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11th December 2014 19:00 - Kinky Kristmas Fic: A Certain Magic (Harry/Ron)
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.

Author's Notes: A thousand snowflakes of thanks to my betas, S and C. My darlings, the two of you continue to do yeoman’s service with these stories of mine. To my prompter, I hope this fits the bill. Merry Christmas to all.
For additional story notes see end of fic.

A Certain Magic


There’s a certain magic to New Orleans.

Some say it’s the lure manufactured by the hotel chains and other tourist centres to make something magical out of nothing, and that may be possible, but there’s also a bone-deepness to the old magic of Louisiana, something that Muggles would in no way be able to touch.


~~~


You’ve finally recieved the information you requested about the new case you’ve been offered. Lisa, that godsend of a office manager of yours has done wonders with culling only the relevant details for you to look over and then present to Harry.

You push open the door to your offices, the little thrill of pride the same as it always is at the name “Potter & Weasley, Investigators” embossed on the opaque glass. You hadn’t believed Harry when he’d said that you and he should work together. The war had left you damaged, and you’d wondered at first whether you’d be any use to anyone. Harry had thought quite differently and forced you to see his point of view.

It’s late, but you know that Harry will still be in the office, his intense focus honed on the project he’s involved with. You’ve asked him about it in passing, but he always seems to side-step the question or turn the topic to something else. You’d pursued it once, just a bit, and he’d said it was just something that had been puzzling him for a while. He said it wasn’t anything to do with your cases, just something he’d come across and that it was ‘kinda personal-’.

Right. Yup. Personal’s good. Personal’s fine. He’s your mate, sure, but blokes don’t really talk about personal things anyway, so you just let him be. You’re not unduly concerned but you still can’t help but wonder what could be that important that it takes up so much of his spare time.

The door’s open, and a quick glance shows your best friend seated at the desk, his dark head bowed, apparently absorbed in the thick tome in front of him. You wish that he would simply put it to rest, but you know that his dogged determination will keep him going long after other men would have given up. It’s something that you admire greatly about him, even though it troubles you that he doesn’t seem able to let things go.

He’s become particularly committed to it in the past few months, ever since you both caught Dolohov in that back alley in Twickenham.

You’d seen the spell rushing towards you, almost displacing the very air as it did so, and you hadn’t needed to hear the incantation to know that it was going to be a bad one. You’d spun a series of protection spells around yourself in a tight latticework pattern that you’ve favoured – a little trick that Mad-Eye’d mentioned one night at Grimmauld. “Latticework is the key, lad. Cast a non-linear network of defensive spells, like a mesh, and it’ll deflect most of the spells cast on you, especially if you don’t know what they are. Constant Vigilance!”

Old Mad-Eye. He pretty much terrified you, but he’d taught you some tricks that have saved your life many times over.

Your latticework pattern had worked, for the most part, but the offensive spell had managed to burn through a large piece of it, narrowly missing you as you dodged its trajectory. You were spinning around to re-cast when your ankle twisted badly, not broken, but painful enough to drop you to the ground, hard, and you’d faltered there for a split second. Harry, instead of putting the bastard down first, had cast a ridiculously powerful shielding spell over you, blanketing you in bright light and a feeling of warmth and calm, and it seemed as though time itself had slowed. You’d done nothing more than blink at him, and he at you for what seemed like a long moment as a vibration hummed in the air , and you’d felt… protected. Coveted. Safe… and then he’d whirled furiously and cast one of the strongest binding spells you’d ever felt, and it hadn’t even been aimed at you. Dolohov had been flat on the ground immediately and hadn’t moved an inch even as he was carted away by the Aurors.

Since then, though, you’ve noticed a change in Harry, a drive to work that sometimes borders on desperation. You’re concerned for him, and hope that this new case can help him at least put a little distance between himself and whatever has him so obsessed.

“Hi, Harry.”

It takes him a moment, but he straightens and smiles at you, rubbing at his eyes as he stifles a yawn. “Hey, Ron.” His eyes flick to the papers you hold. “Anything interesting?”

You lean against the wall near to the window, wondering how best to couch the scant details of the report into something that Harry will feel favourably towards. Old magic. Ghosts behaving unusually. Potential danger to Muggles.

“Yeah. We might have a job.”

“Okay, so why that face?”

Damn, and you’d tried for an air of nonchalance. There’s nothing for it now, and you shrug as you hand him the documents. “It’s in America. New Orleans.” (Harry doesn’t like to travel.)

“Louisiana?”

You nod, knowing that, despite the many times you’ve tried to stack the odds in your favour with regard to the jobs you’ve taken in the past, Harry has to have ‘a feeling’ about any project you undertake together.

You trust your own gut feelings, which are usually a solid indicator for what’s dangerous and what’s … less so, but Harry’s intuition is scarily accurate. Hermione likes to say that it was the Felix Felicis he’d drank all those years ago, and that some of the luck had stayed with him, but you disagree.

Harry’s always had luck, of a sort.

He turns all his focus to the pages you’ve handed him, but you know the details already, having studied them on the way to the office, so you study his face instead. You catalogue the way his eyes narrow behind his glasses, the habitual squint still there despite the magical perfection of the prescription lenses. You take in the way his hands hold the paper, casually yet carefully, his fingers gentle as they shuffle the pages around. There’s all this latent magical energy thrumming below the surface of him, so much power just resting there in the body of one man, and he handles it with such care and restraint.

It’s very lucky for the world that Harry is a good person. A second Voldemort, this time even more powerful, would have been the end of all things.

Harry doesn’t take long to read through the three-page report, then he grunts softly as he stands and stretches. You watch the way he walks towards the window and peers out at the rain, falling gently, relentlessly, muffling sounds and soaking everything with no sign of stopping. The world is silent save for the faint sound of his exhales gusting softly from his parted lips. You know you shouldn’t be looking at Harry’s lips in that way, or at any part of him, really, but you’ve been so gone for your best friend for entirely too long now, and looking’s all you’re able to do.

You’ve been acutely aware of Harry since your first days at Hogwarts, seemingly a lifetime ago, and you’ve been together as friends for over twenty years, but it was only after Harry’s failed relationship with Ginny and the few others that followed, and your own brief but nonetheless doomed engagement to Hermione that you had finally taken stock of the situation.

Your friend hadn’t been happy. You… hadn’t been happy.

Never let it be said that you aren’t an intelligent bloke. Next to Hermione, everyone else seems as dumb as a post, and you’re not ashamed to admit that, but you have a keen eye for details when the subject matter suits you.

Certainly Harry had appeared to be happy; Merlin knows he’d smiled and laughed easily enough, met with friends both mutual and personal, and seemed on the face of things to be an absolutely normal Boy Man Who Lived. Given that there is nobody else who can say that they’ve had similar life experiences other than the three of you plus the remaining members of Dumbledore’s Army, you simply felt that Harry might have been having trouble… connecting with people.

Female people.

Now, you would have been the first to say that you’d only wanted Harry’s happiness, and if a female had appeared on the scene and made that happen for your mate, then you’d … well, then you’d have tamped down on your own desires if it meant that Harry could have had a happy life.

You’d known in your heart, though, that you’d've rather burned out your own magic than have that happen.

All throughout your Hogwarts years, when Harry’d thrown himself into danger repeatedly, you’d been on his side through most of them, but fourth year, when Harry’s name came out of the Goblet and you’d felt that he was on the verge of being taken away from you, that had been the first time that the low-burning feelings for him had become amplified into something bigger.

You hadn’t been happy either.

You’d wanted something more.

You’d wanted him.


You’re brought out of your musings as Harry clears his throat and finally moves away from the window. You’ve lost track of how long you’ve both stood there, but Harry seems to have made a decision.

“I don’t know where you find these things, Ron, but I have a feeling about this one.”

“Yeah, mate, but is that a good feeling or…”

He flashes a grin, a rarity these days, and for a moment you’re so blindsided by it that you almost miss his next words.

“It’s a good feeling, Ron. It’s good enough.”


~~~


Three days later, all preparations have been made. Lisa greets you at the door with a cup of tea and two files. She’s blindingly efficient, and you’re still not sure how you’ve both managed to keep her on. She keeps going on about her loyalty to the man who saved everyone, but really, it doesn’t seem like hero worship, it just seems that she’s genuinely thankful.

Either way, it’s been five years since she started working with you and Harry, and she keeps the place running at an admirable pace. She matches stride with you through the passage to the office you share with Harry, briefing you along the way.

“…and your hotel booking is confirmed. I’ve put you both at a place in the French Quarter, very Muggle in appearance although the Manager is a Wizard, but it’s discreet enough that your comings and goings shouldn’t be noticeable. There’s a small fireplace on the Floo Network in the Manager’s office but the connection is less than reliable, due to the abundance of old magic in the area. The authorities suggest that you don’t try to Apparate as the deeper magics tend to play havoc with directional spells. You’re both going to have to go Muggle on this one, I’m afraid.”

You nod, half listening while enjoying your tea, until…

‘What’s that?”

“Why don’t you listen to me, Ron?”

“I do listen to you”, you say, just a little wounded, as thoughts of Hermione’s exasperated expression and narrowed eyes spring all too readily to mind. “Something about a Muggle convention...”

She gives you her patented Extremely Exasperated Sigh and continues as though you’ve said nothing.

“I said, there’s some sort of convention taking place this weekend so many of the hotels are booked solid. I’ve managed to get you the one remaining room...”

You nod, pretending to listen as you go over the lists in your head and the plans to be made before you depart later. You’re not worried – Lisa’s always extremely efficient, and in the grand scheme of things, you suppose there’s time enough to figure it out once you get there.


~~~


The International Portkey drops you off in an alley behind the hotel. You’ve both since mastered the landing (although you still smile fondly remembering Harry’s first Portkey trip at the Quidditch World Cup in fourth year), and Harry remembers to save the object - a packet of chewing gum this time - for the return journey. You take your suitcase out of your pocket and reverse the Shrinking Charm as Harry does the same before walking the short distance around to the front of the hotel. It’s been a long night for you both, ensuring that your plans were finalized and that everything was in place, and even though you caught the Portkey at two o’clock Saturday morning in London, it’s just past eight o’clock Friday evening, New Orleans-time. There are many Muggles walking about and the faint sounds of music echo in the distance.

The hotel’s style, like most buildings you see, is quite ornate, with balconies and columns lining the streets and bright flowers in baskets attached to the light poles. It’s all rather festive, and you remember from Lisa’s briefing that New Orleans is always ready for a party.

Your hotel is painted in shades of green with white trim, and the doors swing open as you enter, the doorman tipping his hat jauntily to you as he bids you good evening.

The foyer and reception area is as grand as the outside of the building, huge columns stretching upwards to support the coffered ceiling. Enormous chandeleers hang over a seating area in the middle of the great room, and it lends itself to an air of old distinguished opulence.

It’s really bloody brilliant, and this is just the front hall.

Harry is already speaking with a man at the reception counter, and he turns to smile at you as you approach. You think he’s maybe a bit amazed at the place too.

“Gentlemen, welcome to the Bourbon Orleans Hotel. We’re very pleased to have you with us; I just need your signatures here and here, and Laurent will be happy to assist you with your luggage.”

Harry grins as he signs his fake name, and you do the same as you inscribe ‘Roonil Wazlib’; still funny after all these years.

Laurent, meanwhile, has taken your bags and is waiting near the elevators, and once Harry has finished with the reception you both follow him up to what turns out to be the top floor. The hallway is no less impressive than the foyer, with deep lush carpet underfoot and elaborate wallpaper interspersed with plants or flowers in vases. Lisa has really gone all out on this assignment!

Laurent opens the double-doors to your…. Suite? and deposits your suitcases at the foot of the bed. You’re taken aback for a moment, initially because of the splendour of the room, but also because of the silver serving tray on the bed, the large single bed with a bucket of ice housing a bottle of champagne, two champagne flutes as well as chocolate-covered strawberries and a plate of cheese, crackers and fruit.

“Umm, Harry…” You don’t know whether to be amused or confused… but you’re confused anyway.

“Hold on a tic, Ron,” and you turn in time to see him give Laurent some Muggle money. Oh, right, the tip. Thank goodness for Harry remembering these details.

You try again. “Harry, mate, what’s all this?”

He grins. “You’d wondered why the check in staff were being so deferential, and now you have your answer.”

“Harry, they think that we’re together.” You say the words slowly, mainly to ensure that you get them out correctly because despite everything you’ve told yourself you won’t ever have, they can’t possibly-

“Yes, Ron. Obviously.”

“What?” Your stomach’s doing ridiculous things - Harry can’t be serious!

“Well, we’re sharing the only available room left. Single bed, suite, obviously Lisa had to make it seem believable.”

You stand there, blinking, probably looking very stupid while doing it, but…. Harry’s just off-handedly alluded to your being… together, in that way, as though it’s completely natural. An everyday occurrence.

You brain isn’t sure it’s ready to cope with this, and your heart’s racing just a bit, not in alarm, not exactly, but… it’s something you just hadn’t expected. Ever.

“Is that going to be a problem, Ron?” He’s looking at you with an expression that’s maybe half concern and half… something else. Almost hesitancy, if you had to put a name to it. But why should it be a problem anyway? From his point of view, everything’s completely normal, and it’s not as though you didn’t share a dormitory all your Hogwarts years, share a room when he’d visit at the Burrow, hell, you’d even shared a tent while on the Horcrux hunt … no, on the surface, there’s nothing wrong at all.

The fact that you have half a boner just thinking about it is perhaps beside the point? Or very much the point, depending on which side of the argument you’re standing.

The silence has stretched on a bit too long, hasn’t it, and Harry’s beginning to look more wary and maybe a bit embarrassed, or something very much like it. You can’t have him thinking you’re repulsed by him, or in any way phobic about… anything to do with anything.

“No, of course not, Harry. Blimey, it’s late, and I guess I just didn’t listen to Lisa when she was briefing me. Thought I’d have more room for my clothes, that’s all,” you say, a bit weakly to your own ears, but Harry smiles and looks as though he’s convinced.

“Shrinking charms, Ron,” he says with that impish grin you love.

“Old magic, Harry,” you shoot back, and then you’re both laughing like you used to on the first day back at Hogwarts after summer vacation.

You and Harry make quick work of the fruit and cheese, finishing the bottle of champagne in record time, but then decide to just get some sleep. The champagne’s doing a fine job of relaxing you, and you’re really quite knackered. Harry busies himself in the loo, but you barely manage to get your shoes off before you’re falling face-first into the utterly decadent bed.

This is going to be fine, you think as your body relaxes and your mind starts to drift into slumber. Harry’s your best mate, and there’s nothing to worry about.

You’re going to be fine.


~~~


Saturday morning, you wake slowly, but soon come to realize that things are the opposite of fine, for any given value of fine, as you find yourself flat on your back being slept on by Harry. In itself, that’s not such a bad thing, really, and you take a moment to just revel in the sound of him breathing, the warmth of his skin and how good it feels to be held by him.

In the next moment, however, you realize that your cock has taken extreme interest in the proceedings and you have to get out of there quickly. Bleedin’ hell, this wasn’t the plan at all!

You half-turn and shake him on the shoulder before rolling quickly out of the bed, grabbing the blanket with you. It doesn’t matter that you’re still clothed; the blanket’s needed to hide the obvious tent in your trousers.

“Harry, time to get up, mate.” You clear your throat, but your voice is still rough with sleep. You’re hoping for a nonchalant and normal tone of voice. Normal is good.

He wakes with a start, blinking for a moment before reaching for his glasses on the side table. He looks up at you, all sleep-rumpled and just delicious, bare-chested, the sheet barely covering his hips. You know that he’s wearing pyjama bottoms, but the memory of all that skin on yours, so warm and close… your stomach dives as you realize that you’re so far from normal it’s not even amusing. Fuck.

“Time is it?” Harry doesn’t wake well. You remember that now; he usually needs a few minutes before coming fully awake, and to avoid looking at him you grab the restaurant menu from the desk. Oh, thank Merlin, they’re open for breakfast until noon.

“Just after ten,” and your voice is unreasonably husky, dammit. “I thought we should get some breakfast downstairs before we head out. It’s- I’m going to take a shower first, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, just let me hit the loo first.”

You nod. Obviously a man has to relieve himself first thing in the morning. Your prick hasn’t received that memo, though, and it’s still hard as anything under the bundle of the blanket. In fact, just the thought of him taking himself in hand in the lav is enough to further interest your treacherous libido, and over something as unsexy as that.

Merlin, it’s going to be a long week.

You eventually get downstairs to breakfast just after half past eleven, and it proves to be a fine affair, done to extravagance as the Americans do. You moan with delight as the taste of apple-wood smoked bacon combines with scrambled eggs and potatoes. Harry’s amused grin only lasts until he tucks into his own breakfast, fried eggs with sausage and something called Southern grits. His eyes flutter closed, and the look of pleasure on his face makes it hard for you to swallow, just for a moment. He hasn’t even taken the fork out of his mouth yet, and your eyes lock on the sight of those lips puckered around the utensil-

Must stop thinking inappropriate thoughts!!! You clear your throat and try to focus on the business at hand, ignoring the heat of your face and the way your heartbeat has quickened.

The plan is to visit Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, the scene of the reported problem. The Manager’s complaint listed extremely unusual magic, an ominous presence within the building and changes in the behaviour of their resident ghost. Harry’d agreed with your idea of visiting the pub incognito at first, to see what, if anything, happens, and then speak with the owner about his actual complaints later. He had suggested (amusingly, you’d thought) that you’d both need ‘cover stories’, like the detective shows his Muggle relatives would watch on the telly. He’d described elaborate backstories, which were funny, but ultimately you’d both decided to just stick to the basics; two friends on vacation exploring the French Quarter in search of some fun.

But really, that’s what you are, or at least, that’s what you’d thought. The ‘honeymoon’ suite at the hotel, though… that sends quite a different signal. You focus on Harry, who’s finishing his breakfast with great flourish, and again wonder just what you’re going to do about that situation. Contrary to Hermione’s opinion, you do have more emotional range than a teaspoon, thank you very much.

Finally, Harry’s finished, and you both make your way outside and along Bourbon Street in the direction of Lafitte’s. You both don the sunglasses that Lisa insisted you take. You’d agreed as a bit of a lark, but she’s right, as usual, as the sun seems particularly blinding. It’s a bit of a walk to the tavern, but the sun out and there’s a fair breeze blowing, and the fullness of your belly makes it a comfortable jaunt.

You feel an undercurrent beneath your feet as you walk, almost as though the street itself gives off an energy of excitement. There are certainly enough Muggle tourists around to support that vibe, though, and as you weave through the crowds and onto the street, dodging the occasional horse-drawn buggy, your attention is caught by so many sights that you forget about the feeling.

After walking for ten minutes or so you come across a fairly nondescript greyish building with multiple doors leading out to the street. Harry nods towards it and the Muggles gathered outside on the pavement with drinks at their tables or in their hands.

You enter the tavern first and notice immediately that there isn’t the typical buzz of Muggle electricity. It’s a bit rustic inside with an exposed beam ceiling and a long bar built from old darkened bricks and topped with worn wooden planks polished to a high sheen. You can see security cameras and some machines behind the bar that seem to be run by electricity, but for the most part, the dining areas are lit only by candles and the occasional lantern. It’s surprisingly cool inside the tavern, and it reminds you a bit of Snape’s Potions’ classroom. You’re about to mention that when you notice that Harry is already heading towards the bar, so you choose a spot near to the wood-burning fireplace.

The small round table turns out to be rickety and quite old, much like everything else in the place. The chair creaks ominously as you sit and survey the room, taking note of the myriad of bottles haphazardly lining the shelves against the wall at the back of the bar.

It’s not long before Harry joins you, complete with two tall glasses filled with what looks like frozen purple mush. He puts them down reverently as he flops into one of the chairs, gesturing to the concoctions with a flourish. The ‘ta-da!’ is implied.

“Hey, mate. Any luck with finding unusual magical signatures near the bar?”

“Not a one, but Ron! You have to try this, it’s bonkers!”

You’re a bit surprised at Harry’s utter disregard for The Plan, but he’s grinning widely and looks years younger. For a moment, you could almost be back at the Three Broomsticks as young men, just after the war, waiting for Ginny and Hermione to join you. You smile ruefully for a moment and then take a good look at the glasses – the base is a skull about the size of your hand, its mouth open as though laughing, and from the top of the head, the rest of the glass stretches. The entire thing is maybe a foot tall, the word “VOODOO” etched in white on the front, and it’s filled to capacity with a slushy purple drink.

“Harry. Just what exactly is this?”

“The bartender says it’s their signature drink. Called a Voodoo Daiquiri. Potent stuff, if I’m to believe the Muggles at the bar.”

“What’s in it?”

“Bourbon, grape juice and something called 190.”

You take a tentative sip. It’s sweet, and very cold, and the alcohol burns your throat, but the frostiness soothes the sting nicely. Bourbon, you’ve had before, but not like this. Yeah, not dangerous at all. What the hell, time to let loose a little.

Harry grins as he raises his glass, and you both toast your health, and the ’vacation’, and being in America - you’re off to a good start. After a while, the drink doesn’t burn the way it used to, and you settle into your role, enjoying the mixture of tastes and the wonderful cold.

Muggles come and go, as do more drinks, and presently the tavern is full of jovial tourists and other vacationers. There’s no sign of any ghosts or obvious magical signatures, but you didn’t actually expect to get so lucky the very first time.

Conversations are begun, laughter is shared, the drinks flow like water and you’re having a brilliant time. A brilliant, brilliant time. Harry’s smiling more than you’ve seen him do in a long while, he’s clapping you on the back, you’re both shaking hands with the throngs of fellow drinkers, laughing when they ask you to “say something in that accent” and obliging them over and over.

Finally the crowd thins, and Harry mentions something about getting back to the hotel. The bartender – Gus, you’ve learned after your many trips to and from the wooden-topped bar – suggests a horse and buggy ride back, and you’re a bit unsteady on your legs, so you gladly agree.

Harry doesn’t need much convincing – he’s even less capable of standing properly – and you sling your arms around each other and carefully make your way into the carriage. After what feels like no time at all, you’re back at the hotel, remembering to pay the driver, then holding on to each other for support as you negotiate the foyer, elevator, and eventually the hallway to your room at the end.

Harry manages to get the plastic thing in the lock after about nine tries, and finally, finally you stumble into the room together. You peel off your shirt and denims and flop onto the bed, groaning as your head swims. Harry’s saying something about water or maybe he needs to use the loo, but you’re barely aware of what he’s saying as you close your eyes, just for a sec.


~~~


Merlin’s pants, your brain is on fire! Even the mental exclamation point hurts.

“Fuuuuuck, that’s a sneaky drink.” Harry whimpers from beneath the pillows.

“Treacherous,” you moan, expecting your head to actually explode at any moment. No wonder the skull on the glass was laughing, that bastard; laughing at your misery, no doubt. You curse in your mind; saying anything too loudly just makes the pain explode inside your head, and you REALLY don’t want to be sick.

You bury your head in the pillows and wait to die.

Some indeterminable time later you hear Harry’s muffled voice. You must have dozed off despite your headache and nausea because he’s shaking you awake very very carefully.

“C’mon, mate, I got us room service. They have a special menu for hangovers.”

You take a deep breath and brave the world outside your pillow cave to find that the curtains are pulled tightly closed and the delicious smell of chicken soup wafts through the room. You sniff cautiously and, on closer inspection, notice that there are tiny noodles floating in the liquid, as well as packets of crackers and a couple bottles of Club Soda and something called Powerade.

Your stomach, roiling mere moments before, suddenly growls in appreciation and you follow Harry’s lead, tucking into the soup gratefully.

“Harry, never again, mate.”

“Never,” he whispers.

You’d laugh if you didn’t feel so awful, and he cracks a smile that’s painful to watch, and then you’re both chuckling because you can’t help it, and then moaning and clutching your heads, which makes you laugh even more.

There’s a soft knock on the door, and you open it to find one of the porters with two vials of a very familiar rich golden colour on a silver tray.

“Sir, good morning. With the Manager’s compliments.”

Despite your still-impressive headache, you almost snatch the vials from the tray, restraining yourself only at the last moment, muttering a hasty ‘Thanks’ as you close the door and shuffle towards Harry.

“Merlin be praised, a hangover potion!”


You’d be more than happy to give Lafitte’s a wide berth today, but you’re here to work, after all, and the tavern’s northern wall is reported to be the epicentre of whatever’s gone awry with the magic.

Harry’s still looking a bit worse for wear, even after the potion, so you get ready slowly, enjoying a long shower and a proper shave, doing it the Muggle way since you’re not sure how well your magic will work. You’re using something the Muggles call a ‘safety razor’, which means that you won’t cut yourself too badly should your hand slip, but you still take extra care to move the head smoothly along your neck. After a while, the door opens, and Harry steps into the bathroom.

“Hey. You still alive in here?”

You just hum in response – you’re shaving the last bit of the tiny patch of hair under your lower lip – wouldn’t do to get cut there. You finish, and turn to smile at him.

“I’m taking my time with this razor. Don’t want to get any Muggle injuries now.”

“Just checking, mate. It’s been half an hour since you started, after all,” he says with a laugh.

You expect him to leave after that. He’s not in your way, exactly, and nothing’s awkward at all; you just assumed he’d go back into the bedroom and let you finish, but he stays, leaning his hip against the countertop and watches as you finish up the final strokes along your neck.

You’ve both shared bathrooms before, often getting ready in haste at Hogwarts and again while on the run during the Horcrux hunt; Merlin knows there wasn’t any room for privacy then, really, but you can’t help but notice the way he looks at you as you shave. He’s still bare-chested, and whereas ordinarily you’d make a point to not notice him, recently you can’t stop your eyes from straying. He’s nicely muscled, nothing too big or out of proportion, but very well put together, with a light smattering of hair around his nipples and in a line down past his navel. You’ve never really thought specifically about your preference for the male form, and Merlin scratch your eyes out for even thinking it now, but when it’s presented in front of you, when it’s just there for the looking, sadly not for the taking…

Is it because you’re self-conscious? Or finally acknowledging your own feelings for him? You can’t be sure, but you’re hyperaware of his every move and breath in the sudden silence, and he seems to be a much larger presence than usual, especially in such a relatively small space. It’s also getting warm, not that it hadn’t been pleasantly so before, but with the two of you in there, standing so close-

“Thank Merlin for potions, eh?”

You huff in agreement and relief that the silence is broken, feeling immensely sorry for Muggles who don’t have the luxury of instant hangover relief. The way you’d felt before the soup arrived, and even after, it was just…. ugh.

“We can’t do that again, Harry. We’re here to work.”

There’s silence again, so you glance over at him, and he has this strange expression. You wouldn’t call it disappointment, nor does it seem apologetic, but you’d say…. pensive, if you had to label it. Maybe there’s a little disappointment after all.

“I know, Ron. I just wanted to relax for once and simply be who we were supposed to be. It felt really good to do that.”

You nod. It had felt good to be just two regular chaps out for a pint (or several) at a pub, crazy ghost stories notwithstanding. And Harry has been unusually stressed lately. You’d thought it was over all the research he’s been doing, but perhaps it’s more. He hadn’t been at the last few pub crawls you’ve organized with Seamus and Dean and some of the lads from the Ministry, always talking about having to work on something, and you’d known he was wrapped up in the details of the mysterious case but you hadn’t really believed that he was that tied up in it.

Looking back now, as much as you’d been aware of Harry’s movements, his habits, his pursuits, or lack thereof, perhaps you hadn’t truly been aware of the important things.

Thankfully, you manage to finish shaving without blood loss, and he throws you a grin over his shoulder as he takes over the bathroom. You’re relieved to be out of there, quite frankly, and your skin still tingles from how close the two of you were; how much heat there was between you.

After lunch, you once again make the trek to Lafitte’s. Gus is still there, and he greets you both loudly and enthusiastically.

“How are my two favourite Brits?”

Ha bloody ha, the wanker, plying you with drink last night. Doesn’t matter that you asked him for them, and paid for them, but still. Man should look out for his ‘mates’.

“Yeah, yeah, not nursing a hangover, that’s how we are.”

“Stomachs of steel, you two. Thought for sure you’d be out of it for a couple days with the amount you were drinking.”

There’s an odd shimmer in the corner of the bar to your right, and the room, reasonably cool despite being midday, is suddenly degrees colder than just a minute ago. The air feels thick, and heavy, ominous, unsettled, and you see Harry go for his wand, already in battle stance even though you’ve both been briefed by Lisa via the New Orleans Magical Association regarding the non-use of magic, especially in front of their Muggles. You can’t blame him though, you’re less than a second behind him with your wand slipping out of your sleeve and into your palm. Still concealed, but ready.

Your magic calls to Harry’s, something it’s done occasionally since the war, especially during moments of high stress, but the strange interference in the norner disappears as quickly as it began.

Your magic still tingles within you, pushing at the edges of your control as it eagerly begs to be free, to do your bidding. You love the way magic feels for you now; even though you’ve always had it, as you’ve matured, it’s grown into something formidable and powerful. Generations of magical excellence, your Mum would say proudly, ruffling your hair the way she loves to do even though it secretly drives you bonkers.

You’d agree with her, except you know that it’s more than that. After the drama of Bill and Fleur’s wedding and battling Death Eaters in London, you’d been anxious and ill at ease in Grimmauld Place, especially with Kreacher lurking around. Harry’d cast a protection spell over you one night in Sirius’ bedroom, and although you don’t remember his words or the colour of the light, you remember vividly the feeling of being warm all over, as though the warmth flowed through your body, and you’d felt instantly calm and full of courage. It had been an incredibly intimate moment shared between you; you’d been privileged to know the taste of his magic and, ever since then, you’ve had more precise control over your power, and greater strength in your casting.

You meet Harry’s eyes – they’re just wide enough to register his adrenaline high, probably the same as yours, and you nod as you stand down, slipping your wand back up your sleeve. He does the same and you both turn back to Gus who’s gone very very silent as he stares at you.

“You- Were you going to fight that thing?”

Harry carefully doesn’t answer as he eases onto a barstool, and you follow his lead. He’s better at talking with Muggles anyway, and Gus seems legitimately freaked out.

“Just a reaction, Gus. Kinda surprised us.” Harry really does have the right combination of soothing and nonchalance.

Gus, however, isn’t having any of it. “That’s a military sort of reaction, fellas. You two ex-Army? Brit Super Spy service? Double-Oh-Seven-type stuff?”

The references are quite lost on you, but Harry grins easily enough that you’re not concerned. “Nah, we’ve just been in a dust-up or two, y’know, growing up, messing with the wrong crowd.”

“Hmm. Seems a bit… magical to me.”

Oh, bloody buggering bollocks!

There’s absolute silence for a long moment, and you’re about ready to hit him with a Memory Charm when Harry stays your arm with a careful hand.

“Why would you say that?”

Gus nods towards Harry’s arm. “Looks like some wand action to me. I’ve met a few of your people before. You always have that twitchy way with the arm.”

You share a look with Harry, and you know he’d rather not go around Obliviating people, especially when there’s the potential for useful information. You nod; Gus doesn’t seem to be the type of man who’d blow the whistle on your investigation, and besides, sorting things out would only work to his advantage.

Harry turns back to him. “Yes, we are wizards, but this is an extremely sensitive matter and we really can’t have you blowing our cover.”

Gus is quick to placate. “No, no, I’m thankful that you folk were able to come over and try and fix this thing. It’s not good for business, y’know?”

You nod, as does Harry. All right, so you’re all in agreement.

“So, are you the Manager, then?” You want to be sure before you go talking magical theory with random drink-dealing Muggles.

He nods. “That I am. Gus Lefevre, at your service. I wondered whether my request would even fall on the right ears.”

Harry grins. “We have an exceptional office manager. I believe she tried to reply but the Fl- the, uh, messages kept being returned.”

“Oh, yes. That. It’s not always easy to correspond with… well, with your side of things.”

“Well, we’re here now. So what’s been happening with the ghost?” you ask.

Gus seems thankful to actually be able to talk openly about the situation. “What we’re able to discern is that our resident ghost has been misbehaving.”

Harry cocks his head. “Similar to what just happened? But that was more like a ghoul or even a Poltergeist.”

Gus looks between you anxiously. “No, the difference is more sinister than that. Our ghost is rumoured to be that of Jean Lafitte, the original owner and smuggler. He was my great great many-times-great grandfather, and he’s always been ‘our’ ghost, you see? He can be a bit of a scamp on occasion, but not really a malicious energy. We call him ‘Old Voodoo’ – ‘cause of our signature purple drink we serve, the Voodoo Daiquiri –”

You flinch at the memory of this morning’s hangover, and you notice that Harry’s gone the slightest bit pale.

“What sort of things does he do?”

Gus gestured widely. “Oh, you know, he’s got a penchant for the fireplace. Legend says that his gold was hidden there, and people have said they’ve seen glowing red eyes in the fireplace. Usually it’s just cold spots near there, or people sitting in that corner over there say they’ve felt a ghostly hand touching them. Then there’s the cigar smoke – there’s been no smoking in here for years, but it’s said that his presence is felt when you smell cigar smoke.”

“So basically he’s benign, if he’s a ghost at all.”

“Yes, usually, like I’ve said, but now, there’s something else there and it’s freaking out the customers. Hell, it’s even freaking us out, and we’re used to that sort of thing. We’ve spent a couple hundred years cultivating the idea of the place being haunted by the ghost of Jean Lafitte, and of him being a non-troublesome ghost – we take all the precautions we can - but this is different, guys. This is something ‘other’.”

“When you say ‘precautions’…” Harry’s voice has dropped lower, into what you think of as his ‘business’ tone, where he speaks more carefully and specifically, and that brings a definite gravitas to the situation. You also can’t help but enjoy just a tiny bit the way it makes you feel, as though pleasure hums through your bones.

“It’s an old Orleanian tradition to scrub the front steps with brick dust. We used to do that once a month or so, but since this new development, we’ve done it daily, all the doors, even the windows, and still nothing has changed.”

“Is that ‘old’ as in Voodoo rituals?”

“Yes, it’s based on that, and it can’t hurt to be cautious, right?”

You nod sagely, wishing you’d have exercised that kind of common sense with those drinks last night.

“All right, so what sorts of things have you seen?”

“It’s a sort of, I dunno, spidery type of thing. There are spider webs some mornings, cold things, and freakin’ huge! The room itself goes from being cold to hot and back again, and the pressure inside the room increases. Bottles fall from the shelves and there’s an acrid smell and taste in the air. The customers swear that they’ve seen eyes staring at them from darkened corners, not just two, but a myriad of them.”

You fight against the mostly-involuntary shiver that runs through your entire body. You know all about myriad eyes, and vividly remember trees, and darkness, and being surrounded by the clicking sound of hundreds of hungry mouths descending, descending…

“Ron!” Harry’s voice snaps you back to the here and now, and without looking, you can feel the weight of his eyes on you even as he continues the conversation as though there’d been no break. You feel shaky, your heartbeat thready, as always happens after flashbacks like these, but you know it’ll pass, so you force your attention to the matter at hand.

He turns towards you, all business, and despite everything you really can’t help but get a little turned on when he’s like this. He quirks his eyebrows in that way he has, asking silently ‘Are you okay?’

You nod. You’ll be fine; it wasn’t even that bad, didn’t last too long.

Harry continues as though there was no break. “The cold, though. Spiders don’t usually live in anything less than warmth-”

You know where he’s going with this. “Which means it’s a Boggart.”

“Most likely.”

Getting rid of a Boggart is child’s play, usually, and even though you’re less than settled after the memories of spiders, you’re more than capable of handling things. You touch your wand and feel around gently with your magic, testing the foreign magical energy and seeking out the limits of the Boggart’s influence on the area around it. There’s an almost caustic feel to some of it, and you’re surprised to realize that there are layers of spells twisting through the foundations of the building and keeping it tethered to the structure. Even if the Boggart wanted to leave, you doubt that it’d be able to do so. That’s unusual, as is the residual stinging sensation that you’re left with.

“It seems as though there’s a lot of negative energy here, Gus, and that’s probably wreaking havoc on your ghost. We’ll have to do a bit more research, check out the other buildings around and see what sort of feel we get.”

“Of course, anything you need, just give me a holler.”

He leaves you to attend to another patron at the bar, and Harry’s expression says it all.

Not going to be a quick solution at all, is it.

You both wave to Gus as you leave the bar a few minutes later, he’s all smiles once more, and yet you can’t shake the feeling that something’s changed in the room, that perhaps just by your stirring up the eddies a bit, the ominous presence has increased, and that things are shifting towards the dangerous.

ON TO PART 2
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