This year, Valentine's Day fell on a Monday. That was generally regarded as a terrible thing by most of the occupants of Hogwarts — at least, the ones who cared about such things.
It was so terrible because the way the term scheduling worked out always had the February Hogsmeade weekend landing after Valentine's; which meant this year, couples would have to wait almost an entire week after the day itself if they wanted to go on a date in the village.
The younger years, still dazzled by the newness of being allowed to visit the village, happily delayed their plans until the weekend. But the older students just got a little more… creative.
Harry wasn't exactly sure how he was going to beat last year's Valentine's date — he didn't have anything as impressive as the Chamber of Secrets to show Draco this time around. And every time he mentioned the day, Draco just smirked at him and changed the subject, so he assumed the blond had something up his sleeve.
Needless to say, Harry was not expecting the truly enormous bouquet of roses to arrive with the morning post, carried by two owls who expertly deposited the arrangement in front of him. The roses were a mix of deep velvety crimson and bright shining gold, bound securely with green paper and a silver ribbon. A small red card was tucked into the ribbon, and Harry plucked it out, opening it. This year it's my turn, was all it said, and Harry laughed.
"Bloody hell, Harry," Ginny exclaimed, having to stand up to see him over the huge display of flowers. "He's not subtle, is he?"
"Not when he's being possessive, no," Harry replied with a chuckle, stroking careful fingers over the smooth rose petals. The handful of cards that had been delivered for him from other admirers went entirely ignored — exactly as Draco intended, no doubt.
"That's so romantic," Lavender sighed, further down the table. "They're so pretty!"
Looking up, Harry could see several envious glances being sent his way — and quite a few annoyed looks sent at partners. "You like them, then?" Harry now knew why Draco had gone to sit at the Slytherin table that morning — the blond approached, as calm and confident as always, though Harry could see the uncertainty in his eyes. Harry beamed up at him.
"They're gorgeous," he complimented. "I love them, thank you."
The uncertainty vanished, and Draco took Harry's hand in his, kissing the back of it. "I did warn you you were in for a lifetime of grand romantic gestures," he said lightly. "I am a Black at heart, after all."
Harry pulled him down for a kiss, then reached for the bouquet and pulled out a single red rose — one charm had the stem cut off, and another had it affixed to Draco's robe, directly over his heart.
Others might have thought it was cliché, or overdoing it, or showing off — such a huge assortment of roses at this time of year had to cost a pretty penny, after all. And a year or two ago, such things might have embarrassed Harry, making a big deal out of him in public, putting him in the spotlight. But it wasn't about that — it was Draco showing his love in the best way he knew how, putting his heart out there for the whole school to see.
There was always one person who got embarrassed in the Great Hall on Valentine's Day with an over-the-top display, and Harry was quite happy for it to be him this year.
"You are worth far more than roses, darling," Draco murmured, a whisper of a kiss brushing his lips. "But they make a fine start."
Harry blushed, keeping still as Draco's deft fingers reached for a gold rose from the bouquet, clipping and pinning it to Harry's chest to match. Faintly, Harry thought he heard several people sigh dreamily.
"Need I remind you all," McGonagall's exasperated voice cut in, "that it is, in fact, still a school day. Class starts in five minutes."
That broke the spell, everyone scrambling to hurry out of the hall. Harry rose to his feet, looking wistfully at his flowers. There was no way he could carry those around all day.
"I'll take them up to Gryffindor for you, Harry," Neville assured. "Get them situated. You two go to Runes."
If there was anyone he could trust to take good care of his roses, it was Neville, and Harry beamed at the blond. "Thanks, Nev." He turned to Draco, twining their fingers together. "Shall we?"
They left the hall, hand in hand, uncaring of the stares that followed them. .-.-.
Draco Malfoy did not have the monopoly on gifting flowers on Valentine's Day. After classes ended, Neville hurried to the greenhouses where his own bouquet was waiting for him under stasis charms, Professor Sprout giving him a cheeky wink as he eased it out of its hiding place. He kept it Dissillusioned on the way up to the castle — still quietly amazed he was actually able to pull off such a spell — and caught Ginny just coming out of the Charms corridor. With a flourish, he dropped the spell, holding the vibrant bouquet out to his girlfriend. "Happy Valentine's Day, Ginny," he said, already feeling his cheeks go red. Ginny dropped her bag in shock, brown eyes wide.
"Oh, Neville, they're stunning! I— when did you order that in?"
"I, uh, made it myself. Professor Sprout lets me grow what I want in the back corner of greenhouse four. So I thought… well. Yeah," he finished awkwardly.
"You grew all these, just for me? But that must have taken weeks!" Ginny's classmates were all staring now, and Neville tried not to squirm.
"I started planning early," he said with a shrug. "I— you deserve pretty things on Valentine's Day." He hadn't wanted to just buy her something — Ginny was amazing, and there was nothing in the world that would show her how much she meant to him more than plants. He hoped she knew that. He suspected she did, by the light in her eyes.
Next thing he knew, her hands were on his shoulders as she leaned up for a passionate kiss, right there in the hallway. "I love you," she murmured, face almost as red as her hair as she too realised how much of a scene they were making. "Why don't we, ah, go somewhere private, and you can tell me what all these flowers mean, yeah? I know they all mean something."
The blood rushed to Neville's face — they did all have meanings, of course they did. Red chrysanthemums, edelweiss, hibiscus, red salvia, violets. His heart laid bare in a single bouquet.
All the things he wanted to tell Ginny, but always found his tongue tripping over the words.
But blood rushed to other parts of him, too, at the idea of being alone together. At the spark in those gorgeous brown eyes.
"Yeah," he croaked, Ginny's small hand taking his slightly sweaty one, the bouquet still tucked in the crook of his arm.
"Ginny!" Colin called. "You forgot your bag!"
But Ginny's stride didn't falter as she half-dragged her boyfriend down the corridor. "Don't care!" she yelled over her shoulder in response, face alight with joy. Neville's heart thudded hard in his chest.
He'd never get over the feeling of utter bliss that hit him when he made Ginny smile like that. He wanted to see that smile for the rest of his life.
.-.-.
Several floors below them, behind a painting of a bowl of fruit, a cluster of house elves tried not to laugh as two teenagers stood amongst them, absolutely covered in flour.
"Oops," Hannah said meekly, looking at the huge bag of flour that was now mostly empty. "I— sorry."
Opposite her, Ernie looked down at himself; his Hufflepuff tie now as white as his shirt, his trousers suffering a similar fate. Then he looked back up, slowly, staring at his girlfriend. "Well," he said, the flour on his lips making his mouth go dry. "It's a good thing we hung our robes up before we started, I suppose."
A quiet giggle escaped Hannah's mouth. Then another. Then, both of them were laughing their heads off, getting even more flour on themselves as they leaned against each other, gasping through laughter — then choking on flour, which prompted even more laughter. A few of the elves sniggered too, though quickly clamped their lips shut.
"Winky will be cleanings this up!" one of the elves announced, stepping forward with her hands on her hips. With a snap of her fingers, the flour disaster was gone, leaving the workbench and their clothes spotless. The elf huffed, her huge brown eyes staring up at the two students. "Yous is being lucky that we elves is having a soft spot for badgers," she muttered warningly. Ernie fought a smile — the relationship between the Hogwarts elves and Hufflepuff house was long-standing, with their common room being so close to the kitchen. All new badgers were taught about the importance of respecting the castle elves.
And since his girlfriend had become one of the four heirs of Hogwarts, that had only increased the elves' eagerness to make her happy. Ernie doubted anyone else would be allowed to get away with making such a big mess in the kitchens during dinner prep, otherwise.
"Thank you, Winky," Hannah said, bestowing her sunny smile on the elf. No one could stay mad in the face of that smile. "We'll try and keep the mess to a minimum, from now on. I really didn't mean to drop it."
Winky huffed again, though she didn't look nearly as scolding as before, and with one last nod she turned back to her kitchen duties. Ernie looked at the workbench they had been set up with, at the ingredients to bake chocolate chip cookies still laid out before them. "Let's try this again, shall we?" he said wryly, and Hannah giggled once more. "Maybe I should pour the flour, this time."
"That's probably for the best," Hannah agreed sheepishly. "And, wait a minute." She waved her wand, and suddenly both of them were wearing butter-yellow aprons, the ties undone at their sides. "Just in case."
Ernie wasn't sure it was a look he could pull off — but Hannah looked adorable in hers, a cute frown of concentration on her face as she tied the strings at her hip. When she was finished, she glanced up with a smile, which soon became impish. "You've still got a little…" She reached up, cupping his jaw, thumb swiping at a spot just below his eye. Ernie stepped closer, settling his hand on the curve of her waist, while the other tucked her honey-blonde hair behind her ear.
"And you've got a little…" He tilted his head down, covering her lips with his. Her hand slid to the back of his neck, deepening the kiss while the sweet flowery scent of her perfume filled his senses.
The rest of the world fell away, the baking ingredients temporarily forgotten as the pair kissed, oblivious to the fond eyes of the house elves cooking dinner.
It was going to take them a while to get around to making those cookies, but Ernie didn't mind. The more time he got to spend with Hannah, the better.
.-.-.
The bank of the lake was a popular spot for romance at Hogwarts; generations of students had taken romantic strolls along the edge of the still water, been waved at by the giant squid on their way.
It was cliché, but that made it all the more romantic in Susan's eyes, and she was glad her Slytherin was willing to indulge her on this.
It probably helped that they weren't just walking beside the lake — Susan had done one better, and set up a privacy warded blanket in a quiet spot on the grass. The best spot to watch the sunset from.
"I think the squid is a voyeur," Theo announced, eyes cast suspiciously towards the water. When Susan turned to follow his gaze, she saw the squid in question, drifting lazily across the surface of the water, its eerie unblinking eye visible.
"I don't think it's looking at us," Susan assured him wryly. "It probably can't even see us. I warded us in pretty tight." She didn't want to have to deal with lovestruck second years on their awkward first dates interrupting them. Private time at Hogwarts was a rare thing.
Theo's gaze darkened. "You did, did you?" he drawled. "Good to know."
They had a picnic basket, but Susan wasn't particularly hungry, especially not with Theo looking at her with that intense stare.
Everything about Theo was intense. She thought she'd be used to it after a year, but it still made the hairs on her arms stand on end, to have such undivided attention directed her way, from such a handsome boy.
Theodore Nott was the picture of pureblood elegance, the dark foil to Draco Malfoy's silver grace. He was tall and willow-thin, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, dark brown hair always effortlessly falling into his eyes. Those gorgeous, all-consuming eyes.
It still amazed Susan that a boy like that gave even a moment of attention to a girl like her, let alone the fierce devotion that Theo had.
"Are you mad I didn't get you flowers, like Draco did?" he asked almost carelessly, and she scoffed.
"Draco's a show-off, and I don't even like flowers." She sidled closer. "Should I have gotten you flowers?"
He laughed, a quiet sound, one she always cherished for its rarity. "What would I do with flowers?" he retorted, bemused. He beckoned her closer, cupping her cheek, his bright eyes studying her keenly. "The necklace suits you as well as I thought it would," he said, satisfaction purring in every word. "I wasn't sure, but I hoped."
Susan's fingers came up to play with the pendant, the silver twisted artfully around the most incredible polished piece of amber, making it look like the stone had captured fire itself. "It's beautiful." She hadn't anticipated a Valentine's present. She hadn't thought Theo was that kind of a guy. "I'll wear it always." The only boy to have gifted her jewellery before was Harry, with the earrings he gave her for Christmas back in fourth year.
"Good." Theo's lips curled in a contented smile. "My fire-hearted badger."
She blushed, ducking her gaze, and a startled sound between a yelp and a laugh bubbled from her lip as Theo suddenly pulled her onto his lap. She squirmed — she always felt like she would crush him, like this. Theo was so fine-boned, like a china doll, though she knew better than to think there wasn't muscle hidden in that whip-thin frame. But she was taller than most other girls, with wide hips and thick thighs and belly rolls that Sally-Anne Perks had been quietly mocking since third year. She tried to pull away, to lift some of her weight off him, but Theo's hands were firm on her waist. He shifted, and she gasped, his hardness pressing against her inner thigh. "How good are your privacy wards?" he asked, voice low and urgent, strained around the edges. One of his hands slid up her thigh, under her uniform skirt, and her breath caught in her throat.
"Pretty damn good," she told him breathlessly. He laid back fully on their blanket, hips canting up against her, a tease of what was to come. Susan's blood ran hot — while she knew they had wards up, knew that no one could see them, it still felt like they were out in the open there, where anyone could stumble upon them. "We're supposed to be watching the sunset," she scolded lightly as Theo's thin fingers untucked her shirt, starting on the buttons.
"I'd much rather watch you ride me," came his immediate retort. The hot twist of lust in her belly hit her hard, and she bent over, kissing him hard, trapping his hands between them as her breasts pressed to his chest.
"If my wards fail and we get detention, I am absolutely blaming you," she warned him, reaching behind herself with one hand to unclasp her bra. Theo's lips curled, that smug look she couldn't wait to wipe off his face as it turned to unguarded passion.
"It'd be worth it," he replied, not missing a beat. He bucked up into her again, like he was trying to get started before she could even get his trousers undone.
People always thought Hufflepuffs were the meek, innocent ones.
People always thought that Theo was the shy, quiet Slytherin, reserved and restrained and overshadowed by Draco Malfoy's shining silver brilliance.
Susan grinned as she stood up to slide her underwear off, settling back down over Theo, pulse racing as his fingers danced across her skin.
People didn't know shit.
.-.-.-.
Past the lake, in the Forbidden Forest, Daphne watched her girlfriend feed chunks of bloody meat an invisible flying skeleton horse and wondered how this had become her life, that she wouldn't want to be anywhere else.
She didn't like Valentine's Day. It was overly-sappy, commercialised bullshit.
This wasn't a Valentine's date. It was just a regular date, a chance for the pair of them to get out of the castle, for Luna to surround herself with the wild magic of the forest. Hell, it was hardly even a date; Luna came out here most evenings, and Daphne often followed, the lovesick disaster that she was. Her fourteen year-old self would be ashamed to see her now, so utterly gone on another human being.
But her fourteen year-old self didn't know how great sex was, so quite frankly, Daphne didn't care.
"Daphne, come here," Luna called, and like a devoted sap, Daphne obediently followed. Her girlfriend beamed at her, reaching out a hand. "Come, stand where I'm standing." She stepped aside, just enough to stand with her chest pressed to Daphne's back, her hands on Daphne's wrists. "Persephone had a foal, look."
"I can't see them, honey," Daphne reminded dryly. Luna giggled in her ear.
"Look with your other senses, silly," she urged, moving Daphne's hand out to the side. Suddenly, her fingertips hit something warm and velvet-soft and alive.
"Oh," Daphne breathed, letting Luna guide her into petting the thestral foal. It had to be a small thing — she could feel its wing tip brushing her calf, feel its spindly body and tiny ears. It wasn't like petting a regular horse — more like a horse-shaped snake, though there were little tufts of fur at its ears, and its nose felt just like any other horse's. She heard a quiet whinny, then a huff, and something nudged her shoulder.
"That's Hades," Luna informed her, giving another quiet giggle that slid over Daphne like silk. "He's very proud of his baby."
"As he should be," Daphne agreed, lips curving ever so slightly. Hades nudged her again, and Luna moved Daphne's hand over, setting it on a large, muscular shoulder.
"He likes getting scratches there most," she whispered, letting go of Daphne's wrists so the Slytherin girl could figure out the creatures for herself. Luna hugged her from behind, pressing a kiss to Daphne's neck. "They like you," she confided. "I think Hagrid and I are the only ones who visit them. But they like people."
Before Luna, Daphne never would have thought twice about thestrals — would have recoiled from the idea of them, the omens of death that they were thought to be.
She turned around in Luna's embrace, dipping to kiss her, the hot breath of the thestral foal still puffing against her shin.
She could maybe do Valentine's day, if it looked like this.
.-.-.
It was awfully handy, being pseudo-brothers with one of the heirs of Hogwarts. And being good friends with the other three. Certainly, it made sneaking into the castle a whole lot easier when the wards welcomed him like he was still a student.
George popped his Dissillusioned head out from the statue of the one-eyed witch, checking the coast was clear before hauling himself out entirely.
It might have been easier with the Marauder's Map, but he was George Weasley — he could do this in his sleep.
Quiet as a mouse, he hurried to the main staircase, heading down, dodging the students in his way. He made it to the third floor, then turned towards what, once upon a time, was a room the headmaster had threatened pain of death upon entering.
Now it was just a room. A room with a few scorch marks on the walls and ceiling from various Weasley experiments over the years.
A room with a double bed, and the most gorgeous man in the world inside.
George dropped the charm concealing him as soon as the door was locked behind him, throwing himself into Blaise's embrace. "I've missed you," he declared, loving the feel of Blaise's strong arms wrapping around him.
"I missed you too, tesoro," Blaise chuckled, his deep voice doing things to George's insides.
Before he could throw his whole wooing plan out the window entirely and shove Blaise onto the bed to have his way with him, George put a little space between them, trying to catch his breath. From his pocket, he drew a bottle of red wine, watching Blaise's eyes light up. "Ooh, my favourite."
"Only the best for my Valentine," George insisted, winking roguishly. "Got you these, too." From the same pocket came a box, which Blaise opened to find a dozen large chocolate-covered strawberries.
"Mm, delicious," Blaise murmured, stealing another kiss. "You'll share them with me, won't you?"
George imagined watching those lips close around a plump, juicy berry, a whimper creeping from his throat. "If you're willing to share. They're yours, after all."
"Then perhaps I will eat mine and you will eat yours, and we'll drink the wine together." Blaise was suddenly holding a chocolate box of his own — where the hell had that come from?
Inside were the incredible melt-in-the-mouth chocolate caramels that Blaise had introduced him to in Italy that summer. George's mouth watered just at the smell of them. "You do spoil me," he sighed, making Blaise smile. "Every day I can," he promised. "Come on, let's get comfortable."
George's brown eyes trailed over Blaise's form. "Comfortable, or comfortable?" he drawled, wiggling his eyebrows.
Blaise set both boxes of chocolates on the end of the bed, then pulled his t-shirt over his head in one fluid motion. "Get naked and get in that bed, Weasley, or I'll drink all the wine without you."
George didn't need telling twice — in moments, his clothes were a heap on the floor and he tackled Blaise to the mattress, wanting to get his mouth on that smooth, ebony skin. Blaise's cock was already very much interested in the events, and George pinned the Slytherin down, sliding so his face was level with the impressive length.
"Thought you wanted wine and chocolates?" Blaise drawled, even as he made himself comfortable, bending his knees up to give George a better angle. George hummed deep in his throat.
"I can have those too," he pointed out. "But this first." Then, without hesitation, he took his boyfriend down to the root.
Blaise made the most incredible sounds like this. And George really had to learn Italian — he knew bits and pieces, knew the dirty words and the sweet words, but Blaise babbled in bed and George never remembered enough to look it up afterwards, his orgasm forcing it all from his mind. He worked Blaise's cock thoroughly, fingers slipping lower, playing with his balls in the way he knew drove his boyfriend wild. Soon, Blaise's hips jerked, his whole body going taut as he came down George's throat. George hummed in satisfaction, crawling up the Slytherin's muscular body — and reaching right past him for the open bottle of wine, necking it back like it hadn't cost a small fortune. Blaise had such expensive tastes.
He took a few swallows, then offered it to Blaise, who pushed his hand aside and lunged up for a hungry kiss.
"Wine always tastes better from your lips," Blaise breathed, fingers twined in George's hair tugging just the right side of painful. "I wonder if it'll taste better from the rest of your skin."
Oh, George liked the sound of that. He liked the sound of that very much — Blaise pushed him flat on his back, straddling his thighs, taking the bottle of wine and pouring a thin stream into the hollow of George's throat, chasing it immediately with his tongue.
Maybe the wooing part of the plan had ended up a little shorter than anticipated. George was only human, after all.
.-.-.
One Valentine's date in Hogwarts was not a date at all. Rather, an avoidance of dates — an avoidance of everyone. Pansy and Millie sat together in their dorm room, an obscenely large plate of brownies between them, while Pansy watched Millie write a letter.
"Do you think you'll get to see him this summer?" she asked, somewhat hesitant. Millie sighed.
"I don't know. Depends what Potter's up to, doesn't it?" she pointed out with a derisive snort. "If it's all over 'round his birthday, like he says it will be…"
The two of them pretty much only saw Harry at heirs' meetings, these days. Everyone still believed them to be loyal Death Eaters in training, and that meant no socialising with Gryffindors. Or with other Slytherins who had turned their backs on the cause.
No socialising with any of their true friends, really. Not where anyone might see them.
At least they still had each other. Pansy wouldn't have survived half as long without Millie by her side.
"Harry's usually right about these sorts of things," Pansy said, reaching for another brownie. "If he says he'll be done by the end of summer, I believe him." She could hardly believe they were talking so casually about the defeat of the Dark Lord.
Being friends with Harry Potter made one do crazy things like that.
"Then maybe I'll get to see Otto at the end of summer. Or even Christmas." A dreamy, hopeful sort of smile took over Millie's face. Once upon a time, Pansy would have been eaten alive with envy, with a desperate need to find someone who made her feel the way Millie looked. Before she understood how much that was never going to happen, how much she didn't even want it to happen.
"Oh, you should invite him over for Yule!" Pansy urged excitedly. "He can meet everyone!" Sure, most of their Slytherin cohort had met Millicent's German fiancé at least once, but that had been a number of years ago now. And their friend group had expanded enormously since then.
Millie looked doubtful. "I'm not really sure I want to inflict everyone on him." Pansy snorted. Sure, they were friends with an astonishing number of Weasleys these days, but it wasn't that bad. "But having him around for the holidays would be nice." She sighed again. "I just want to see him."
Pansy knew that Millie hadn't seen Otto since the summer before their fifth year, when her mother had taken her over to stay with his family in Berlin — to avoid everything going on back home. She also knew that despite what Millie's father thought, Otto's family were not actually the avid Dark Lord supporters they had once claimed to be.
The only reason they had not publicly turned away like everyone else — other than their own safety, of course — was that doing so would make Mr Bulstrode dissolve the betrothal for sure, and nobody wanted that. Not with the risk that he might betroth Millie to some other boy.
Not like Pansy was facing.
"I'm sure you'll see him soon," she soothed, offering her best friend a brownie. "But forgive me for hoping it's because he comes here, not because you've buggered off to Germany."
"I'm not going anywhere until things are safe here," Millie insisted firmly. She reached out, covering Pansy's hand with her own. "I'm not leaving you. If it gets bad, we'll go to Lady Malfoy, together."
It would have to get very bad, for that to happen. Going to Draco's mother, turning away from their parents, would get them disinherited in a heartbeat. They were at the mercy of their fathers, until they were married. At least for Millie that was something to look forward to.
"Harry will sort it," Pansy insisted once more. She shuffled in closer, peering over Millie's shoulder. "Now show me what you've written so far. Even the saucy bits. Especially the saucy bits." Millie's cheeks burned red as she tried to hide her parchment, and Pansy laughed.
They would have their happy endings. Even if she hadn't quite figured out what she wanted hers to be yet. She would have the chance to find out.
Draco would be awfully sad if they didn't, and Harry would rather burn the world to pieces than see Draco sad.
Pansy approved wholeheartedly.
.-.-.
Technically, they could have gone out somewhere fancy. One day, they would — Charlie deserved to be taken to incredible restaurants where Sirius could shower him with good food and expensive wine, and ogle him in dress robes, and make all the other patrons uncomfortable with their blatant flirting.
But while that did sound fun on occasion, neither of them were really fancy restaurant people, and quite frankly it wasn't worth the risk or the faff that came with Sirius going out in public. So with a little help from Ceri, Sirius had the conservatory at Seren Du decked out to the nines, a table for two with a crisp white tablecloth and two silver candles set in ornate holders, and the most incredible dinner waiting for them.
And this was so much better, because Charlie was in a t-shirt and well worn jeans, candlelight flickering gorgeously over the ink on his forearms and biceps, relaxed and smiling and looking at Sirius like he'd just handed him the world on a platter.
"You romantic old dog, you," the redhead teased.
"Oi, less of the old," Sirius mock-scolded. "Just because I'm in my late thirties now."
Charlie gave an over-dramatic gasp. "Practically ancient," he agreed dryly. Sirius barked out a laugh, pouring wine for them both.
"Happy Valentine's, Charlie," he said, raising his glass to clink against Charlie's own.
"Happy Valentine's, sweetheart. You didn't have to go to all this fuss."
"I wanted to," Sirius insisted. "We might not be able to do the traditional dating thing while the whole damn world is on fire, but that's no excuse for me to slack off." He always felt like he wasn't doing right by Charlie, wasn't doing enough — he didn't want to let their first Valentine's go uncelebrated.
"If you insist." Charlie's dimples returned, sapphire eyes sparkling. "Then I suppose you deserve your present, too."
Sirius' brows rose in surprise. "You didn't have to get me anything!"
"Technically I haven't, yet." Charlie pulled a folded piece of parchment out of the pocket of his jeans, handing it over to Sirius. Confused, Sirius opened it, and gasped.
It was a pencil drawing of a grim. His grim, Padfoot, stood proudly with his head held high, the level of detail incredible. "This is amazing! Did you do this?" He saw Charlie sketching sometimes, but it was mostly dragons.
"No. My, uh, tattoo artist did. He's a friend from Hogwarts, we kept in touch. He did most of my tattoos — there's a few I got out in Romania, but for all the big ones I came back home to see Nick."
Looking at the drawing closer, Sirius could see the similar art style to the tattoos over the rest of Charlie's body. When his gaze returned to Charlie's, the redhead seemed suddenly unsure. "I, uh, have a slot booked for next week. World-on-fire permitting and all. But I wanted to run it by you first. In case you think it's weird." For a few seconds, Sirius had no idea what he was talking about, and then it clicked. "You want to get this tattooed on you?" he asked, holding up the drawing. Charlie nodded.
"Yeah. If you're alright with it."
Sirius couldn't think of anything hotter than seeing his grim on Charlie's skin, and he said as much, watching Charlie flush lightly. "Where were you thinking?" There weren't many spaces left, not for something that size — perhaps somewhere on his back, or maybe a calf piece.
Charlie bit his lip, anxious. "Well, ah. I've got some prime real estate here, I was thinking."
And he held his hand up to his chest, right over his heart.
Sirius sucked in a sharp breath. Oh. "Chest tattoos hurt like a bitch," he said with a weak chuckle, watching Charlie's lips twitch.
"I know. But I can handle it, for this."
Another good thing about not being in a restaurant was that there was no one around to care when Sirius abandoned his meal entirely and pounced on his boyfriend, straddling his lap there at the table. Sirius' skirt, already scandalously short, rucked up around his hips, his arms twining around Charlie's neck. Large hands pressed hot against his bare thighs.
"You like that idea, then?" Charlie gasped, tilting his head back so Sirius could attack his neck.
"Just a bit," Sirius agreed breathlessly. "Your artist, how far in advance does he book?" He let his teeth rasp over Charlie's jaw. "Been thinking it was a while since I got my last tattoo. Thought I might look good with a bear on my thigh."
Charlie's hooded eyes dropped to the thigh in question, fingers running reverently over the unmarked flesh, pushing the skirt up even higher. "Right there," he murmured, stroking the upside of Sirius' right thigh. "Low enough to see just a peek when you're in a skirt. High enough that anyone looking to see your cock knows it's mine." He looked up, grinning devilishly. "For me? Give Nick a reference and he'll have you booked in straight after mine."
"Easy enough," Sirius assured, excitement building in more ways that one. "I'm sure I'll have no trouble conjuring a Patronus for him to look at." Something he hadn't ever thought possible, not after twelve years in Azkaban, but Charlie Weasley was a miracle in himself.
"One of these days I'm gonna take that damned Animagus potion and you're gonna look really daft when I'm not even a bear," Charlie teased, and Sirius snorted.
"That's a bet I'm willing to take." He knew his Patronus, knew exactly why it was the way it was.
His magic, his soul, his heart — they all belonged to Charlie. It was long past time he dedicated some skin to the man, really.
.-.-.
Sat at a fairly similar table to his brother, but hundreds of miles away and definitely in a very public place, Bill Weasley tapped his glass of champagne against his fiancee's, beaming.
"Our last Valentine's before we're married," he said teasingly, feeling light as air every time he so much as thought the words. Fleur giggled, tossing her silky hair over her shoulder.
"So you keep saying, and yet we 'ave not set a date."
Bill waved a hand dismissively, still grinning. "Pfft, minor detail." They hadn't organised much for the wedding, in all honesty, but they knew it would be something in England; something fairly small, pretty informal. Bill might be a Wizengamot lord now and all, but he didn't want all those airs and graces intruding on his wedding day.
"Tell that to Maman," Fleur muttered, giving her steak a dark look for the moment. Bill grimaced — Fleur's mother was not impressed by their wedding plans, or lack thereof.
"She knows we've been a bit busy, right? War on and all that?"
Fleur rolled her eyes. "She knows, she just does not care."
The quarter-veela raised a hand, and immediately a waiter was at their side. A quick exchange in French had the waiter headed to get more water for the table. As he left, Bill looked around, catching several peoples' eyes and smirking when they looked away hurriedly. It was something he was increasingly used to these days, whenever he was out with Fleur — people looking at him, blatantly trying to figure out what it was about him that made such a gorgeous woman spend time with him.
If they ever figured it out Bill would love to know, because he sure as hell had no idea even after a year and a half. All he knew was, he was here with the most beautiful person in the room, and that made him one incredibly lucky bastard.
"I love you, you know," he told her, making her blink, her smile turning soft.
"I love you as well," she said, reaching across the table to touch the back of his hand, just for a brief moment. "What brought that on?"
"Nothing, just — I really can't wait to be your husband." Despite his huge family, Bill had always thought it would take a bit longer for him to settle down. Thought that maybe he wouldn't ever really do so, not in the way his mum wanted him to — wife, kids, the whole thing. He'd thought he'd keep travelling as a curse-breaker for another few decades, at least. The pay was great, and Gringotts were a fair employer. He liked his team, and the goblins. But he'd figured with all the people in the world, everyone he hadn't met yet, it would take a while to find the one that he thought he could spend forever with.
Then he'd met Fleur.
When they were kids, his dad had joked that Weasleys were destined to find their soulmate early and stick with them through anything. Bill and his siblings had rolled their eyes and made gagging noises, especially as it had usually ended with their parents being mushy and gross in front of them.
Looking at his siblings, how their lives were playing out, Bill wondered if there might be a bit of truth to that whole destiny thing.
Fleur's smile lit up the whole room. "I really can't wait to be your wife," she replied, whispering like it was some special secret, just between them. The waiter returned, pouring water, and Bill didn't miss the way the man's eyes dropped to the engagement ring on Fleur's hand, and then darted to Bill in consideration. Measuring him up, wondering if it was his looks or his money or something else entirely.
He snorted to himself — that could give a man a complex, being eyed up like that all the time. He was decent-looking enough!
"Stop paying attention to them," Fleur interrupted his thoughts. He frowned, sheepish, leaning back in his chair.
"Sorry. I didn't mean it. It's just— they're not even trying to be subtle." He looked over Fleur's shoulder, glaring at a pair of men a little older than him outright goggling in his direction.
"They are jealous, that is all," the blonde dismissed. "They are not worth your worry."
"I'm not worried," Bill said. "I just wonder what they're thinking, is all. What sort of story they've concocted for why a bloke like me is here with a lady like you." He smiled lopsidedly. "Whether they think I'm actually loaded and you're just with me for the cash. Planning on running away with it all as soon as we're married. Or maybe they think I'm someone important in a business and you're trying to get ahead."
"All of these options make me sound like a terrible person," Fleur remarked, unimpressed.
"And they make me sound incredibly desperate, so we're even," Bill replied, winking.
"Maybe they think we are both models, deigning to bless their restaurant with our beauty this evening," Fleur suggested, and the curse-breaker cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "You are easily the most 'andsome man in the room, Bill, look around." The confidence with which she spoke made something in Bill puff up in pride, even as he smirked.
"You have to say that, you're marrying me," he pointed out.
"Because you are the most 'andsome man in the room, yes, I am glad you follow," Fleur agreed, giving him a mischievous smile that never failed to make his blood race. Suddenly, her foot was stroking his ankle beneath the table, sliding up the hem of his trousers. "Or maybe," she continued, lowering her voice to a sultry murmur. "Maybe they are looking at us, deciding a pretty girl like me can only be interested in one thing, and assuming that you 'ave a very big—"
Bill cut her off with a kiss — not because he didn't want to hear it, but because hearing that word come from his future wife's mouth in that tone would do things to him that were not remotely appropriate for a public space.
"If you want to stay for dessert, my love, you'll change the conversation."
Fleur leaned back, reaching for her champagne and draining the rest of the glass, looking back at him with a satisfied smile and come-hither eyes.
"My darling, who said anything about dessert?"
Bill had never paid for a meal so fast in his life.
.-.-.-.
"Oliver, we are not flying in on broomsticks."
"Come on, Cass — where's your sense of fun?"
Cassius sighed at his partner's dancing turquoise eyes. "My sense of fun is in the quaffle centrepieces, and the quidditch-themed cake, and in letting you literally marry me at a quidditch stadium, which is your workplace, might I add," he said pointedly, leaning over to kiss the pout off Oliver's lips. "I plan to look so fucking incredible in my wedding robes that you will stop and stare in amazement. If you're on your broom, you could end up being so gobsmacked by my beauty that you crash into a post. Then where would the fun be."
Oliver laughed, squeezing Cassius' thigh. "Fair point, love."
They hadn't intended to spend Valentine's Day wedding planning, but they couldn't exactly go out anywhere, and Ollie had a game in the morning so he couldn't even drink.
Secretly, Cassius sort-of liked it; the pair of them in their pyjamas, surrounded by lists and pictures of flowers and cakes and Merlin knew what else, drinking hot chocolate and thinking up increasingly outlandish suggestions for their future nuptials.
It was so fucking domestic it was going to make Cassius' teeth rot, and he wouldn't change a second of it for the world.
"Have you picked out your robes, then?" Oliver asked curiously, tucking one leg beneath him to face Cassius a little better, even as he reached over to double check the menu. The stadium staff were going to cater the event, which was amazing, but also gave them a million options to choose from.
"I've narrowed it down to three," Cassius told him. "How about you?"
"I thought I had it sorted. Then Da asked if I was gonnae wear the family tartan." Oliver shrugged, cheeks going pink. "Said I'd ask how you felt about it."
Cassius' eyes roamed over his fiancé, mentally exchanging the Puddlemere t-shirt and quaffle-patterned pyjama bottoms for a kilt and all the accompanying regalia. Lust stirred within him. "If you're wearing a kilt, you're definitely not flying in on a broom," he said decisively. "No one's seeing your arse but me."
Oliver laughed, winking at him. "Yes, dear." He kissed his cheek, raising an eyebrow. "So you wouldn't mind it? Having me in muggle-wear and all?"
"Ollie, love, at this point quite frankly I'd be so glad to call you mine officially I'd take you in your Puddlemere kit," Cassius told him bluntly, watching the pleased and surprised glow chase across his partner's face. "It's our wedding. Yours and mine. If you want to wear a kilt, I'm entirely happy with that. Just be prepared for me to be grabbing your arse most of the night."
"You'd do that even if I had robes on," Oliver challenged. Cassius smirked, conceding the point.
"True. But all jokes aside for the moment, I don't mind what you wear. Or if you want to add any other muggle traditions to our wedding, if they're important to you." Oliver's dad was a muggleborn, and even though his grandparents had passed a few years ago, Cassius wasn't so stupid to think that meant the family's muggle connection was gone. "I— but I'm already asking so much of you. With the pitch, and the cake, and all that."
"Do you think I'd agree to it all if I really didn't want it?" Cassius retorted. "Hell, love, do you think I'd be marrying you if I wasn't at least halfway as quidditch obsessed as you are?" He pulled Oliver closer, their legs slotting together somewhat awkwardly, and pressed their foreheads together. "A Slytherin always gets their way," Cassius murmured. "Everything I have strong opinions about, we've already sorted. I like the quidditch theme. I like the Puddlemere colours. And if you're looking for an opinion, I very much like the idea of you in a kilt." He smirked, kissing Oliver lightning-fast. "Not just because I know the whole thing will have my father rolling in his fucking grave."
Oliver caught him before he could pull away, lips sugar-sweet and tongue languid and hot against Cassius' own. Large hands held Cassius' shoulders, grip achingly gentle despite the strength in those fingers.
"You're a lord now, Cass," Oliver breathed, voice cracking. "I don't want to let you down with my nonsense on our wedding day."
"You've never let me down, Ollie, and you won't start now. I don't want all that pureblood bullshit. The Warrington traditions I like, we've kept. The rest can go hang." His brows drew together playfully. "Plenty of room for your nonsense."
Oliver's breath came out long and shaky, his eyes bright, full of love for Cassius. As always, Cassius' heart clenched painfully tight.
"I'll tell Da to book me a fitting at the kiltmaker's, then. He didnae want to be the only one in a kilt, but he'll get his out if I'm in mine."
Cassius could see it now, the two men stood side by side in their family tartan, Ollie's dad beaming with pride — beaming at Cassius, welcoming him into the family, like he'd always wanted but never truly felt he deserved.
Oliver's parents had known about them since the beginning. Called Cassius another son of theirs before they even got engaged. Oliver's sister was the same, calling him brother, teasing him just like she teased Ollie.
He didn't deserve any of it, but he'd be so fucking grateful regardless.
"That's settled, then," Cassius agreed. "Kilt for you, dress robes for me, and no bloody brooms."
A burst of laughter wrenched from Oliver, and then he was wrapping Cassius in a bear hug, kissing his neck. "I think that's enough wedding planning for one night," he decided huskily. "Don't have to get it all done right now." They didn't even know when it would be possible, just a vague 'after the war is over', but by Cassius' reasoning if they got it all ready to go early, they could move quickly once it was safe. He was not waiting an age to make Oliver Wood his husband once Voldemort was finally in the ground. "Mm, you got a better idea, then?" he asked archly — and yelped when he was suddenly lifted off the sofa, Oliver's hands under his arse as the keeper carried him towards the bed.
"Aye, I might." He tossed Cassius on the mattress, following immediately after.
"Think I like this idea of yours," Cassius said, gasping as hands yanked down his pyjama bottoms, a heavy form pressing on top of him.
It was the last coherent sentence Cassius formed all night.
.-.-.
Valentine's Day wasn't really one you would usually associate with a joke shop, but Weasley's Wizard Wheezes wasn't an ordinary joke shop, With the breadth of their product range, business was booming — as much as it could in these difficult times, at least.
But it was all quiet now on Diagon Alley, the shops closed for the night, locked up tight until morning. And number ninety-three was no different.
Angelina liked to cook. She liked to cook family recipes; her mother's recipes and her grandmother's recipes — nothing remotely close to the food Fred had grown up with from Molly Weasley, or even at Hogwarts. But after several months of living with his girlfriend in this flat, both of the twins had been introduced to proper food as Angelina called it. Nigerian food.
Fred liked eating it very much, but cooking it still looked like some sort of sorcery he was not yet versed in.
"Go sit down," Angelina said laughingly, batting away his hands as he tried to cop a feel while she checked the jollof rice. "I'll be done in a minute."
She'd been cooking since not long after George had left for Hogwarts, filling the flat with delicious aromas, and Fred's stomach was rumbling. But she danced as she cooked, humming to herself with a smile on her face, and he could watch that quite happily for the rest of his life.
"Okay," she declared, five minutes later. "Help me bring this to the table and it's all yours," she lifted one large pan, while Fred grabbed the pot — with his hands, not his magic. Angelina insisted that all parts of the cooking were better when done by hand, even the serving. All her food was delicious, so Fred wasn't going to argue.
They hadn't set the table in any fancy way, but there was a decent bottle of red set out to breathe, and Angie didn't know about the chocolate fudge cake he'd hidden in the back of the cold box.
"My lady," Fred said, pouring wine with an exaggerated flourish that made her giggle exasperatedly. He winked. "Happy birthday."
"Thank you." She tapped her glass to his. "Happy Valentine's."
When they were kids, Angelina used to get annoyed sharing her birthday with Valentine's Day. Claiming it was barely even a holiday, that it didn't exist to her.
When she'd learned the twins were born on April 1st, that eased the way a bit. The special birthdays club, they'd called themselves. Even when Angie got a bit older and hit the age where she might want all the fuss that went along with Valentine's, the twins always made sure her birthday didn't get lost in the noise. Especially once she finally agreed to be Fred's girlfriend.
"I'd say sorry for making you cook on your birthday, but this is delicious, so I'm not going to," he told her, and she beamed.
"I like cooking on my birthday," she insisted. "You did breakfast, so we're even."
Fred smirked — George had called in Alicia for the day to cover the shop with him all morning, so Fred and Angie could have breakfast in bed and a long birthday lie-in. Twin brothers were good for something, it turned out.
"Successful day, then?"
"Yeah, not bad." Her smile faltered, just for a moment, and Fred knew what she was thinking — she hadn't seen her parents since they'd taken an illegal portkey to Nigeria over a month ago, going to hide out with her grandmother's family.
"I wish you could chat to them, Angie," he sighed, knowing how much she missed them. "If I could find a way to make it safe, I'd do it for you in a heartbeat."
"I know. It's fine, really." Angelina reached over, taking his hand. "It won't be forever."
"Just a few months," he agreed, as they always said.
In a few months, the war would be over. One way or another.
Things were getting too tense to last much longer than that. But those were far too dark thoughts to have on such a joyous day, so Fred gave his girlfriend a cheeky grin. "Want to go over and see the kids on Thursday?" he asked. "I thought I might take them some pygmy puffs."
Angelina raised an eyebrow. "Careful, there; Charlie will fight you for them."
Fred laughed. "He's fine, he knows I'm going for favourite uncle." All five of the kids had settled in now, and they were all great, but the Weasleys all had a soft spot for those twins and their big sister. Inheritance test be damned — if Sirius and Charlie didn't adopt the whole trio after the war was over, Fred would eat his broomstick. "So what do you think?"
"I did promise Nashira I'd come braid her hair soon," Angelina mused. "You sure we can take Thursday off?"
"Lissy's still around, she'll cover," Fred assured. Alicia had the whole week off work, she'd told him. And if not, Lee and George would handle it. There were so many of them willing to pitch in, so many friends working to help the twins' dream happen. They were the best.
"Then it's a date," she confirmed brightly.
"A date to go hang out with some kids — you sure you're not getting broody on me?" he asked, raising a teasing eyebrow.
"Merlin, no!" Angelina laughed. "That plan hasn't changed." No kids until they were thirty at least, was the plan. So they could enjoy life as adults for a while. Angie didn't want to go straight from being a student to being a mum, and Fred agreed wholeheartedly.
Thank Merlin for extra-strength contraception potion, to counteract that famed Weasley fertility.
"Also, you call them kids, Nash and Frankie are third years," she continued. "It's not that long since we were there ourselves!"
"Feels like it." Fred could barely remember third year at this point. "Blimey, those were the days. The year Harry showed up and everything got all dramatic." It felt so long ago, now. So much had happened — that scrawny little scrap of a first year was out and fighting the two most powerful wizards in the country.
"Honestly, still better than the year before, where we were all new on the team and had the shittiest seeker in the world and couldn't win a match to save our lives," Angelina said, shrugging. Fred laughed.
"Merlin, I'd forgotten about that."
With plates cleared and wine almost empty, Fred turned his eyes to his girlfriend. "Now, then, birthday girl," he drawled, "important question. Do you want bed," he wiggled his eyebrows salaciously, "or do you want cake?"
Her eyes sharpened. "There's cake?"
"Of course there's cake! What kind of man do you take me for!" He made an offended face, directing their dishes to the sink to wash themselves. "So what are you after?"
Angelina leaned back in her chair, giving him a once-over that had his jeans growing uncomfortably tight. "Cake," she declared, and he tried not to show his disappointment. "In bed," she continued, smiling wickedly. "Oh, I knew I loved you for a reason," he declared vehemently. She stood, pressing against him in a steamy kiss, her braids tickling his neck.
"You get the cake," she said, squeezing his backside. "I'll meet you in the bedroom."
His eyes trailed after her, too dazed to even think about following her instructions. In the doorway to their room, she paused, looked over her shoulder, then reached back and waved her hand to undo the buttons of her dress.
It fell to the floor with a soft thud. Angelina smirked. "Hurry up, then."
In his haste to get to the bedroom, Fred almost impaled himself on a fork. Twice.
.-.-.
One good thing about the Ministry being taken over by Voldemort was that Tonks and Kingsley no longer got stuck working alternate shifts. Or any shifts, really.
Sure, they kept busy — Kingsley was still working security for the muggle Prime Minister, as much as he could without drawing the Ministry's attention for it. And then they had their work for the war effort; getting people safely into hiding, hunting down Death Eaters, doing what they could to stop the darkness from taking over before Harry even got the chance to face it. But they didn't have to pretend they weren't going home to the same place every night. Didn't have to carefully check their schedules so no one realised they were spending their off days together.
Tonks could get used to life like that.
Valentine's Day was something they'd never really done before. Something Tonks had never really done before, in all honesty. Not since Hogwarts, when it was just cards and chocolates and maybe flowers if someone was feeling really fancy. A trip down to the village, avoiding the god-awful display at Puddifoot's, a bit of snogging and then life goes on.
He had thought, for a while, that perhaps they should go to some kind of effort for this one — get dressed up and go out, or do something. Since Sirius had introduced him to some of the muggle clubs he liked to go to, he'd gotten Kingsley into it, who turned out to enjoy it a hell of a lot more than Tonks thought he would. He'd considered making a night of it — dinner somewhere, clubbing, a whole muggle night out. But honestly, they were both so fucking tired these days, it seemed like far too much effort.
Then Kingsley, the absolute god among men that he was, had picked up Chinese from the muggle takeaway down the road, brought it home and declared that they were going to eat it in bed like complete heathens, and then sleep for at least ten hours.
So they did. With bowls and take-away containers balanced precariously on their laps, they sat in bed in nothing but their pants and ate far too much Chinese food. It almost veered into dangerous territory when Kingsley spilled sweet and sour sauce on Tonks' chest and decided to clean it up with his mouth, but there was still more food to be eaten — and then when all of the food was gone, both of them were too full to even think about doing something so vigorous.
They cleaned up, sharing lazy kisses, abandoning their underwear now there was no risk of getting hot things on sensitive bits. Tonks amused himself by cycling his body hair through all the colours of the rainbow, taking requests from his snickering partner. They listened to the Wireless together — some audio drama about a quidditch player solving crimes, fun for them to pick apart for how utterly inaccurate it was. Kingsley pillowed his head on Tonks' flat chest, Tonks' hand absently rubbing his bald head like a strange, hairless cat. When the Wireless show ended, Kingsley announced that he was ready for dessert, and before Tonks even had the breath to point out that they didn't have dessert Kingsley's head was between his thighs, swallowing down his cock like it was the greatest thing he had ever tasted.
He brought Tonks off with his mouth, making his toes curl with pleasure, then crawled up his body and went back to his chest-pillow, throwing a leg over him and falling asleep before Tonks had even fully finished feeling the aftershocks, Kingsley's semi-erection jutting into his thigh.
Tonks stroked the smooth skin of his head again, heart full with how much he loved this man, how fucking lucky he was to get to see him in a way no one else in the world ever would.
And then he fell asleep, too. On top of the covers, Kingsley sprawled over him, before the sun had even finished setting.
It was the best Valentine's Day Tonks could have possibly imagined.
.-.-.
The waxing moon was high in the sky, its silvery light overshadowed by the yellow-tinted glow of the fairground-ride lights at the end of the pier. Most of the attractions were closed by now, the noise level barely a hum around them as the few late-night tourists went about their business.
Remus leaned his head against Severus' shoulder, cheeks aching from the force of his continuous smile. "No one would ever believe me," he murmured, playing with Severus' fingers in his lap. "I could show them a million pensieve memories and still no one would believe me if I told them about this."
Severus laughed, tilting his nose down to Remus' temple. "As it should be, wolf," he returned. "No one but you should ever know."
"What, that Severus Snape is an absolute demon at the penny arcade?" Remus teased, the sea breeze tickling his face. They were sat on a bench, facing the water, and not a single person who passed by gave a damn about them sitting cuddled up like that. It was Brighton, after all.
No one knew anything about them. They were just two ordinary men in their thirties, on a date at the pier. Remus had held Severus' hand in front of people, even kissed him on the cheek a few times, never having to worry about who might see them.
He could cry from the joy of it all.
Letting go of those long, slender fingers, Remus dropped his hand to the grey denim of Severus' jeans, immediately seeking the soft spot that had almost but not quite worn through to a hole in the knee. "Stop picking at it," Severus scolded half-heartedly, batting his hand away. Remus grinned into Severus' leather jacket.
"Never," he murmured, sliding his hand up to squeeze Severus' thigh. Then he exhaled a long, slow breath. "Fuck, I needed this, Sev."
Severus' arm curled around his shoulders, propped on the back of the bench. "So did I. More than I realised, I think."
"I feel like we're nineteen again." Waiting impatiently for Severus to finish work. Spending an afternoon at Palace Pier, playing the arcade and eating ice cream even though it was February, pestering Severus to go on the rides with him. Drinking cider and eating fish and chips on the beach as the sun set. "We should go dancing."
"If you like," Severus agreed. "Though I will remind you we are not nineteen again, and may be a little past the mark for some of our old haunts."
Remus scoffed. "Please; our old haunts were full of ageing queers back when we were teenagers, I doubt they've changed much now." The clubs around here were more forgiving of that, more understanding that not everyone had been able to go out and be themselves when they were the age for it, and some had to grab their happiness a little later.
"We'll soon see," Severus said wryly. Leaning back, looking at him in the low light, Remus could almost see that rail-thin, angsty teenager with the chip on his shoulder the size of a small country; the boy Remus had been so desperately in love with, so determined to pull from the dark and fumble a life together with.
He wondered what their teenage selves would say if they could see them now. They would be proud, he hoped.
"I'm going to spend the rest of my life with you, Severus Snape," he declared, a vow as much as a statement. Severus glanced down at him, raising one of his dark eyebrows.
"I should hope so," he drawled. "I've grown rather accustomed to you by now."
Remus laughed, cupping that angular jaw and pulling him in for a kiss — this was something they'd done as teenagers, too. Necked on the pier until someone yelled or threw something at them, far less tolerant of such things than they were now. Hardly anyone was around, and those who were didn't seem to care, and Severus certainly didn't seem to mind reliving this particular part of their youth. Back then it had been a rebellion, a defiant attempt to prove that they could be together despite their differences, that they didn't care what anybody thought of them, not in the muggle world. An attempt to prove to each other that things could work, even when they thought they might crumble.
Now, it felt like a promise. Like hope.
Eventually, they parted for air, and a seagull screeched as it hopped right by Severus' leg to steal a chip off the floor. Severus kicked out at it, but as always the bird was far too fast for any of that, grabbing its prize and taking off. Remus snorted.
"Can't take points from Gryffindors, has to resort to kicking seagulls," he teased, earning a scowl.
"I take plenty of points from Gryffindors," Severus retorted mulishly. "With our cub in your class, I don't doubt it." Remus was amazed Gryffindor had any points left, some of the things Severus had relayed back to him. The mouth on that boy when he was angling for detentions, honestly.
Remus blamed Sirius. And Lily. Even from beyond the grave, she'd somehow instilled her un-ending snark in her son.
Gods, he missed her.
"Come on, then," he said suddenly, hauling himself to his feet and dragging Severus up with him. "Let's go see what entertainment is to be had for a couple of old homos in Brighton on a Monday night." He shivered against the evening chill, no longer using Severus' body for warmth.
The next thing he knew, a leather jacket was draped around his shoulders. He glanced over, seeing Severus in just a dark green long-sleeved t-shirt. "Chivalry, from a Slytherin? Why, I never," he mock-gasped. He shoved his arms into the sleeves — it was a little tight across the shoulders, but other than that it fit just fine. "Sure you're not cold?"
"Warming charms exist for a reason, wolf," Severus pointed out. Remus nudged him gently.
"Why didn't you just cast one on me, then?" he retorted knowingly. Severus' cheek twitched, an attempt not to scowl.
Remus laughed, tucking himself under the taller man's arm, feeling like he was walking on air as they headed down the pier towards the city.
Now he just had to get a bit more alcohol in his partner, get him on a dance floor, and everything would be perfect. He grinned to himself — the night was still young, and Severus was feeling very obliging it seemed.
He may regret that in the morning, when he had to teach second years with a hangover. But Remus wasn't going to remind him of that. They had Hangover potion in the medicine cabinet, after all. And he hadn't seen vodka-drunk Severus in years. He missed that handsy bastard.
No real trip down memory lane would be complete without it.
.-.-.
Harry was getting very good at conjuring beds.
It was not, perhaps, a talent he could show with pride to his Transfiguration professor. But it was a talent all the same. His latest attempt — a wonderfully comfortable king-sized bed with a small mountain of pillows to match — had certainly held up well to everything he and Draco could think to test it with in one evening, and Harry was fairly certain it would hold up long enough for them to get a few hours sleep, too.
He hoped so. Draco was awfully cranky when he woke up due to the bed disappearing.
He cuddled his Slytherin love closer, both of them boneless and sated but no longer sticky thanks to the joys of magic. On the floor beside the bed was the book of sex positions Harry had bought from Infinite — they'd ticked a couple more off the list, with resounding success.
"Can you believe we've only four months left of term?" Harry sighed, fingers running down the ridges of Draco's spine.
Draco groaned. "Don't. Four more months in this bloody powder-keg of a castle and I may never want to come back."
Rolling his eyes, Harry poked the blond gently. "As if. You wouldn't miss your seventh year. You wouldn't miss my seventh year."
"I'm sure I could convince you never to return, as well," Draco replied, reasonably confident.
"Not likely. Seventh year is going to be the first school year of my life where I won't have to deal with Dumbledore's bullshit or some sort of fight against evil. It's going to be brilliant." Just a normal year at Hogwarts, his biggest concerns passing his NEWTs and winning the quidditch cup.
"That does sound nice," Draco agreed, and Harry loved him for not even suggesting that there might be either of those things.
Harry had his heart set on that perfect, normal year. He was going to do whatever he had to this summer to make it happen.
He wouldn't let Dumbledore ruin his entire Hogwarts career.
"There's another World Cup the year after next, too," Draco told him. "Think it's in… Greece, possibly? Maybe Turkey."
"That would be fun. Do you think we could get tickets?"
Draco propped himself up on Harry's chest, looking at him like he was a complete idiot. "I think you'll be on the damned team, you clot." Harry started to grin, and Draco huffed. "Honestly. The only question is how badly it'll clash with my healer training and whether I'll be able to go with you for the whole thing. I shan't have you seeing all the sights without me."
"I've never been to Greece. Or Turkey," Harry said, a little bemused.
"The list of places you've never been to could fill a book. Does, in fact, fill a book — it's called an atlas." Draco snickered at his own joke, dropping his head to kiss Harry's chest, right above the thatch of dark hair growing on his sternum. Draco's chest was still baby-smooth, and he insisted it likely always would be.
"Can we go to them?" Harry asked.
"To all of them?" Draco asked, raising an eyebrow. "Might take a while." Harry shot him a flat look, and he smirked. "I'm sure we can go to plenty of them. You've certainly got connections — France, Italy, Bulgaria, Egypt, Romania. Fairly sure my family owns an island in the Caribbean."
"Of course you do," Harry agreed, rolling his eyes. "Can we— can we go to India?" His voice grew hesitant. "Parvati and Padma said I could stay with their family if I ever went. I… I think I'd like that. But I think I'd like you to come with me. If you want. Sirius, too, maybe. See… see where my family came from."
"Harry," Draco sighed, voice achingly fond, "darling. I would follow you to the ends of the Earth with a smile on my face and then to Hell and back for good measure. Yes, I'll go to India with you."
There was nothing Harry could do about that but kiss him, so he did. Draco moaned softly, rolling onto his side to tip his head back, deepening the kiss at a much better angle.
"I love you," Harry whispered against his lips, feeling the blond's answering smile.
"I love you, too, you daft Gryffindor." He squeezed Harry's hip. "Now, are you absolutely sure this bed will last the night? I don't want a repeat of the last time — I swear I still have bruises, and not the good kind."
Harry laughed, kissing Draco again, smothering him with hundreds of tiny kisses until he was laughing too, until he agreed the bed was magnificent and wonderful and absolutely capable of carrying them through a night of slumber without fading to nothingness. Then Harry curled up in Draco's arms, and fell asleep, dreaming of seventh year and quidditch and travelling, all with the boy he loved at his side.