad, Harry.” Ron finished his drink and poured another. “His loss, though, if you don’t mind my saying.”

Harry made to respond, but Ron ploughed forward.

“Any bloke that dumps you is barking mad. They clearly don’t know a good thing when they see it.”

“C’mon, Ron,” Harry protested. “I’m no angel. You know that.”

“Close enough,” Ron replied.

“I could say the same thing about you, you know,” Harry offered. “That Kirby fellow made a serious mistake in letting you go.”

Ron made a rude noise and waved his hand as if clearing the air. “Bah. Right load of skrewt dung, that is. I’m nothing much.”

Harry reached out and deftly pinched one of Ron’s rather prominent nipples, giving it a wicked twist.

“Yow!” Ron roared, nearly jumping from his stool and spilling his Oban. “What was that for?”

“Say something completely stupid, and that’s what you’ll get,” Harry said firmly. “I hate it when you put yourself down like that. You’re the hardest working bloke I’ve ever seen, Ron. Loyal, giving, funny, brilliant.” Not to mention drop dead gorgeous, as well. Harry shuddered a bit, intensely grateful that his internal editor had finally awakened and stopped him from making a complete fool of himself. But Ron was incredibly handsome. Almost achingly so. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? Perhaps he had, but just hadn’t dwelled on it. “So don’t talk shite like that around me, okay?” Harry finished.

Ron nodded slightly. “Fine, fine. But next time you’re going to do that, warn me. That way, I’m not taken by surprise.” He smirked at Harry, rubbing his tortured nipple.

“Deal,” Harry replied.

They chatted about mundane topics for some time, finally convincing Duncan to change the telly to The Quidditch Channel. They munched on peanuts and crisps, and it was nearly full eight before Ron noticed the time.

“Hey, mate, where is everyone else? They should have been here by now, yeah?”

Harry’s stool was now very close to Ron’s, and his right leg pressing up against Ron’s long left one. “Dunno. I thought Hermione said half-seven.”

“She did,” Ron said absently, leaning into Harry’s shoulder and tapping at Harry’s Muggle watch. “Herm’s pathologically on time for everything.” He began fumbling through the pocket of his jacket.

Harry sighed and revelled in the feeling of Ron being so close. Gods, it was marvellous, and he found his mind conjuring up visions of them getting even closer, entwined, intimate. Without the benefit of clothing. Now where was all this coming from so suddenly?

Not that he’d never had prurient musings concerning Ron; he most assuredly had, ever since fourth year. It was just that they were best mates, and Harry was certain that Ron didn’t fancy him that way. They loved each other deeply, but not sexually. And for the first time, as Harry pondered that thought, he couldn’t come up with a logical, reasonable answer as to why he and Ron had never taken that big step. Ron had finally extracted what looked like one of those portable Muggle telephones. “Ron, is that...”

“Yeah, it’s a mobile,” he replied as he flipped the phone open and hit a button. The device beeped importantly and Ron held it to his ear. “Hermione insisted that I’d find it handy, and showed me how to work it. Most of the healers at St Mungo’s have one these days.”

Harry watched raptly as Ron listened to the mobile. Ron’s fringe hung over his left eye, and before he knew what he was doing, Harry reached up and gently pushed it out of the way. Ron glanced at him in response, and smiled. A big, open, I-really-didn’t-mind-that-you-did-that kind of smile. Emboldened, Harry pressed closer, throwing his arm about Ron’s shoulders while he laid his other hand on Ron’s thigh.

Ron seemingly paid Harry’s attentions no mind, engrossed in whatever he was listening to on his mobile. A moment later, he snorted softly, flipping the phone closed and laying it on the bar top.

“What is it?” Harry asked, barely fighting the urge to lick each and every one of Ron’s freckles.

“Hermione,” Ron replied with a wry grin. “She’s incorrigible.”

“Really?” Harry said, leaning his chin on Ron’s shoulder. “How much longer before she and Viktor get here?”

“They’re not coming.”

“Anything wrong?” Harry asked, sitting up.

“No, nothing,” Ron answered. “She says we’d just better figure out a way to entertain ourselves.” He looked at Harry, his deep blue eyes bright.

“Oh, well I’ll be dipped,” Harry murmured, shaking his head as realisation hit him like a rogue bludger.

“We’ve been set up,” Ron confirmed. “No one else will be here, either.”

“She’s one devious witch,” Harry mumbled, draining his glass. “You didn’t know anything about this?”

Ron shook his head. “Wizard’s honour, mate.”

“What did she say, exactly,” Harry asked.

“Oh, it was just her voice mailbox recording.”

“Yeah?”

Ron fidgeted a bit, picking at the bar top.

“What, Ron, what?”

“Well, she said that she thinks it’s high time we both pull our heads from our respective arses and finally realise that...um...”

“Spit it out, mate,” Harry prodded, knowing full well what Ron was going to say anyway.

“She wants us to quit fooling about and get together. She says she’s tired of watching us try to make it work with other blokes when clearly we’re truly in love with each other. Or something to that effect.” Ron shrugged and grinned sheepishly.

“Rather plain, isn’t it?” Harry observed.

“Yeah. So what do you think?”

“You know Hermione. She’s always bloody right.”

“Too true,” Ron agreed. “She is right, you know. I do love you. More than anyone. but I didn’t think you’d want me, like that. Merlin knows I‘ve wanted you that way, for a long time.”

“Really? And you never said anything?” Harry's heart fluttered in his chest.

Ron shrugged again. “You did have an awful lot on your mind before and during the War. You seemed happy to pursue other blokes, and I didn’t want to take the risk of mucking up our friendship by pressing the point. Never seemed like there was a good time to discuss the topic.”

Harry nodded, fingering his empty glass. “And because I was thinking the same thing, I never said anything either.” He snorted. “All the time we spent together, all the talks we’ve had, and we both managed to avoid this.”

“Not very bright of us, is it?”

“I reckon not,” Harry said with a grin.

“So, is it too late?”

Harry looked at Ron, pausing only a moment before leaning in and pressing their lips together. Ron tasted of scotch and chips, his lips full and warm. Harry pulled back, feeling the flush rise up and out of his collar.

“Never too late, mate,” Harry replied throatily.

“Yeah,” Ron answered, tracing Harry’s jawline with a thumb. “You ready to go?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

Ron stood, slinging his jacket over his shoulder and offering a hand to Harry. Harry took it, and the pair walked to the public Floo.

“My place, okay?” Ron said, his voice rumbly and incredibly stimulating.

“Right behind you,” Harry said, his cock rapidly hardening in his denims.

Ron grinned widely, throwing a handful of floo powder and disappearing in a burst of green flame.

Harry grabbed some powder, pausing slightly to catch his breath. "Bloody hell," he murmured with a smile, tossing his powder into the fire.

Harry skidded out of Ron’s hearth just as Ron had finished igniting an oil lamp and a handful of candles with his wand, bathing the small sitting room in a warm, flickering light. Harry toed off his boots as Ron pointed his wand to a dark corner. A moment later, a mass of multi-coloured lights blazed to life.

Harry whistled. “That’s the nicest Christmas tree I’ve seen in ages.”

“Thanks,” Ron replied, kicking off his trainers and laying his wand on a sidetable. “I think the electric Muggle lights are nicer than fairie lights.”

“Yeah,” Harry said as he padded over to Ron, his hands sliding under Ron’s jumper and pushing it up. Ron pulled the jumper over his head and tossed it away. Harry ran his hands over the smooth planes of Ron’s stomach, slowly. “Sweet Merlin, Ron, why did we wait so long?”

“Dunno, Harry.” Ron pulled off Harry’s jumper. “Let’s not waste any more time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry managed to say before Ron’s warm mouth closed over his own. Ron’s big, calloused hands caressed his sides, ghosting across his lower back and down inside the back of his denims. Harry reciprocated in kind, kneading Ron’s muscular arse with abandon. Ron’s tongue forced its way into Harry’s mouth, and Harry pressed against Ron tightly, slowly grinding his erection into Ron’s upper thigh.

Ron moaned into Harry’s mouth, the deep, rumbling sounds incredibly stimulating. Harry loved the feeling of Ron’s lightly furred chest against his own heated flesh, and he found himself longing to melt right into Ron, to merge with him as one. Nothing had ever felt so good, so right. Everything Ron began to overwhelm him, the sensation that he’d finally found what he’d been missing for so long resonating through him like an electrical current.

He thrust against Ron with increased fervour, feeling the heat swelling deep within, caring not a whit that he’d not even removed his boxers or denims. Ron’s lips and tongue continued to worship him, and Harry’s body jerked as his orgasm shot through him, his release emptying into his boxers. A moment later, Ron broke their kiss, grunting loudly as he, too, came.

Harry buried his head in Ron’s chest, feeling sated, complete, and suddenly very tired. “Sorry,” he gasped, nuzzling Ron languidly.

“Nonsense,” Ron replied equally breathlessly. “That was something else.”

Harry squeezed Ron tightly. “What a pair we make, yeah? Didn’t even get out of our clothes. Some first time.” He quickly murmured cleansing charms on them both.

Ron leaned away and lifted up Harry’s chin. “It was the best,” he said firmly. “And we’ve plenty of time to improve on it.”

“Yeah, sure.” Harry glanced about flat, focusing on Ron’s tree. “You really outdid yourself, mate. That’s a lovely tree.”

“Thanks,” Ron replied, plopping down on his squishy sofa. “I’d hoped you’d get to see it.”

Harry sat down next to Ron and snuggled up next to him. Ron pulled down a quilt from the arm of the sofa and wrapped it around them. He then charmed out the lamps and candles, so that the only light was from the softly twinkling Christmas tree.

“This is just perfect,” Harry sighed. “The best Christmas, ever, I think.”

“Worked out, didn’t it? Happy Christmas, Harry.”

“Happy Christmas. Ron?”

“Yeah, Harry?”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too, mate.”

~~~~~ fin ~~~~~