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Harry looked over the table in satisfaction. It did look rather nice, if he did say so himself. Beautiful white linen tablecloth with a colourful runner he’d found in Marrakesh, the red the same shade as the candles he’d light once Ron and Hermione got here. Dinner - roast farthingfowl, Ron’s favourite, with the candied sweet potatoes and five-spice spinach Hermione adored - was waiting in the kitchen, under stasis spells so they wouldn’t go cold. And for dessert…
Harry reached into his pocket, pulling out the ring box so he could be sure it was still there, ridiculous as he knew the worry was. Still, the weight of it in his hand was a comfort, as was the sight of the rings - a three-strand braid of white, yellow, and rose gold. A cord of three strands is not easily broken, Hermione had told him once, quoting one of her innumerable books, and Ron had agreed - it turned out that three was almost as powerful a number as seven, magically.
When he’d seen the rings in the shop, Harry had known immediately that they were perfect. The jeweller - a wizened old man even older than Olivander - had chuckled and complimented his taste, commenting that he wasn’t the only young man to like that particular design. Which made sense, Harry mused; triads were a deal more common in the magical world than the Muggle one, so it stood to reason that rings like this one would be popular.
He’d gotten them engraved, too, with a quote he’d found in a book somewhere - yes, Hermione, he did read things other than Quidditch manuals sometimes, thank you - and Harry ran his thumb across the inscriptions. Love is friendship caught fire, the rings said in elegant, flowing script, and there was no better way to describe his feelings for Ron and Hermione. They were the loves of his life, yes, but they were his best friends first, and everything about their relationship had blossomed from that first precious, unbreakable bond.
Magic rippled across his skin - the wards letting him know that Ron and Hermione were in the foyer - and he hurriedly put the box under the cloche that was supposedly hiding dessert and did his best to act like everything was normal. Luckily, Harry did like making nice dinners for his partners, so hopefully they wouldn’t suspect anything was up.
Thankfully, neither of them did. Instead, they talked about the Wheezes Ron and George were working on, and Hermione’s progress on her Mastery research, and how things were going with Harry’s students. It was everyday and domestic and with nary a mention of Dark Lords or Death Eaters, and Harry delighted in every moment of it. He’d never imagined, at eleven, or even at eighteen, that he could have this, and now that he did… well, there was a reason for the rings currently hiding under a cloche.
Eventually and before Harry knew it, the moment was upon them. He brought the cloche over, more comfortable with doing things the Muggle way despite this long in the magical world, and set it on the table. A wave of his wand, and the cloche disappeared to reveal the ring box, opened so the two bands were on display.
For a moment, nobody said anything. Then Ron started to laugh.
Harry flinched back, and only sheer force of will kept him from Disapparating to the bottom of the Marianas trench.
“Ron!” Hermione scolded. “Emotional range of a dessert spoon, I swear. Harry, love, it’s not what it looks like, I swear.”
Ron shook his head, cheeks flushing as he realized how it must have looked. “No, Harry, no, that’s not what I meant, I swear, just… Look.” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a familiar-looking carved wooden box, opening it to reveal… two three-strand wedding bands in yellow, white, and rose gold. And then Hermione pulled out another of the boxes with the same rings, only both of these were clearly sized for Harry and Ron’s larger hands.
And Harry had to laugh, too, because of course this was how it happened. The jeweller’s comment made so much more sense now, since Ron and Hermione had also commissioned the rings from him.
“So, assuming I haven’t cocked this up too badly,” Ron said. “Harry, you’ve been my best mate since we were eleven. We’ve had our ups and downs, but in the end, there’s nobody I want more by my side than you and our ‘Mione. Will you marry us?”
Harry nodded through the tears - happy ones - that threatened to spill over. “Absolutely.” He looked over at Hermione, who was beaming. “You’ve put up with us for this long, ‘Mione, and honestly, we’d both be dead several times over without you,” he said. “Marry us?”
Hermione laughed, and this time, Harry could tell it wasn’t at him, or them, just sheer joy. “Of course I will,” she said. “Wouldn’t do to let all the effort I’ve put into training you two go to waste!”
There was laughter from all three of them, then, and kisses, and exchanging of rings, and more kisses, and things other than kisses, and decamping for bed because Hermione refused to have sex in the kitchen - “I don’t care cleaning charms exist, Ronald, it’s not sanitary!” - to celebrate, and Harry couldn’t stop smiling.
Later, sated and warm and content between his fiancés - his fiancés - Harry allowed himself to think of the future. Of telling their families, and friends, of the hugs and congratulations and teasing that would inevitably follow. Of their actual wedding - no doubt Molly already had a plan of battle ready - and all the madness that would inevitably involve. Of children, eventually, hopefully, little girls with Hermione’s bushy hair and Ron’s blue eyes, or Harry’s messy hair and Hermione’s sparkling brown ones. Of teaching them to play Quidditch, and taking them to the library, of watching as they inevitably got spoiled terribly by their grandparents and uncles and aunts, blood and otherwise. Of giving them everything that Harry had wanted so badly as a child but had never had. Of happily ever after.