Chapter Text
Severus turned his face into the pillows, reaching one hand deeper into the welcoming cavern of bedclothes beside him until he found his companion. Just his hand, at first - half-curled near Severus’ head - and then his arm, and his shoulder, and to his back, gently rising and falling with his breath. He was warm under the sheets, and Severus slid his palm over his body with a low hum, reveling in that warmth, and feeling the ridges of his scapula, and his spine, and the even beating of his heart through his ribs. The smoothness of his skin, scattered with rough, tacky little patches of… scabbing…?
He shifted and swallowed, flexing his toes in the confines of his boots, dredging himself out of sleep so deep it felt almost drugged.
Was he on the sofa? Couldn’t be. Not unless it had been magically enlarged, anyway, but… he was wearing shoes, and… he hadn’t gone to bed at all as far as he could remember. So… the sofa. Must be.
Blinking his eyes open, he immediately found that he was not on the sofa. He was in a bed, and, luck of luck, it was even his own bed. And there was Harry beside him, just as he’d felt, splayed out absolutely face down, without even a pillow under his head. And they weren’t under the sheets, either. Just a blanket, which was mostly over Harry, as Harry - unlike Severus - wasn’t fully bleeding dressed. Again.
Laboriously lifting his head, he looked down at Harry sleeping, and then over the edge of the bed to see the contents of an upended leather care kit kicked across the floor, a wad of shed pajamas, fifty gently glowing stars - at least fifty - a mirrored engagement ring, and a handful of orphaned buttons. And there, against the edge of the bureau: a lonely pair of spectacles, catching the magical light on the shattered fragments of its lenses. Harry’s ring was nowhere to be seen, however. Under the bed, maybe, though Severus didn’t personally recall throwing anything.
Perturbed, he turned back towards Harry, lifted the blanket, and then dropped his head back to the bed and covered his face. Right, of course. That would be what he’d felt on Harry’s back.
Rug burn.
f*ck.
“Mmn…?” Harry murmured, flexing his fingers, and Severus realized he’d perhaps said that last bit out loud, or else the cool air across his wounds had roused him. “S’matter?” He shifted closer, snuggling up against Severus’ side and curling one hand into his gaping shirt like he was still mostly, if not entirely, unconscious. “S’too early… shhushh.”
Severus didn’t think it was particularly early at all. He felt like he’d slept for a week.
Taking his hands away from his face, he looked down to see Harry press his nose against his ribs with a contented sigh. And that was sweet. Less sweet were the tiny blanket fibers adhered to the livid patch of friction burn on his cheekbone. That was not sweet. Not sweet, not sanitary, not protocol. Where was his wand? He hadn’t even seen it.
“Good morning,” he said, to which Harry responded with a plaintive little mewl. “Did you put us to bed?”
“Mm?” He didn’t even attempt to open his eyes. “M-mh.”
“Are you sure?”
“Mhmhmm.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t do it. Perhaps it was Kreacher?” Obviously it had been Harry, and in a state of only partial coherence, hence the complete lack of anything save being on top of a mattress. Very literal. “That would certainly be embarrassing.”
Harry just buried his face with another whine: “Mnnnnh.”
It came out with the petulant intonation of why disturb my peace, villain, and Severus let out a breath of laughter. It was probably for the best, anyway. It was, after all, far easier to apply first-aid to a sleeping Harry than a lucid one.
“I see,” he said. “I’m happy to let you sleep a while longer, if you like. I’ve some rug burn to heal very furtively before you’re alert enough to fight me on it.”
“S’fine,” Harry answered with another sigh against his side. “No rug burn.”
“I could feel it with my hand, love. It’s probably on your chest, too.”
“Ssssssssfine. Leave it.” He curled up a little smaller, and then, after a moment of apparent thought, wiggled his toes against Severus’ leg. “Ooh. Got your trousers on still.” He slid them down until they met the knot in his laces. “Boots, too,” he breathed. “...hot.”
He definitely had no idea what time it was. It was not ‘hot’ to sleep in your boots. That was either ‘severe hangover,’ or, ‘trench warfare,’ and neither of those things were hot.
“Yes, well, I had no opportunity to undress,” Severus said coolly, and summoned his wand to his hand. From under the bureau. Hm. “And apparently your magic didn’t see fit to do it for me. Tempus.” Half-past nine. Might have been a solid eight hours. Unheard of.
“Mm. Sorry,” Harry chuckled weakly. “Didn’t mean to rush you or anything. Guess I got too exc-” He yawned hugely. “...ited.” He hummed a little, splaying his palm flat on Severus’ chest and sounding perfectly content, but then he stopped, twitched, and his eyes popped open. “Oh.”
“He returns to reality at last,” Severus chuckled as Harry sat bolt upright, the blanket he’d been draped in dropping to his lap to reveal a patch of very severe friction burn on his breastbone. “I’m healing that.”
“What?” Harry asked, looking around.
“That burn,” Severus answered, turning onto his side and propping himself up on one elbow to see that Harry’s upper back was even worse than he’d thought. “And those, too. I’m going to heal them, and I won’t take no for an answer. They’ll take ages to heal on their own and they’re already hideous and will only get worse.”
“What?” Harry repeated, and then, “where are my glasses?”
“The floor,” Severus answered. “You broke them.” He lay back down, arching his back until it popped. Twice. Very satisfying. “Mm. And you ruined my shirt.”
“GLASSES.” They appeared on Harry’s face, perfectly intact, and he glared around the room and then down at Severus reclined on the bed. “Your shirt?” he demanded. “Where’s the ring?”
Severus crossed his arms behind his head. “Which ring?”
“Either!” Harry spat back. “Where the f*ck did I - oh.” He staggered off the edge of the bed and to his feet. Coltishly shaky, he was spotted with bruises, and his hair was wild on one side and flat on the other like once he’d landed in bed, he had not moved again.
“I really did a number on you, didn’t I?” Severus asked as Harry clumsily stooped down to retrieve the band from the middle of the floor. “Can you walk alright?”
“Oh, shut up,” Harry said, grabbing one of his glowing puffs and using it to look under the bureau, the bed, and the bedside table, one after the other. Severus just waited, watching him search, until Harry came out with a cherry wood gift box - open and empty - and then a long chain, and finally the ring, which had apparently rolled to rest against the back foot of Harry’s bedside table. Quite a thing to reach for so very naked, and painfully charming to use one of his own magical artifacts as a makeshift lantern, but fail to think of an accio.
“If I were any more fond of you, I do believe my-”
“Organs would fail?” Harry cut across him, straightened, and turned back towards the bed with his spoils in his hands. “I’ve heard.” But then he paused, and gave Severus an appraising sort of eyebrow from behind his mended spectacles. “That’s a good look on you, by the way,” he said. “Like the packaging on one of those patented daydream charms.”
Severus looked down at his open shirt. He had a couple of interesting pink welts crossing his abdomen at a diagonal, but he didn’t remember how he’d received them, and was otherwise the same wiry, ragged self he’d always been.
“What awful flattery,” he said. “And you look like a crime scene photograph. Now, might I trouble you for my buttons?” Harry just scoffed at that, but Severus’ buttons hurtled back to their places all the same. It was quite pointed - like a miniature meteor shower - but his shirt did not seem inspired to do itself back up once it was restored. And that was pretty pointed, too. He decided to leave it open. “Thanks ever so much.”
Harry rolled his eyes and very gingerly set about settling himself back onto the bed, where he tugged the blanket over his naked lap, and started laying out the treasures he’d recovered from the floor. The silver band first, and then the box, the chain, and finally his own ring, yet to be closely examined. He set them out in a neat, deliberate little row - ring, box, chain, ring - and looked down at them. And then he ruffled his mad tangle of hair, his body language abruptly and painfully shy.
“What?” Severus asked at once. The rings were right there, and not only had he been thirsting to see Harry’s on his finger for weeks, but his was right there, too. Simple, and clean, and bold, it was quite perfect, and he wanted to touch it. To wear it. Amazing he’d been able to sleep, really. So, what crisis? “I did say yes.”
“I know you did,” Harry began, looking down at his empty hands where they were resting in his lap. “Just…I ruined it, didn’t I?”
Severus raised his eyebrows. “Ruined it?”
“Yeah,” Harry answered, picking at the blanket preserving his modesty. And Merlin, that mark on his face would have to go first. Thoughtless to have let it happen at all, let alone leave it all night to fester. “You had all that in your drawer. It was a load of separate secrets. You must have had a plan, and I just - I ruined it.” His blush was radiant across the bridge of his nose, and lurid under the mark, and he did not look up. “I didn’t mean to. I just - You just - it seemed like you were… I dunno.” He paused, lifting one hand to tap absently at his breast bone. It was just where his magic tended to scald him, and directly over the worst friction burn on his chest, but that didn’t seem to be bothering him half as much as whatever he was trying to put into words. Probably that Severus’ self-inflicted agony had been too much for him to hold, and he’d acted on impulse, and please don’t be angry.
“You just - you weren’t happy,” Harry continued. “I could feel it, and I couldn’t stand the idea that you might think I’m not… that I don’t want to… you know. Stay. Or…” He trailed off, blushing still more hotly, and ruffled his hair again before pawing futilely at the wild side. It seemed like he wanted to be rescued, and stay was too loaded a word, so Severus sat up, crossed his legs, and rescued him.
“Give me your hand,” he said, holding out his own, and when Harry offered his right, just waited until he stopped being obtuse and switched to his left. “Listen to me, now. And with your ears, not just your magic, alright?” He cupped Harry’s hand in his own and waited for a nod. “Good.”
Plucking Mr. Quail’s ring out of the row, he slipped it onto Harry’s finger, where it contracted to perfect size. That was the one magical addition he’d allowed, as it was standard, or so Mr. Quail had said. So Mr. Quail had insisted. That it was standard, and it would be insane to try to guess the correct size with no wiggle room, and why be so insane.
“I assure you that I had a great number of plans,” he continued. “Many of them poor, or overcomplicated, or too broad, or too narrow.” He raised Harry’s knuckles to his lips, and kissed them. “You ruined nothing.” It had been a mercy killing, really. He tipped his head to catch Harry’s eyes. “...Do you like it?”
Harry took his hand back and tentatively turned it in the light, the gold gem sparkling and refracting the glow in the room like it might be holding a tiny sunrise. “It’s beautiful,” he said.
“Ask me about the stone.”
“The middle one?” Harry asked. “Is it… a diamond? Do those come in colors?”
“No,” Severus answered. “Or - yes, they do. I suffered through quite a string of lectures about that. And the accent stones - there on the sides - those are diamonds. But not the center.”
“I don’t… really know about other kinds of stones,” Harry said uncertainly. “Is it like… a yellow ruby? Or something?”
“No.”
“Can I have a clue, please?”
“Well…” Taking hold of Harry’s wrist, Severus turned his hand so that the sunlight jauntily attempting to sneak in through the crack in their curtains fell across his knuckles, lighting up the facets. “This is not a natural stone at all. And while it’s possible you won’t remember - you were quite a bit worse for wear - you made it. By accident, or so you said. We woke up covered with them.”
Harry frowned down at his own finger. “That’s… one of the colors?” he asked slowly. “But… I got rid of all those little pointies. The stabby ones. Didn’t I?”
“Not all of them, no.” Harry’s frown deepened, so Severus decided to just out with the rest of it all at once. “I saved four, all gold, and took them to the Mysterious Hermit. His name is Mr. Withers Quail, and he’s an exceedingly odd Metamorphmagus, but an excellent craftsman. A master. I asked him to match the shade, hoping to capture the spirit of your gold, if not its reality. But your magic is, apparently, harder and stronger than any gemstone - natural or otherwise - and difficult to match tonally, so he suggested that I use the original if I was in any hurry. And I was in a hurry, so I did use the original, which is now on your finger, and which - according to him - came out as a perfect Asscher.”
“A what?” Harry asked thinly.
“It’s the cut,” Severus continued quickly. “Asscher. It’s just the name of the cut. Square with cropped tips, fifty-eight layered facets, a high crown and deep pavilion. Similar to an emerald cut, but… squared. The two on the sides are tapered baguette diamonds - fourteen facets, there, typically speaking, and in a step cut. Quarter-carat each. The setting is platinum. I thought a low profile might be a good choice - less likely to catch, you know - and platinum - well. It will acquire a patina over time, and I thought… it would suit you. Your skin, it has a… cool tone. So… platinum.”
Silence.
“What… are you talking about?” Harry asked.
“Honestly, I’ve no idea,” Severus answered, and all at once Harry was in his lap. Knocking him back against the headboard, kissing him, embracing him, and… calling him an idiot.
“You idiot. You could have just asked. You could have just asked me with nothing. You didn’t have to go on a bleeding quest.”
“I wanted to,” Severus answered. “I wanted to do it right.”
“Do it ‘right?’”
“I thought you deserved-” Harry just cut him off with another kiss, and then spoke against his mouth.
“Yeah, ok, fine,” he breathed. “I deserve it, and I’m very special, whatever you say. Just tell me one thing, though, ok? What’s the chain for?” Another kiss, and another. “Eh? What’s it for? You tell me why there’s a chain. Go on. Why.” He pulled back just enough to look directly into his eyes, and Severus found himself struck with his own sudden and severe burst of embarrassment. It had seemed like a perfectly logical bit of hedging at the time, but… having been proposed to…
“Well, I mean…” he began carefully, feeling skewered. “I suppose I thought there was a low, but non-zero chance that you might not be comfortable wearing it on your finger, just yet. At least… not publicly. So, I thought… if you weren’t ready, you could use the chain. Wear it, but keep it…” Mistake. “...Under your… shirt.”
“You f*cking idiot,” Harry breathed. “After everything. You thought I wouldn’t wear it? You thought that?” Severus opened his mouth to qualify it - to say something about Harry’s age, or societal pressure, or free choice without coercion, or something to that effect - but Harry grabbed his hair before he could. Grabbed it with both hands the way he had the night before, holding him still and looking into his eyes. “Say it,” he said. “Severus. Say it. Ask me.”
“Marry me,” Severus answered at once, and Harry let him go and dropped his head to his shoulder with a long-suffering groan.
“Stars,” he said. “God. Eight hundred thousand times, and you could have just asked. Watching me make tea and put on socks! While I’m sleeping and inside my magic. While I’m not anywhere near you.” He bunched Severus’ shirt in his fingers and lifted his head again. “I said yes when I was sixteen, you know. I’m pretty sure you were there.”
“You said, ‘don’t think I won’t.’”
“That’s a yes!”
“Could you by any chance have a modicum of mercy and just say yes, now?”
Harry glared fiercely at him. “Are you taking the bleeding mickey?” he asked, and then, before Severus could say anything at all: “Yes! Yes, of course I will marry you, which is why I asked you to marry me, and even if you weren’t my soulmate - which you are - I would STILL marry you, because you’re YOU. Even though you’re the stupidest genius ever and you like to torture yourself for no f*cking reason. Were you really going to wait for my birthday? That’s bloody ages away.”
“Of course not,” Severus answered, and grabbed the back of his neck to keep him from moving away. “Personally, I would consider proposing on an existing holiday a faux pas, and there are other secrets waiting for your birthday, and if you must know, I was planning to take you to Kew Gardens on Saturday and ask there, if I could find the courage. Now, can I have mine, or is a love of torturing me something that we share?”
The band fit beautifully, as Severus knew it would, and once it was on his finger, he picked Harry up, deposited him on the edge of the bed, kissed his forehead, and bade him sit still and submit to a de-rug-burning so they could shower and present themselves for breakfast. And Harry, apparently in a deeply obedient mood after upending their relationship entirely, did not argue, though he did conjure a glass of water and insist that Severus drink it before summoning one for himself.
So, Severus drank it - he needed it, really - and set himself to regrowing the skin he’d scraped off of Harry’s body. He did the patch on his face, first - which Harry had not even noticed - and then his chest, and then knelt on the bed behind him to get at his back. That was the worst by far - Galleon-sized patches on his shoulder blades, and Knut-sized ones over the protrusions of his spine - and it took a while, and though Harry was clearly trying to be a good boy and sit still for it, he couldn’t quite manage. His hands were busy continually taking the ring off and putting it back on again, turning it this way and that, and twisting it around his finger, and his bare feet were tapping against each other, and little bursts of magical energy were coming off of him like tiny solar flares.
“Go on and ask, love,” Severus said, twirling his wand over Harry’s shoulder blade, restoring him in careful layers. Faster work with the revocandosa would mean scarring, and that, Severus would not allow, no matter how restless Harry became.
“Ask what?” Harry asked back, apparently unaware of his own fidgeting, or that there was a tingling, pulsating aura around his body.
“Whatever you’re trying not to ask me. You’re turning my hands numb.”
“Oh,” Harry said, snatched his own hands apart, and then clasped them together. “Aha ha. Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I was just wondering. Um. Is this… still a secret? Or… not so much?”
“Not particularly, no,” Severus answered, testing the healing patch with the pad of his thumb. “I assumed there would be a ruckus at breakfast. Why?”
***
“What does that scan for, again?” Ron asked as they approached the weird arrangement of metallic tunnels and archways that stood between their party of four and what looked like a marketplace. That was what he wanted, way over there. Food. It was almost time for supper, and he didn’t like that he was the only one who seemed to care. Were they supposed to get into the flying tube without eating first? Just because he’d gotten sick the first time? Daft. “Why can’t they just use probity probes like civilized humans? No way am I gonna fit in there.”
“What?” Hermione asked, looking up from her fistful of doctored passports and little paper chits. So much paper in the land of Muggles, and always so small. Not a proper scroll in sight. Mad waste of time, the lot of it, though he supposed the estate people had at least had books. “That? That's for our luggage, not us. Don’t you remember from Heathrow? Merlin, you’re worse than your dad.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Ron said. “Ugly archway for people, spooky tunnel for things. Right.” It was perfectly true - pretty much all Muggle stuff was either ugly or spooky - but Hermione’s father chuckled unkindly from behind him, and he blushed. “Oi, cut some slack, mate. This is my second flight ever, and we’ll see how you do with the floo. On my honor I won’t make you try in a great crowd of strangers.”
“Sorry,” Mark Granger laughed, and then lowered his voice conspiratorially. “But if you do try to crawl in there, you get a prize.”
“Mark,” Ellen said.
“What sort of prize?” Ron asked.
“A fine,” Hermione scoffed. “And we miss our fli-AH!”
Ron jumped and whirled around at the shriek to see a security Muggle stumble back in a burst of teeny paperwork. And… petals?
“What?” Ron demanded. “What happened? What’s that?” But Hermione did not respond, or seem to care at all that she’d hurled all their passports into a Muggle’s face. She was too busy reading something. Something that had clearly just appeared out of nowhere, at least based on that noise, and the way the security person was fumbling for the talkie-box on his hip.
Oh, thanks, Harry. We got arrested!
“Uh… hey,” Ron said, holding out one hand to the Muggle. “No worries, mate. Don’t mind my lady, there. Just the stress of travel, eh? Mind helping a bloke out?” He gestured to the scattering of paper and pink petals, and when the wide-eyed man looked back down at them, confunded him from inside his sleeve. A necessary and frequent evil, sleeve-confunding Australian Muggles. Even without Harry’s tomfoolery, it was necessary, as their documents were all so incredibly fake. All of them, and especially the ‘veesahs,’ which didn’t seem like a real thing, even when they were Muggle-issued and stamped and everything. “So sorry. Ahaha.” He turned back to Hermione. “Did you see a spider or something, luv?”
She just shrieked again, clutching the note with both hands.
“Yep!” Ron said, and laughed loudly. “Must have been one of those great big ones. Sheilas, eh? Did it fall from the ceiling, again? Ahaha. And you’ve ruined your - uh. Souvenir flower. Right ruined it!” He dropped his voice to a hiss. “Will you stop it? You’re rustling all the Muggles up!” He smiled at the people around him. “No worries. Tourists! Juuust tourists. Here. Let me-” Ducking out from under the cord keeping them corralled in the queue, he started scooping the scattered documents back together, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, the petals, too. Couldn’t very well leave those, could he? Magical bleeding flower petals.
Hermione’s dad ducked out after him almost at once, helping him tidy the mess and reassure the assembling crowd of uniformed-whatever that all was well and sorry for the screams, and those flowers had definitely been there five minutes ago, and had absolutely not burst out of thin air because that made no sense at all. It worked a little faster with the help of an actual Muggle, and when they finally rejoined Hermione and her mum in their places, she thrust the troublesome note at him.
“Read it!” she whispered, flapping her hands. “Oh, read it, read it, read it.”
“I am! Merlin,” Ron answered, stuffing the last of the petals into his pockets to free his hands. “Jeez. Alright, give it here. But remind me to tell Harry that his timing is… awful. Oh.” He frowned. “Blimey.”
“What’s happened?” Mark asked, looking over his shoulder.
Dear Hermione and Ron,
I hope you’ve found Hermione’s family ok and are coming home soon, because I have some brilliant news. I’m engaged! Severus proposed, and - well, I guess I proposed first, and THEN he proposed, and it was kind of a mess, but everyone said yes. I just sorta winged it, but he already had the ring and everything all in a box. You know how he is. But it’s gorgeous. I can’t wait to show you. Not sure what time it is in Australia. It’s morning here, I dunno when specifically. Hope I didn’t wake anyone up but I just couldn’t hold it in.
-H
P.s. Severus says he’s sorry for obliviating you, Ron.
“But… engaged?” Ron asked. “Wow.”
“Isn’t that wonderful?” Hermione squealed. “And they BOTH proposed! How romantic.”
“Romantic?” he laughed. “Mad, more like. Bet Harry stepped on every single toe, proposing first. Mad, mad bastard. It was seriously obvious Severus was gonna.”
“Oh, is this the lad who’s with his chemistry professor?” Mark asked. “He’s a bit young to be getting married, isn’t he?”
“Maybe they’re planning a long engagement?” Ellen offered. “He’s almost a whole year younger than you, isn’t he, dear? Must still be seventeen.”
“Long engagement?” Ron chuckled, relieved that the rest of the queue had apparently decided that they were harmless weirdos and turned away, though there was a rather pronounced gap between the people directly in front and behind them. “If they’re not already married by the time we land, I’ll eat my own shoe. They don’t like to wait, much.”
“No, they certainly don’t,” Hermione answered.
“We wouldn’t have even graduated, yet. What a weird thought. Probably be sitting exams right now.”
“Just about,” Hermione agreed, looking worried. “Oh, I do hope they wait until we land, though. When did you get obliviated?”
“Sometime while we were out,” Ron answered, unconcerned, and then pressed his index fingers against his temples and closed his eyes, dropping his voice to a low drone. “Mmm…. MMMmmmmmmm… give us like twenty-four hours mate if you don’t Hermione will be upset I think she wants to be the maid of honorrrrrrmmmmmmm…” Hermione smacked him.
“Can they even get married at all?” Mark asked.
“‘Course,” Ron answered, dropping his hands again. “Age of majority for us is seventeen. I’ve been a man for a whole year, and you can get promised way earlier if your parents agree. Not that Harry’s got those, of course.”
“No, not that,” Ellen said.
“What, then?” Ron asked back, and Hermione rolled her eyes as her parents glanced shiftily at one another.
“Muggle men can’t marry each other,” she said.
“Wot? Why not?”
“They just can’t.”
“So, what, it’s illegal or something? Why?”
“It’s just how it is.”
“Well, reckon it’d be pretty funny to see someone try to stop those two, eh? I’d like some constable to try to tell them no. End up half-sunk into the floor with a cabbage for a head! Cabbage for stones.” They’d reached the front of the queue - finally - and Ron slung his rucksack onto the non-magical magically moving base of the tunnel and held his hands out for Hermione’s.
“I mean, I suppose someone could,” she said, passing it over. “But the government won’t recognize it as legitimate.”
“Well, that’s backwards, innit?” Ron answered, but Hermione had already turned to her parents, launching into some kind of history of hand-binding and marriage and when the Wizarding World adopted the ring-and-vows tradition, though she didn’t call it the Wizarding World. She called it the other society. And that would take a while, so Ron just looked to the closest security person and offered him a wide smile.
“Alright, where do I stand?” he asked. “In the middle of the archway? Is it an archway if it’s squared off like that? Or is it more of a… door. Oh, I just walk through? Ha ha. Sorry, mate. I’m new at this hurtling through the air thing. Oh, blast. Nope, nothing in my pockets. Well, just some flowers, I suppose. Is that not allowed? What, my belt buckle? What’s that stick for? Is that noise bad, or good?”
