Daily Deviant
- there is no such thing as 'too kinky'
Kinky Kristmas Fic: A Certain Magic (Harry/Ron) 
11th December 2014 19:00
Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: [info]wallflowergirl
From: [info]hogwartshoney

Title: A Certain Magic
Characters/Pairings: Harry Potter/Ron Weasley
Rating: Explicit / NC17
Kinks/Themes Included: Kissing, hand-holding, non-verbal magic, soul bonding
Other Warnings/Content: anal, first time, UST, angst
Word Count: approx 19,400
Summary/Description: There’s a certain magic to New Orleans.

~~~

Monday morning is spent at the local public library, researching the history of Lafitte’s and the construction details of the surrounding areas. You snort with amusement when Harry remarks how proud Hermione would be of you both, firstly for taking public transport in America and also for willingly going into a place of learning. It’s really been too long since you were all together, and you make a mental note to owl her soon.

You get back to the large table that you’ve both commandeered for your research, and Harry’s already nose-deep in two old books. The very friendly library assistant has helpfully supplied you with at least a dozen more.

Three dusty tomes later, you’ve not found much to help, but as you pick up the next book you notice a folded piece of paper. Harry looks up just as you open it and read what’s written there in bright pink ink - the assistant’s name, Cynthia, and a telephone number. There’s a little heart over the ‘i’.

You glance around, but she’d mentioned that she was leaving at half past eleven for lunch, and it’s just gone noon. You breathe a sigh of relief, but then notice that Harry looks heavily at the note, then up at you, and suddenly you feel awkwardly like you’ve done something wrong, or that Harry’s upset in some way, which doesn’t make sense since he didn’t even talk to Cynthia when you both came in.

A few hours later, you have lunch at a park across the street and realize that you and Harry haven’t actually discussed the intricacies of the problems that the olde magics of New Orleans might bring to bear on your clearing away the negative energy at Lafitte’s. You can’t exactly look that up at the library, but then Harry’s idea to see whether there’s a Magical section proves to be inspired. On your return there, you both select different areas of the library to investigate, and barely ten minutes later, you’ve found a magical-feeling signature in the corner behind the Native American section.

The thing about the New Orleans magic is that it feels… muddled, for lack of a better word, almost as though it’s being ‘spoken’ in a different language, and the ‘translation’ isn’t coming through clearly. You mention that to Harry.

“Well, I suppose it is a different language, when you think about it, coming from Africa, but even so, there’s a commonality to all magic, isn’t there? Take a look at this map; there are ley lines in the area, and the strongest one runs along Bourbon Street.”

“And Lafitte’s has been around since the 1700s. Plenty of time to soak up the magic.

“What about the night club next door? The one Gus mentioned. He said it shares a wall with the pub.”

The ‘troublesome corner’, as he’d quaintly put it.

“Plus both buildings are on Bourbon Street, so if your theory is correct, blimey, it could be a sort of nexus for magical power. A crossroads.”

“Exactly. We’re talking ancient crossroads.”

“Bloody hell.”

You head back to the hotel where you both make a comprehensive list of what information you’ve gleaned, plus your and Harry’s impressions of the ‘event’. The next obvious step entails researching the club with the adjoining wall, but you have this niggling feeling…

“Y’know, I’ve been looking at the information all put together, Harry, and I don’t think we’re dealing with a true Boggart.”

“Why would you say that?”

“What did you see in Professor Lupin’s class that time with the Boggart?”

Harry sighs. “A Dementor.”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t follow.”

“The spider was my Boggart, yeah? Nobody else’s. What the Muggles see at Lafitte’s, if it is a spider, must be some other type of creature. I can’t imagine that every single person is that afraid of spiders.”

Harry’s quiet for a long moment, and you shudder at the crawling sensation that even the thought of spiders always leaves you with.

“All right, so what’s our play?”

“I say we go to the club, see whether we can detect anything untoward on that side of the wall and then come back and regroup.”

“What are you expecting to find?”

That’s the question of the day, isn’t it? “I don’t really know, but there’s definitely a presence there strong enough to manifest itself to Muggles, day or night. I can’t help but feel that we’re going to find something in the club. There has to be an answer there.”

A few hours and a light meal later, you and Harry get dressed and head up the street to the night club. It’d be difficult to miss the place, festooned with gaily-flapping flags in rainbow colours. Even in the fading light, they stand out against the darker brick of the building. You take a moment to smile at the name, ‘Oz’.

Music is already spilling out through the doors, and you follow Harry as he pushes his way through the throng gathered on the pavement, noting the abundance of well-muscled young men. You get your fair share of admiring looks which, yes, surprise you as much as they flatter and amuse you, but you resolutely keep your eyes on Harry’s arse back! His back! eyes on his back as you go through the doors and into the darkness of the pub.

The noise hits you hard, thumping bass and gyrating bodies everywhere. Apparently tonight is something called Happy Hour from 4 to 8 pm, and you’re alarmed to realize that at midnight there’s a Strip-off contest. You also belatedly realize that Oz is a gay bar.

You wouldn’t say that you’re surprised, exactly, and certainly not uncomfortable, although you may not have actually picked this place if it wasn’t part of the investigation. Still, you think about the way Harry’s been behaving since getting to New Orleans, a bit out of character, especially with the drinking, and you wonder whether he’s just finally been able to unbend enough, to unwind and let go enough to be who he wants (and maybe needs) to be.

Officially, your cover is the same as before, two buddies just enjoying the party scene, but you really doubt that it’s even going to matter – you’re not going to be talking to any Muggles here tonight. You doubt that you’d be heard over the noise of the music anyway. The club is dark, but there are lots of flashing lights and pockets of brightly-glowing decorations, and you both separate and head in opposite directions for a quick reconnaisance of the place.

The wall bordering Lafitte’s is where the bar is, the long glossy surface running the length of the wall. The rest of the space is dance floor, with occasional tables and couches settled along the outer edges, up against the walls. There’s nothing obviously untoward in any of the corners you check, and you lean against the bar as close as possible to the corner and reach out with your senses, sending the faintest tendrils of magic into the darkness. Neither of you have your wands, something that makes you feel almost naked, and not in a good way, but there’s a sting of unfriendly magic, dark and turbulent. It’s nowhere near as powerful as in Lafitte’s, but it would seem that Harry’s theory about ley lines is correct.

The case just got a whole lot more interesting.

Harry returns, grinning at you like a wild thing unleashed, and he claps you on the back encouragingly, his hand lingering warm at the small of your back for what feels like a long time. You can’t help the shiver that runs along your spine as you lean into his touch, just for a moment, then force yourself to move away from his hand, even though you relish the way it feels. He turns and signals for the bartender, and you groan as you anticipate another night of drinking with him, but you think that perhaps it’s time to just let things play out and see what happens.

Thankfully, there are no purple drinks in sight, but Harry soon manages to procure two plastic cups of something called a ‘Hurricane’ which is a nicely fruity concoction. You clink your glasses together in a toast and get started on your night of ‘investigation’.

Hours later, when there’s been no sight of anything remotely magical or menacing, and the drinks have loosened your thoughts about Lines That Ought Not To Be Crossed enough that the fact that you can’t seem to stop yourself from looking at him doesn’t seem like Such A Bad Thing. All the dancing has warmed you up to the idea that Harry doesn’t object when you move close to him, when you both laugh your way through stumbling dance steps, when one or the other or both of you has been pulled into a group of men who just want to have fun, you might be able to admit to yourself that this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

Harry has his back to you, dancing with a blond bloke who reminds you a little too uncomfortably of Malfoy, and you’re fixated on the way Harry’s arse looks in those denims. It’s hot on the dance floor, the music driving the pulse of the dance, the flashing lights and all the flesh around you are major distractions, but Harry’s the only one you want to pay any attention to. His shoulders rock forwards and backwards as he sways in tandem with the Malfoy look-alike, and you can’t help but fit yourself behind him, covering his back, moving in closer until the heat of him bleeds into you. You’re drunk with him, your body alight in a way it hasn’t been since the early days of Hermione, and even then, even then it wasn’t this visceral, demanding pull; those days were much more innocent; but now, now you want to do pretty inappropriate things to him, and that frightens you almost as much as it entices you.

You also really just want to be able to touch him.

And so you do, clapping him on the shoulder before sliding your hand around him, flat against his abdomen. He turns his head, mouth stretched wide with a grin that shows you all the ways in which this is A Bad Idea and all the other ways in which it’s the Best Thing Ever.

“Dance with me” you shout in his ear, not even sure he can hear you over the din of the music.

He answers by rocking back against you, his hand covering yours as it rests on his abdomen, his grip possessive in its own right. Suddenly there’s no space between your bodies, and he shamelessly grinds his arse against your groin, sparking off what’s already a problem in your pants. You’re hard so fast that it almost blinds you, you’re breathless with the sheer energy between you, it’s electric, your heart stuttering and beating erratically, too fast, surely loud enough to be heard over the noise.

You look down at where Harry’s head rests against your shoulder, his eyes half-closed, that wicked grin curving his mouth, his hand now on the back of your neck as he pulls you closer, and fuck! you’re going to explode from the friction alone. He must feel your hard length pushing against his buttocks as you try not to thrust, but bugger all of Merlin’s family, you can’t help yourself. You know he feels it, if the way he bites down on his bottom lip and grinds against you is any indication, holding you tight and sliding your joined hands further down his stomach and under the waistband of his trousers, and for a moment you let him, you want him to, your body racing towards an inevitability that you’ve craved for so long, but then you’re stepping back hurriedly and holding him away with your hands on his shoulders before you do something you’ll likely both regret.

You’re not drunk, not really, and your body judders and aches for him, starved of the heat and friction it so desperately craves, your fingers tingling, yearning to touch, but you can’t bring yourself to let this go as far as you want it to, you really can’t, not when Harry’s so obviously compromised. You can’t ruin what you have for the sake of rubbing one off on the dancefloor of some club in New Orleans.

His eyes are huge in the dim light, huge and hurt and everything you never wanted to see there. His mouth hangs open for a moment before he closes it, blinking hard, and suddenly he’s not the carefree man you just danced with, he’s the sad and broken boy you pulled from the frozen pond in the Forest of Dean.

A crowd of barely-dressed young men sweeps past you, whooping and shouting, and you’re both separated in the rush. Harry’s pulled along with them in the excitement, and you look for him anxiously, desperate to say anything to fix what you’ve surely bolloxed up. Even with your height advantage, he’s nowhere to be found, and you try to force your way through the thickening crowd in the direction you last saw him. Before long a strangely-clad … person stands on the bartop and announces the Strip-Off competition, and the crowd goes wild, crowding the stage and taking you along with it. You close your eyes and groan at the thought of what’s about to ensue, when you suddenly realize that you won’t be able to get to Harry through the throng.

You know he’s more than capable of handling himself, even wandless, but you’re a bit concerned that you’ve just essentially rejected his pretty obvious advances, and, coupled with the alcohol and his seemingly odd headspace, it probably isn’t a brilliant combination.

Mere moments later, a young man clambers onto the bar and the music changes into a raunchy sort of burlesque number. He struts back and forth along the length of the bar, peeling off his clothes slowly one item at a time as the crowd hoots and cheers. His body undulates in a way that’s frankly quite erotic, and he keeps disrobing until he’s down to very tiny black pants. Very tiny.

The song ends, and the man steps down on the other end of the bar amid cheering and shouts of approval, avoiding many grabbing hands, as another young man alights, accompanied by a different song, more upbeat with a definite dance, bass-pumping beat. He follows much the same sort of routine, although he gets down to what might generously be called a jock strap. He turns around to give the crowd a good look at his arse and teasingly pulls down one of the straps holding the thing on, but doesn’t get further than that, despite very loud and enthusiastic encouragement.

The song changes again as another man takes the ‘stage’, and you’re shocked to see that it’s Harry! What the bleedin’ fuck? Since when has Harry Potter been the type to showcase his goods to complete strangers? The song’s another raunchy-sounding one, or at least, the music is, but the words aren’t.

It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life
For me
And I'm feeling good


He seems a bit unsteady as he walks along the wooden bar, but still manages to take off all his clothes in time with the beat of the music without too much trouble. You’re equal parts horrified and painfully aroused by the spectacle, and haven’t noticed that you’ve been edging closer to the bar until he’s stripped down to his tight, bright red (Gryffindor) pants.

His thighs are lightly-haired and still well muscled after all the pick-up Quidditch games he’s played in the years since Hogwarts. You knew that, didn’t you? That his legs were so nicely defined; surely you’d known that. Your cock has taken immediate and extreme interest in that fact, and radiates approval at the way he moves in those pants. Dear Gods!

The crowd starts shouting for him to take them off, to ‘let Christmas come early’, and he starts running his hands along the waistband, hooking his thumbs inside and giving a little downward tug to first one side

And this old world


and then the other,

is a new world


following the beat of the music perfectly.

The crowd’s reaching for him, screaming now,

And a bold world… for me


Shouting at him, yeah, baby, gimmie some of that red-hot lovin’ ass… but he has the strangest, lost expression…

For me


And-

No.

Just- Merlin, no.

There is NO WAY that you’re going to allow Harry to go on like this. You’re directly in front of him now, well, in front of his … uh… his pants, and all the… stuff that’s in his pants, but ANYWAY he’s noticed you there and grins in that soft way that you’ve come to treasure. He mouths your name; it’s too damn loud this close to the music to hear anything, but you manage to grab him around his thighs and pull him off the bar.

Oh freedom is mine
And I know how I feel
It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life… for me


There are loud boos and complaints from the men surrounding you, plus more than a few wolf-whistles, but you barely hear them as Harry slides down your body slowly. You groan and try not to arch into him as he slides against your cock, and you hold him to you closely, one hand cradling his head to your shoulder, ridiculously relieved and thankful that you’ve got him, that he’s all right and unharmed.

And I'm feeling good

I'm feeling good
I feel so good
I feel so good


You turn and give the crowd a menacing look, at which they back away rather quickly, allowing you a clear path out of the mania. They’re already engrossed in the next young man up on the bar, if the shouting and hollering is anything to go by.

You settle Harry on a stool against a wall but can’t find his clothes (and you bloody well aren’t going back into that crowd to search for them), so you quickly unbutton your shirt and put it on him. He’s suddenly meek, unsteady as he leans against the wall, pliant as you get his arms through the sleeves and do up the buttons. It’s a bit long on him, thankfully falling below his arse, but the hem of his pants are just visible beneath the edge of the shirt. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel very proprietary seeing him in your clothes.

He looks up at you, finally, his expression unreadable, eyes looking very unfocussed.

“Heyyyyyy,” he slurs.

“Harry, what in the hell was that?”

“Ron! Where’d you go?”

“I’m right here, Harry.

His smile’s a bit crooked and looks almost rueful. “Yeah.” And that just confuses you, but you know that trying to rationalize anything with a drunken Harry isn’t going to be at all productive. Time to get him back to the hotel.

“M’sorry. Was just trying… to have… a bit of fun. Couldn’t find you…”

Fun. Right. He’s speaking slowly and deliberately, pronouncing every word with exaggerated precision, and, hell, Harry really can’t hold his liquor. After the Purple Drink Debacle, you think he’d have learned.

Harry starts to lean sideways, barely noticeable at first, but his eyes are heavily lidded and you realize that he’s all kinds of messed up. You turn to the bartender in exasperation and gesture to the drink that’s been served all night.

“What the hell is IN that thing?”

“Aww, shit, son, I didn’t figure him for such a lightweight.”

Harry grabs your arms and pulls you closer. “I need you, Ron.”

Your heart’s in fragments now, hearing those words said with such earnestness, knowing that what he says is so very different from what you want it to mean. What you feel for him, the depth and breadth of your love for him is bigger than the Hallows, stronger than the Horcruxes, wider than all of the Forbidden Forest. He’s everything to you, friend, partner-

“Ron.” Harry’s grip is suddenly iron-hard, his eyes fever-bright, and you’re uncomfortably aware of a building tension in the air around you. “Ron, Ron, Ronnnnnnn…… want you with me, mate.”

Oh, Merlin, your head’s not in the right place to deal with this, not when you want so much more than you’ll ever get.

“I’m- I’m right here, Harry. Let’s just get you back to the hotel, okay? You’ll be nice and safe there, you can have a shower, get some sleep-”

Harry spears you with a look, suddenly focussed and completely serious.

“I want you, Ron. With me. Always.”

Shit. He is serious, but so are you. “I’m with you, Harry. I will protect you with everything I am, you know that,” you reply earnestly, and you’ve never meant anything more. It’s utterly terrifying, saying it out loud to him.

A brilliant light surrounds you both and the sound of wind rushes past your ears. It’s almost deafening, except that it isn’t a physical feeling, but more of a magical one; magical with a very old feeling to it. You’re inexplicably surrounded by strains of Phoenix song, and a warmth blossoms inside you, a calming, soothing feeling. You have just enough time for one breath of absolute peace before the light dissipates and Harry passes out.

You manage to catch him before he brains himself on the table, and curse not quite under your breath. It takes some maneuvering, but you finally have him trussed up against you, one of his arms around your shoulder, and you’re ready to stagger the few minutes it’ll take to get to your room.

You start off, shuffling a bit awkwardly to the door, trying to balance Harry’s weight against your own, when an old man steps in front of you, a grin full of crooked teeth glinting in the semi-darkness.

“Ah, lads, well done. I’m so honoured to be part of a Soul Bonding, especially in this day and age. Blessed be.”

Soul Bonding?

The light.

The strange wind that nobody else seemed to notice.

The feeling that there’s something significantly different…

Merlin alive, you’ve just bonded with Harry!

ON TO PART 3
BACK TO PART 1
Comments 
14th December 2014 18:54
Ah, Ron. *kicks* Must say, I rather like drunken Harry. And the Bonding - ha! Gotcha, Ron. *kicks Ron again*
6th January 2015 16:13
Anonymous
Oh, now, don't be so hard on Ron. He has so many years of denial to overcome!

Drunken Harry is rather amusing, isn't he? More drinks!!!
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