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For Christmas, Hermione gives Harry a custom-made quill. It is long and slender and it is fiercely bright orange, like a sunset.
When Harry and Ron fall asleep on any of the overstuffed sofas in the common room, Ron's lanky body curved into and against Harry's smaller frame, his head tucked into the space between Harry's chin and shoulder, Harry's hands move of their own volition, searching for the familiar sweep of feathers and bone, but finding only the slightly-scratchy wool of a sweater or the cooler fabric of standard Hogwarts' robes. His fingers miss the slick softness of Ron's wings. In his head, Harry senses that it is better like this; Ron is better like this. Better normal, without the wings. But his heart wants them back.
He misses the way they used to catch the sunlight pouring into their room as Ron straddled Harry's waist with his wings spread to their fullest behind him. He misses the way Ron looked when he raced overhead on Harry's borrowed Firebolt, wings spread wide, pretending they were keeping him aloft, instead of the broom between his legs. He misses the way they looked folded up, flush with Ron's long back, their tips grazing the tops of Ron's thighs.
The quill fits into his hand perfectly, and when tests it, the ink doesn't skip or splotch on the parchment.
"Thank you," he says, awe evident in his voice. Somehow, it had never occurred to him to ask Ron if he could have any of his feathers. "Did Ron give you this for me?"
"Oh, I held on to a few. They were marvelous, weren't they," Hermiones asks wistfully.
"They were."
Harry doesn't take the quill to class. He places it back into the box it came in and leaves it in his trunk.
Ron finds it one afternoon when he is searching for an extra pack of Exploding Snap cards. "Harry? Where did this come from?" He holds the quill lightly between his fingers.
"Hermione. At Christmas."
Ron runs the long feather through his fingers, his brow furrowed.
"Do you think it's weird? That I have that?"
"No, not really. Do you miss them, then? My wings?"
Harry decides to be honest. "Sometimes." He catches the worry that flashes through Ron's eyes. "But I don't like you any less without them, I swear." He has told Ron the exact same thing quite a few times before.
Ron climbs off of the floor to sit next to Harry on the bed, and Harry lays his head on Ron's shoulder, while he slides a hand underneath Ron's tee shirt. He strokes his fingers back and forth across Ron's shoulder blades.
"I miss them, too," Ron says after a few minutes have passed in silence. "Sometimes."
Harry slides the quill from Ron's worrying fingers, and strokes it along Ron's arm. Ron shivers at the tickling touch, close against Harry's side.