"And what of the Mudblood? Run off, I see. Or, perhaps, left behiā¦"
The gilded frame clatters against Ron's boot and the portrait of Phineas Nigellus tips face-down, raising a rectangle of dust and stifled protests over the cabbage roses patterning the rug. Harry flicks a cursory glance over their morning's work. Shoulder-deep in the vast cavity of the bag, the last few vials skitter from under his fingers.
Blocks of paraphernalia spread like a ramshackle city between them. Ron towers over it all, face blank, a detached, appraising god. From his place on the floor, Harry watches, waits for a crack in the mask - a fast blink at the lace hem of an undershirt, a grimace over the box of tampons. Maybe a good, hard swallow at the turned handles of the birch needles jutting from the tangled rainbow of yarn.
Finally, there's a furrow between the brows. Ron says, "Where's Hogwarts: A History?"
And Harry looks, but...
"Fucking hell," Ron says. And then he laughs - the flimsiest sound Harry has ever heard - but still, suddenly, Harry is laughing, too. And it feels terrible, this noise spurting from his throat, but he can't stop because Ron's bending over, he's swiping a handful of knickers from the floor and he's lifting them up, and the elastic strings that held them around her hips are waving like antenna searching the vibrations of the air, and Ron says, "Fucking hell," again, and they're both laughing so hard they can't breathe, laughing so hard it feels like a fist to the heart, over and over, and then Ron's hand sinks. His fingers loosen. The knickers drop to the floor.
And Ron stops laughing.
He covers his face with both hands, lets out a noise grown boys shouldn't make, then turns and pushes his way out of the tent.
Harry stares across all the books that aren't Hogwarts: A History, and, even as he swipes at his eyes, he knows they hardly have reason to act so affronted.
I don't think I'd feel right if I didn't have it...
Isn't that what she said?
