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Harry sat wide awake at the entrance to the tent, staring off again into the pitch-black night. He shivered and wrapped his jumper closer around his body, tucking his nose into the collar against the chill. He glanced back into the tent, and in the blue light of Hermione’s flames, he saw the sword of Gryffindor lying on the table, Ron’s rucksack at the base of the bunks, and the two lumps occupying the bunks that belonged to his best friends. 

Harry couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face, relief and joy coursing through him as he replayed the night’s events. For the first time since before Christmas, he felt like he could breathe again. In the stillness of the night, he could hear Hermione’s soft breathing and Ron’s quiet, snuffling snores, and a sense of peace spread out from the centre of his chest, all the way into his fingers and toes. 

It hadn’t fixed everything, Ron coming back. Harry knew that. He knew that just because he had decided on forgiveness, that didn’t mean Hermione would find it as easy to move on from Ron leaving them. It definitely didn’t mean that the sting of Ron’s departure was entirely erased. 

As he stared up at the stars through the frigid night, Harry remembered the rage and heartache he had felt, watching Ron disappear through the tent’s flaps. Even though he knew now, intimately, the effect the locket had on Ron, thinking back on that night felt like pressing on a bruise. 

It didn’t matter now. Despite the lingering hurt, Harry’s relief that the three of them were back together was overwhelming; nothing else mattered but his sleeping companions in the tent behind him. 

Seeing Ron standing there at the side of the pond, sopping wet, clutching the sword, it felt like a part of him had slotted back into place. He hadn’t realised until that moment how many pieces of him he had lost over the past few months. The loss of his wand was still an aching wound, but the shock of hearing Ron’s voice had brought him back to life. 

Hermione would be different, Harry knew. 

↞•↠

She had cried herself to sleep those first nights after Ron left. He knew she was trying her best not to wake him, holding her hand over her mouth to stifle the wet, heaving sobs that Harry could feel in his own chest. He’d closed his eyes to drown out the sound, but all he could hear was an eleven-year-old Hermione crying in the bathroom at Hogwarts. Even then, it was Ron that drove her to tears. 

On the third night, Harry climbed into her cot behind her. The tears stopped, and she stilled for a moment, anxiously waiting for what he would do next. 

He laid behind her, wrapping his free arm around her waist and pulling her flush against his chest for support. He leaned his head in, rested his head between her ear and shoulder and inhaled. Her hair smelled like sweat and campfire. He could feel her muscles relax and her ragged breaths begin to slow. Holding her close and sharing body heat felt nice—not quite…right, but nice.  

He stared at the back of her head, his eyes on the rogue wisps of frizzy curls that escaped her messy plait. He didn’t know where it came from, the impulse to move his hand up under her camisole. As he slowly slipped beneath the fabric and palmed her breast, he felt Hermione seize up and suck in her breath. He paused, allowing her ample opportunity to pull his hand away and tell him this was wrong. She stared at the wall of the tent in front of her but shifted closer to him, giving Harry the courage to continue.

Harry relaxed his hand slightly, allowing his thumb to brush across the soft underside of her breast. When a small whimper escaped her lips, Harry repeated the motion over and over again, dragging more fingertips against her goose-pimpled flesh. The whimpering continued, her breath growing shallow and urgent. He began alternating between ghosting that delicate skin and running his thumb over her hardened nipple. 

He knew she felt it; it would be impossible not to. Despite wearing a pair of long johns under his pyjamas, his painfully obvious erection was trapped between them. 

Suddenly, he became very aware of their position—his hand pushed up her shirt, his hard cock firmly pressed against her arse, his mouth open against her neck. She would have stopped him if she didn’t want this too, right? It was nice, right? He should make her feel good, right? His calloused fingers slipped beneath her waistband and stopped for a moment. 

“Hermione? Is this–”

“I don’t want you to stop.” Her voice was quiet, but firm. She hadn’t turned to look at him but shifted closer, leaning back against his chest. 

Emboldened by her words, he gently pulled at the elastic. Her sharp inhale caused her hips to push back into him and created a space to push his hand further inside her pyjama bottoms. When he reached her core, she was already wet. As his fingers swiped against her clit, Hermione began to rock her hips rhythmically against his groin. 

Unsure how to proceed with whatever they were doing, he’d let her gentle motions guide his finger against her clit and then further along her folds. The first deep, open moan escaped from her when he’d dipped a fingertip inside. 

Hermione seized at the intrusion, her skin burning against his palm. Seeking more, she rolled back onto Harry, pushing his finger deeper inside her. The new position gave Harry better access to flatten his palm directly against her clit while adding another finger inside. He pressed his hips against her arse, tucked his nose into her hair, and mouthed vaguely at her neck. 

Gods, it felt good. For the first time in weeks, he hadn’t felt physically wracked with anxiety. It felt nice—nice not to think about what they would eat next, whose turn it was to check the wards, or if Ron was coming back. 

Ron. Ron was supposed to be here, here with Hermione, here with her and Har– 

Hermione’s hips began to move faster against him, rocking back and forth at the same pace Harry was pushing his fingers inside her and thrusting against her bum. His panting grew quicker into her ear, her soft gasps in return agitating an aching need deep inside him. Eventually, her squirming grew more frantic, clashing against the methodical rhythm he had set. 

Somehow, the idea of turning Hermione's head to kiss him felt wrong, like seeking her lips was a step too far, something they had not agreed on. She and Harry hadn’t agreed on anything; it had hardly even occurred to him to touch her this way until this very moment. Yet in their desperation, she easily ground her hips against Harry’s hard-pressed cock while she simultaneously fucked herself on his hand. 

Without warning, she broke. Her cunt throbbed, clamping down on Harry’s fingers before releasing a flood of moisture over his hand. Her hips kept moving against him, riding the aftershock of her orgasm. 

The continued thrusting overtook Harry soon after, groaning deeply into Hermione’s hair while spilling himself inside his clothes. He could feel Hermione trembling underneath his hands, their heartbeats slowing back to normal. No matter how close his lips lingered, he never pressed them into a kiss against her neck. 

“Harry, do you want to–” 

“It’s okay, Hermione,” Harry interrupted.

He reached over to grab her wand from the makeshift nightstand against the edge of the bunk, casting a quick scourgify to rid the sticky mess from his clothes. He kept his arms around Hermione, lazily stroking her hair as she closed her eyes. 

They wordlessly reconvened in the same position almost every night, both thinking but not saying how empty the tent felt without Ron.

↞•↠

Harry felt a twinge of guilt as he pictured the strange, grotesque versions of himself and Hermione that emerged from the Horcrux to taunt Ron. He didn’t know how he could ever tell Ron that the only reason he and Hermione had ever gotten that close was because of the pain of his absence. Only the utter silence of the evenings, the gaping emptiness of Ron’s cot, drove them to seek comfort from the other. 

Harry had never been a very touchy person. He generally didn’t know how to give or accept physical affection; it had only ever been Hermione, Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley who hugged him or held his hand. But in the weeks since Ron’s departure, holding Hermione was the only way to ease the pain from his abandonment. 

Harry stole another glance back into the tent and felt a rush of fondness for them both, a smile tugging at his lips once more. A glance at his watch told him it was time to wake Ron for his turn to watch over them. He heaved himself to his feet, stretching his arms overhead to clear out the stiffness that had settled in his muscles after a few hours on the frozen ground. 

Tiptoeing to avoid waking Hermione, he crossed the tent to Ron’s bunk and laid his hand gently on his friend’s shoulder. Ron stirred but did not wake, and Harry’s lips twisted with another smile. He gave Ron a gentle shake, and this time Ron’s blue eyes blinked open, startled into full consciousness. Harry rubbed his shoulder gently, trying to ease the shock of waking, and jerked his head towards the tent’s entrance. 

“Your watch, mate,” he whispered. 

Ron rubbed his eyes and swung his legs around to the ground, stifling a yawn. 

“Thanks,” Ron whispered back. 

As Harry drew back from him, Ron surprised him by catching his hand as it slid down his arm from his shoulder, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Caught off guard by the easy affection, Harry withdrew to his bunk, removing his boots and glasses and sliding beneath his blankets while Ron bundled up in several layers of Weasley jumpers. A faded navy blue one, which used to belong to Fred, peeked out from underneath the rusted brown collar of his own.

From his cot, Harry could see Hermione’s form underneath her blankets, face turned resolutely towards the tent wall, hair spilling out over her pillow. For just a moment, he considered joining her, like he had when Ron was gone, but thought better of it. He watched as Ron settled in the tent entrance, the ever-flickering blue light of Hermione’s bottled fire dancing off his ginger hair. Harry breathed out the last of his tension, pulled the blankets up to his nose, and settled in for a few hours of sleep before the sun rose. 

With a jolt, Harry suddenly found himself staring at the tent’s canvas roof, disoriented and unsure of where he was. 

His skin was clammy, his heart racing, the images of the snake emerging from the old woman’s body and the choking sensation just starting to fade. Panic rising in his chest, he sat bolt upright in his cot, breathing hard, staring around the tent. The darkness had eased slightly, the pitch black giving way to the watery light of dawn. He could see Hermione’s hair still fanning out over the edge of her blankets, and thank god, he saw Ron, still here, sitting at the entrance of the tent looking back at him. His brow was furrowed, looking concerned, but the sight of him flooded Harry with relief. 

“You alright, Harry?” Ron said quietly, clearly trying not to wake Hermione.

“Yeah,” he replied, his breaths evening out, dropping back onto his elbow in the bed. “Yeah, I’m alright. Just–dream.” Harry made a point of not rubbing his scar. 

“‘Course,” said Ron, the concern not leaving his face. “Did you–did you see something?” he whispered. 

“Nah,” Harry said, flopping back down on his back. “Just a bad dream.” 

He forced himself to inhale, concentrating on the ceiling, and let it out slowly as the last of the adrenaline left him. He glanced back towards Ron, who had likewise relaxed again. He just watched Harry, his face at ease but slightly pensive in the murky light of daybreak. Harry looked back, his eyes tracing the slightly blurred outline of his friend against the brightening sky beyond the tent. His gaze lingered there a moment longer until his exhaustion pulled him back under. 

Harry slept fitfully for the remainder of the night, dozing but jolting awake again, staring back into the gathering light, just making sure. Making sure Ron was still there, still red hair and freckles and two layers of woolly jumpers, leaning against the edge of the tent. 

The sun was barely above the horizon before he gave up, swinging around to shove his feet back in his boots. Wordlessly, Harry plopped down beside Ron, practically pressed against his side, and wrapped his arms around his knees. Ron gave him a playful nudge with his elbow, and together they watched the sun rise in the sky. 

The silence eventually broke when Hermione stirred in her bunk. When her eyes landed on Ron, she scowled and muttered angrily to herself as she dressed. Harry and Ron shared a pair of wry smiles. Without speaking, they both rose to help Hermione with breakfast. 

They packed up the tent after their breakfast of toast and beans, which Ron had pulled out of his rucksack, grinning hopefully at Hermione with his offering. Her glower did not diminish; she only snatched the bread and tin from his hands and busied herself at the stove. 

Harry made aborted attempts at conversation, which Ron was only too happy to join, but when they tried to get Hermione involved, they were met with a brick wall. To Harry’s surprise, Ron took this in stride and simply shrugged at Harry when their gazes met behind Hermione’s back. Harry clasped each of their hands in his as they Disapparated. 

This routine continued for the next several days. Ron took the lead, less worn down from the constant jumping from place to place than Harry and Hermione were, suggesting new destinations and optimistically voicing ideas. Hermione ignored him for the most part, but Harry was grateful for his energy. Since Godric’s Hollow, he and Hermione were exhausted, paranoid, and numb. Ron’s renewed presence and enthusiasm felt grounding, promising a rocky sort of peace for the trio. 

But Harry still couldn’t sleep. Whenever it was Ron’s or Hermione’s turn to take the watch, Harry would only doze in his cot, jolting awake each time he neared rest, frantically searching for both of his companions. Something about the night’s quiet made him afraid, desperate to ensure that both of his friends were accounted for. Safe. Near him. 

There were times when just seeing them wasn’t enough; sometimes, he would bolt upright in a cold sweat and find himself unable to settle until he climbed out of bed to lay a hand on Ron’s shoulder as he slept on his cot, or stroked Hermione’s hair as she sat at the entrance of the tent. It would soothe him for a few minutes, that tactile reassurance of their warm, alive bodies. He would climb back under his blankets, take deep breaths, and remind himself of their touch. It never lasted, though. Another hour, maybe, of rest before the panic would retake him. 

Hermione was used to this by now. She hardly even stirred when Harry reached for her, responding automatically by giving him a simple hand squeeze or gently leaning into his touch. So used to their coping mechanisms found during Ron’s absence, it hardly fazed her. 

Ron, however, met each of Harry’s touches with concerned eyes but open fondness. If he was sleeping when Harry checked on him, he would jerk awake, snatch Harry’s hand and hold him there for a minute. 

He’d murmur, “Alright, Harry?” his voice rough with sleep, his blue eyes wide and on Harry’s. 

Sometimes Harry would kneel at Ron’s bedside for a few minutes, letting his head rest on Ron’s shoulder, their hands clasped, allowing his eyes to close. He could feel Ron’s fingers thread sleepily through his hair, mimicking the way he stroked Hermione’s hair. During these moments, Harry felt closer to peace than he had in weeks. 

In the mornings, it felt like all three of them gravitated closer together, on instinct, spending time in closer physical proximity than they had before Ron left. Harry leaned against the kitchen counter while Hermione made tea or against the arm of Ron’s chair as they discussed where to go next. 

Even in her stubborn anger, Harry caught Hermione and Ron in this same orbit, their hands bridging the space Hermione resolutely kept between them. Harry watched as Ron instinctively dropped his hands on Hermione’s waist as they moved past one another in the tent entrance, or Hermione leaned back into Ron as he looked over her shoulder at a book. These motions seemed unconscious, but Harry caught each one, watching them with a burning in his gut he could not name. 

Less than a week after Ron’s return, Harry woke in a panic for the third time that night, heart hammering in his chest and a scream dying in his throat. He whipped his head around, eyes straining through the darkness toward Ron's cot, trying to make him out. 

It was impossible to see him in the gloom of the tent, and Harry scrambled up and stumbled to Ron’s side, hands grasping desperately at his friend’s shoulder. Relief flooded through him as he felt Ron move beneath him, turning to face him with a soft, worried expression.

Harry dropped to his knees beside the cot, breathing hard, his adrenaline slowly fading. He glanced around, noticed Hermione resolutely ignoring them from the tent entrance, and forced himself to try and relax. 

“Sorry,” he whispered to Ron, though he did not pull back. 

Ron smiled softly, wrapping his hand around Harry’s head and pulling him to rest his forehead on his chest. Harry took a deep breath, exhaling slowly into the safety of Ron’s touch. He stayed there a moment longer, feeling his heart rate calm, and then made to get up. Ron grabbed his hand as he stood, tugging. 

“C’mon, mate, just– c’mon,” Ron mumbled, pulling Harry towards him and rolling back over to face the tent wall again. “Just stay here, ‘stead of waking me up every few hours.” 

Harry stared at the back of Ron’s head, a strange heat spreading through him. His lips quirked in a hint of a smile as he gave in, clambering into the cot behind Ron. It was like a furnace under Ron’s blankets, the warmth of his friend radiating outwards. Harry lay there awkwardly for a moment before Ron huffed, reached back, and tugged Harry’s arm around himself. As his chest pressed against Ron’s back, Harry relaxed further into the warmth and comfort. He tightened his arm around Ron’s chest, pulled him close, and nuzzled his head into the gap between Ron’s shoulder and neck. Within moments, they were both fast asleep. 

Harry woke once more, only just, for as soon as he felt the heat from Ron’s body between his arms, he relaxed once more into slumber. The pale light of early morning was gleaming through the tent by the time he opened his eyes, taking stock of where he was. His back was sticky with sweat, this time brought on by the heat of his bedmate rather than the panic of nightmares. 

One of Harry’s legs had tangled between Ron’s during the night, thoroughly plastering him to Ron’s back. Harry hummed with satisfaction, feeling the comfort and relief of Ron’s touch radiating through his entire body. At the sound, Ron shifted, loosening Harry’s grip slightly. He rolled over to face Harry, cracking a bleary eye open. 

“Morning,” he croaked, his voice deep and scratchy with sleep. 

“Morning,” Harry smiled. 

It hit him how strangely normal this felt, waking up with Ron in his arms. They had never been particularly tactile before, beyond the typical handshakes and back claps between young men. But nothing about their closeness, the softness of their faces in the early morning light, their sharing a bed felt uncomfortable or abnormal. Harry lay still for a moment longer, feeling almost rested. 

Hermione cleared her throat behind them. They rolled over to see her, arms crossed fiercely across her chest, an all too familiar glare fixed on them. Harry felt a strange twinge of guilt in his gut, though he wasn’t sure what he thought he’d done wrong. He and Hermione had never spoken about what they’d done while Ron was gone. He didn’t regret that, nor his closeness with Ron. 

He knew Hermione was still angry with Ron, and was upset with Harry forgiving him so quickly. And at the same time, Hermione and Ron were…well, Harry didn’t know what they were. Still, Harry couldn’t help the gut feeling that the solution would not be for him and Ron to separate but for Hermione to climb into the cot alongside them. 

Ron, however, sat up, grinning sheepishly under Hermione’s glare. 

“Morning, Hermione!” he said, his voice higher than usual. 

Harry snorted at the apparent fear on Ron’s face. 

“Nice to see you’re finally awake,” Hermione said icily. Her tense posture remained unchanged. 

“You could have woken us up,” Harry retorted, rubbing his hand across his face. 

Hermione looked at him for a moment, her gaze softening ever so slightly. 

“You needed the sleep,” she said, clearly making an effort to keep the gruffness in her tone. 

Harry grinned at her, feeling triumphant for the tiniest thaw in her demeanour. 

“Shall I make breakfast?” Ron offered, sounding hopeful as he looked between Harry and Hermione. 

The thaw immediately froze back over; Hermione sniffed, swapping her glare to Ron. 

“Whatever you like, Ronald.” She didn’t say another word before climbing into her own cot. 

“I’m going to sleep for a few hours, if that’s quite alright with you.” Hermione was already facing away from them, the blankets pulled up to her chin, and the conversation was distinctly over. 

Ron stared hopelessly at her back, looking devastated by her brush-off. Harry clasped Ron on the shoulder, trying to reassure him that Hermione would come around eventually. Ron shrugged, giving Harry a small smile before climbing out of bed and heading for the kitchen. 

↞•↠

Any hope that Hermione might be close to forgiving Ron seemed to vanish when Hermione woke them that morning. Hermione was growing angrier with each task Ron offered to complete. After breakfast, Ron offered to check the protective enchantments around the tent. He should have known better, for Hermione instantly took umbrage, snapping that they might as well leave if Ron thought her enchantments weren’t strong enough. 

When they arrived at their next campsite, Ron tried to take the initiative to pull out the tent and set it up again, but Hermione ripped her beaded bag from his grip and did it all herself. He was allowed to cook dinner for them that night, but only because Hermione claimed she needed to look at something in The Tales of Beedle the Bard (for what Ron assumed was the thousandth time). 

Even so, her glare never abated, and even Harry started to take some of the brunt of her ire. Harry looked at him over their dinner of soup and bread, once more procured from Ron’s rucksack, his eyes apologetic. Ron tried not to let the defeat show in his eyes, quickly correcting his face before looking back at Harry. Harry tried to explain that Hermione would eventually come around, but Ron knew it would be useless. They both knew Hermione’s tenacity firsthand. 

Several more days passed in this fashion. At night, when Hermione was on watch, Ron found himself sharing his cot with Harry more often than not. It was miraculous how his being close to Harry ensured that he could sleep more than an hour at a time. Ron didn’t mind; he looked forward to the nights when they shared a bed, pleased with its comfort. They woke tangled up in each other, sharing soft, sleepy smiles and a reluctance to part. 

During the day, the three of them danced around each other, almost like during third year when Ron and Hermione weren’t speaking to each other. Ron would talk with Harry, and he with Hermione, but Ron and Hermione hardly spoke to each other—not for Ron’s lack of trying. If he wasn’t met with derision, he received only silence from her. 

On a particularly frigid morning, Ron heard Hermione rustling at the tent entrance to begin her morning routine. She regularly was the first to wake even when she wasn’t on watch and used the extra time alone to test the protective shields around their camp in peace. If he wanted to confront her alone, this was his only chance. 

Careful not to wake him, he gently lifted Harry’s arm and tucked him in underneath the tower of blankets. He rolled the edge of the covers into a tight coil, closing off the space beneath Harry’s chin from the elements. Seeing Harry’s face flushed from sleep, hair wild as ever, made Ron’s heart ache. 

If he didn’t leave the tent immediately, he would never find the courage. He leapt to his feet, rubbed his hands together, and followed Hermione into the brisk morning air.

“Hermione?” Ron squeaked, instantly embarrassed at his shaky voice. 

Hermione said nothing as she stared intently, daring him to continue with his hastily-planned apology. 

“Hermione, I– I–”

“Eloquent as ever, Ronald,” she drawled, instantly rolling her eyes as she turned to walk towards their camp’s perimeter. 

“I wanted to apologise,” he corrected, voice growing more confident.

“Apologise for what?” Hermione challenged, rooted in her spot but still not looking at him.

“I’m so sorry, Hermione. I shouldn’t have left. Blimey, and once I’d gone, I didn’t know how to find you two again–” Ron spluttered. He felt like he was only repeating what he’d already said, unsure how to make it up to her. 

He was unable to finish his feeble sentence before Hermione charged at him.

“No. No. No! You left me, Ron! You left me! You left Harry! I’m not terribly surprised you abandoned me, but Harry? He’s supposed to be your best friend!” 

“You’re both my best friends!” Ron pleaded. 

“No, Ron, we’re not!” she screamed, chest heaving as her face grew redder. “It’s always you and Harry first and…I’m just the one you let tag along.” Hermione’s voice cracked.

“Hermione, that’s not true–”

“It is, Ronald,” Hermione weakly protested. “You have each other, and I– I– don’t have anyone. My parents are gone, you two are– this is– this…this is all I have. You knew that…” Hermione sniffled, aggressively trying to rub the red out of her face. 

It hurt Ron to look at her because he knew just how she felt—that dull ache inside when you were the odd man out, the forgotten brother, the Chosen One’s best friend. Hermione could never be those things. 

“Hermione, please,” Ron pleaded as he dropped to his knees before her. He reached around her and hugged her stomach tightly, as if he could prove his devotion through brute force. “Please tell me what I need to do. I’ll do anything. I would do anything for you, both of you.” He trailed off, his voice cracking. “I will never leave again, I swear it. You have to believe me.” 

He spoke muffled directly into her abdomen, wishing he could kiss her bare skin hiding under the warm layers. 

Ron felt hot tears start to roll down his face. He didn’t try to hold back, head buried into the thighs of her muddy jeans. Ron’s knees were growing numb from the icy moisture of the damp earth, but he didn’t dare move. He would gladly freeze here if it proved his remorse. 

Ron felt Hermione’s resolve soften as she traced her fingers across the top of Ron’s shoulders and slowly drew her hand through his bright red hair. He leaned into her touch, eagerly taking any scrap of kindness she would offer. 

Hermione reached for his hand, pulling him off his damp knees to his feet. Once standing, Ron towered over her. He never wanted to let go of her hand, wishing to anchor himself to prove he couldn't leave her again. He could still see the anger on her face, muddled with sadness in her red, puffy eyes. 

He hesitantly pulled his arms around her, caged her against his chest, and began drawing slow, lazy circles across her lower back. He felt Hermione relax as she rested her head against his chest. Ron nestled his head close to hers, reaching around and tilting her chin up until their noses touched. 

“Hermione,” Ron whispered against her lips, “I’m sorry.” 

Ron gently pressed his lips against Hermione’s but then slowly pulled back. When she pouted at the loss of contact, Ron pushed forward again, firmer this time. Hermione kissed him back in earnest, her tongue pressing against his teeth, demanding more of him. With that encouragement, Ron gripped her tighter as he lifted her slightly off the frozen ground. 

Hermione wrapped her arms around his shoulders and deepened their kiss, running her fingers through his messy hair. He felt electrified, fear and relief battling within him in equal measure, overwhelmed with desire but not wanting to push her too far. Their tongues tangled for a few minutes, warming them both against the bitter cold. As Ron’s tentative fingers began to play with the hem of her jumper, Hermione’s hands rose to his chest and gave him a gentle push to pull their lips apart. 

“Ron,” she whispered against his mouth. He shuddered at the sound of her voice, husky from their kiss. 

Ron never found out how that sentence would end; he heard rustling at the tent entrance and looked over to see Harry, his hair still mussed with sleep, glasses crooked on his face, looking thunderstruck as he watched them kiss. 

At the sight of him, Hermione leaped back from Ron, putting more space between them. She hesitated momentarily, looking between them, then straightened her back, resuming the hostile expression Ron had grown used to over the last days. She swept past Harry and disappeared into the tent. 

Ron kept his gaze fixed on Harry. He felt guilty for some reason, though he couldn’t exactly work out what for. 

Harry had known what existed between Ron and Hermione; he’d even talked to Ron about it in the forest after they destroyed the locket…But there was something about the look on Harry’s face, the fire in his eyes, that brought a prickle of shame to his spine. He gave Harry an attempt at a sheepish smile, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. Harry still hadn’t moved, but at Ron’s gesture, he gave a half-smile in return. 

“Morning,” Harry said, his voice sounding shaky to Ron’s ears. “Think she forgave you?” Ron couldn’t read Harry’s tone. 

“Dunno,” he replied dully. He shoved his hands in his pockets, remembering the feeling of Hermione’s lips on his and then the look on her face as she’d stormed off back into the tent. “It’s Hermione, it’s hard to tell.” 

“She’ll come round,” Harry said in that same strange tone, with that same strange look on his face. 

“I guess,” Ron muttered. The morning had certainly not gone as he’d planned. 

He almost felt he should rather have simply stayed in bed with Harry. 

“C’mon,” said Harry, waving him over. “I need coffee.” 

Harry ducked back into the tent and, after a moment’s hesitation, Ron followed after him.

↞•↠

Harry sat in one of the squashy armchairs in the tent’s sitting room, clutching his mug of coffee. It was silent in the tent, all three of them resolutely not looking at one another. Harry stared into his cup, his eyes unfocused, his thoughts racing as he replayed the morning’s events. 

Still nestled under the warm pile of blankets Ron left him in, Harry had woken to the sound of the argument outside the tent. He’d known Ron wanted to make amends with Hermione alone, but Gods, Hermione would make him work for it. 

If Hermione set her mind to it, she could be mad at Ron for eternity. But he hoped she would see that she didn’t have to be angry anymore. That letting go of this anger wasn’t defeat. That there were too many battles to come to turn their wands on each other. 

When the volume of Ron's pleading increased and spilled into the tent, Harry groaned and decided he should probably intervene. Extricating himself from the warm bed was almost painful, his body feeling ragged from the last few weeks on the run. When he arrived at the open mouth of the tent, his whole body seized at the sight before him. 

Ron was sobbing on his knees, clutching Hermione. Harry felt unbearably warm, that burning sensation waging war again on his insides. They were so engrossed in their squabble that they had not noticed Harry standing there watching them for what had already been minutes. 

When Ron pulled Hermione into him to kiss her, a wave of emotion rushed through him. His pulse pounded in his ears, his face grew hot, his chest twisted. It was familiar and confusing, this feeling, this roaring rage, burning jealousy, white-hot desire, or whatever it was. Even then, hours later, Harry couldn’t fully identify it. 

He replayed the image in his mind—Ron’s lips dipping to meet Hermione’s, his hands splayed across the small of her back, her hands reaching up to thread into his hair. He could hear their little gasps, the slick slide of their tongues together, and heat bloomed in his stomach. 

Harry felt as he had years ago, when he and Ron had discovered Ginny and Dean kissing in a deserted corridor back at Hogwarts—that old monster in his chest—but there was something else, too. 

It didn’t feel like simple jealousy—it was satisfaction, desire, hurt, longing, and an aching, burning need all wrapped up together. He didn’t know if he was upset with Ron, or with Hermione, or if he was even upset at all. All he knew was that he was consumed by the image, by the thought of them together. 

His thoughts carried him through the morning. Even as they went through the motions of packing up and choosing a new destination, Harry found himself distracted. 

It was the glimpses of Hermione’s skin as she changed, facing away from them, the morning light catching her pale shoulders. It was the stretch of Ron’s muscles as he reached down to tug a tent peg from the earth, the sound of his laugh in response to one of Harry’s jokes. It was the feeling of their hands, one in each of his, one small and soft and the other large and rough, as they side-alonged to their next campsite. Harry felt possessed, almost feverish, hyper-aware of the orbit that the three of them travelled, the natural rhythm of their movements.

By the time he finished the first watch that night, Harry was exhausted by the swirl of emotion that had gripped him all day. He had spent his shift distracted, wound up, bouncing his knee and tapping the blackthorn wand he’d gotten from Ron against his palm. His thoughts were solely on his two friends behind him in the tent, sleeping soundly in their cots. 

Hermione had returned to giving Ron the cold shoulder that day, but Harry couldn’t stop himself from imagining what might happen when she eventually forgave Ron. 

Would they be…together? Without me? 

He knew it was a strange thought to have; this was always how this would go. 

Ron and Hermione had been dancing around each other for years, and Harry saw their coupling as inevitable. He still remembered the morning at Grimmauld Place, when they’d all slept in the sitting room and he’d woken up to the two of them holding hands in their sleep.

Even Voldemort, in the Horcrux, had seen Ron’s feelings for Hermione and used them against him. It made Harry feel terribly lonely, sitting outside the tent on the cold ground. He felt removed from them, on the outside, in a way he hadn’t since Ron returned. 

Harry checked his watch, then pushed himself up from the ground. He quietly entered the tent, squinting in the gloomy space. For a moment, he just stood, gazing at the forms of Ron and Hermione in their beds. A rush of affection, more potent than the jealousy or confusion he’d been feeling all day, soared through him. 

They were his, Harry thought at that moment. They were his, and they had always been his, just like he was theirs and had always been theirs. 

Whatever else happened between them, as he listened to their soft breathing, Harry knew that could be enough for him. 

Harry crossed the tent and knelt at Hermione’s side. He brushed a curl back from her face, resting his hand gently on her head. 

“Hermione,” he whispered, brushing his hand over her hair again. She stirred with a deep sigh, turning slightly so that her cheek met his hand. 

“Harry?” she whispered. 

“Your watch, love,” he responded, still stroking her hair. Harry didn’t know where that had come from, calling her love; he never had before, but he was so full of affection for her and Ron that it came out without a second thought. 

Hermione gave a soft ‘mm’ and slowly roused herself from her cot. 

Harry crossed to his own bunk, sitting on the edge, watching her bundle up. There was a warmth in his chest as he looked at her, barely visible in the dim light of the tent. He couldn’t help thinking about it again, that image of her and Ron that morning, and for a moment, he somehow missed her even as he looked right at her. 

Once Hermione had settled down at the tent’s entrance, Harry turned his attention to Ron’s sleeping form. For the first time in several days, he hesitated to join Ron in his bed. Would he mind, now that he and Hermione were…well, whatever they were? 

He’d grown used to sleeping in Ron’s bunk the last few nights. It was nice to be close to him. The longing won out, and Harry slid carefully into the bed beside Ron, snaking his arm around his waist and pulling him close. He slackened as Ron’s warmth hit him, burrowing deeper into the blankets. His nose pressed against Ron’s neck, and a great sigh left him. Within moments, he was asleep.

↞•↠

The past few days of ignoring Ron were particularly agonising for Hermione. The dull sting of his abandonment still agitated her like a wound that would not close. She didn’t want to let go, but the anger wore on her, requiring energy she didn’t have to maintain her icy exterior. 

She knew she should be happy they were safe here together, safe long enough to catch their breath and regroup, but she didn’t know where to put the lingering anger she felt. She so desperately wanted to correct his wand movements when casting the protective spells or tell him she enjoyed the stew he’d made for dinner the other evening. 

Harry had given in too easily; someone had to maintain some hostility, hold firm for the principle that leaving them was wrong. Ron broke something when he left and she refused to let him think he could mend the broken pieces just by coming back.

However, seeing Ron on his knees, pleading for forgiveness, had shattered her remaining resolve. Truthfully, she was only mildly disappointed in herself for giving in. That morning, Ron smelled like oak, grass, and something warm cooking in the kitchen. A scent that reminded her of the Burrow, of being around family, her new family. 

It felt like a salve when he finally kissed her, healing the resentment and anxiety deep within her bones. She’d wanted this since fourth year, when she could no longer ignore Ron’s sudden growth spurt and how his hair fell into his bright blue eyes. She reckoned that her pride compelled her to push him away, not to let him win her over with a single kiss. 

It was nearly time to wake Ron for the next watch. She rose from the tree stump she sat on to head back to the tent’s warm glow but lingered at the entrance to watch Harry and Ron, both of them crowded into Ron’s bed.

From this distance, Hermione couldn’t see the dark circles around their eyes from lack of sleep or the sunburnt patches of skin from endless hikes from camp to camp. She got to pretend for a few moments that those were just her mischievous best friends, exhausted from childish antics and not the impossible task that lay before them. She couldn’t help but notice how Harry had gravitated toward Ron, his new propensity for touch not limited to touching her.

As if he felt her watching, Harry turned his head, his sleepy green eyes finding hers. At the look in them, Hermione’s eyes brimmed with tears, exhaustion weighing heavy on her, and all of a sudden, it was too much. 

“Hermione,” Harry mouthed quietly, “Please.” 

Body waiting for permission to finally release the tension, she exhaled deeply and closed the tent flaps behind her. She tiptoed across the tent to the cot. It looked bigger than it had before, Hermione realised, as if Harry had modified it to fit the three of them.

Hermione quietly toed off her shoes, lifted the layers of blankets, and climbed into the cot behind Harry. She gently wrapped her arms around Harry’s waist, not wanting to disturb his and Ron’s tender embrace. Harry rubbed her arms wrapped around him, but Hermione couldn’t find a comfortable position. With a frustrated sigh, she rolled onto her back and stared at the tent’s ceiling. Harry checked on Ron, tucked in quietly on his side, and gingerly turned to face Hermione.

“You alright, Hermione?” Harry asked tentatively, trying to keep his voice low not to wake Ron.

“Fine, Harry,” she responded after a few moments of silence. 

“Is it still about Ron? We don’t have to worry anymore. He’s back,” he assured while reaching out to rub her tightly crossed arms. 

“For now–”

“Stop it, Hermione,” he snapped, pulling his arm back roughly. “It’s done. You know how miserable it was without him. This attitude, the moodiness, has to stop. We can’t keep doing this with each other. We have too much left to do, and we can’t waste time being angry with each other.”

“Harry, he said you have no family. He left us!” Hermione hissed, no longer caring if she was raising her voice. “I can’t just accept him back with open arms, like you–”

“Come on, Hermione, I saw you two outside,” Harry interjected matter-of-factly.

Hermione turned to stone at Harry’s words. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“I saw you two outside earlier. From where I was standing, it sure seemed like you had forgiven him,” Harry quipped, eyes boring into her. 

“Th–that wasn’t– that was different,” she stuttered, unable to maintain Harry’s gaze.

“Oh, I see how it is. You can kiss him, but I can’t forgive him?” Harry challenged. 

Hermione didn’t know what to say, unable to defend herself. “It doesn’t matter anyway. You both have clearly moved on and don’t need me in the way–”

“He cares about you, Hermione–”

“Of course I bloody care! I need you! Both of you!” Ron interjected, swiftly sitting up in bed to face the two of them. 

“Ron…” Hermione replied cautiously, taken aback by his sudden wakefulness. Had he been awake the whole time?

“Ron, if something had happened to you–” Hermione said, hesitant to start another argument. 

“But nothing did!” Ron exclaimed, reaching over Harry to pull Hermione between them. Sitting between them on her heels, she let Ron soothingly stroke her arms. “I’m right here, Hermione. I came back. I came back for both of you. I’m right here,” he assured her. 

“What about what happened to us, Ron, to me and Harry? We nearly died. We didn’t have you. It was just me and Harry and that snake and–” She broke off, her breath short and her throat tight. 

“Hermione,” Harry whispered, tugging her hand to pull her back to lying down, surrounded by them on both sides. “We’re alright. We made it.”

Ron’s eyes flitted between them, propped up on his elbow. There was anguish in his face. 

“I should have been there,” he said, his voice tight. He met her gaze, bringing a hand up to cup her face. “I know I should have been there, Hermione. I should never, ever have left you.” He looked at Harry, then over Hermione’s shoulder. “Harry, I’m sorry–”

“I know, Ron, it’s fine,” Harry said. 

It was just like him, Hermione thought, to brush off the apology. He’d never needed apologies from Ron—it was maddening. 

“I know you wish you were there with us,” said Harry. Ron reached across Hermione to grip Harry’s face like he just had hers, and Hermione watched the motion with wide eyes, her pulse quickening. 

They had never been this physically affectionate before, not any of them, but certainly not Harry and Ron. Seeing them sharing these touches made something twist in Hermione’s gut. It was almost like she’d been waiting for them to bypass some invisible barrier separating them. As it was, lying between them, one shoulder pressed against Harry’s chest and one against Ron, she felt calmer than she had in ages. 

Ron’s brow furrowed. “I mean it, Harry,” he insisted. “I was being a prick. You deserve better than that, than me…” He trailed off, his face dropping. 

“Ron,” Harry protested, “don’t be stupid. You’re my best friend. I need you. We both need you.” 

Hermione sniffed. “That’s why–” She cleared her throat. “That’s why it hurt so much. We—I needed you.”

With a groan, Ron buried his head in her shoulder, and she felt a tear drop onto her skin. “I know,” he whispered, “I know. I’m so sorry. I need you too.” 

Hermione brought a hand to the back of Ron’s head, pressing him against her as if she could absorb him into her and keep him there forever. Harry hooked his chin over her other shoulder, and there was finally silence in the tent.  

“Er, can we please go to bed now? I think we could all use a good night’s sleep,” Harry rationalised, seemingly wanting their not-fight to end as soon as possible. 

“Harry’s right. We should get some rest,” Hermione acquiesced, slipping under the covers directly between them, her back to Harry and facing Ron. 

Ron ran his fingers through his hair, poised as if debating whether to say anything else, but wordlessly settled next to Hermione, inches from her face. Harry breathed an audible sigh of relief, cast a nox to extinguish the flames illuminating the tent, and joined them under the covers. 

Comfortably nestled between them, Hermione felt like she could finally relax. Nobody moved for several minutes, their heavy, tentative breaths the only sounds that filled the tent.

They could all feel the tension growing between them, the electricity building beneath their skin. 

Hermione tried to stay as still as possible, overly aware of every point where she touched Harry or Ron, the co-mingling of their breath, the beating of their hearts. Ron took a particularly deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose. Hermione thought he was trembling slightly. They were waiting for something. 

Harry moved first, spreading his palm against Hermione’s stomach to roughly drag her back against him. She already knew exactly how he liked her to nestle in his arms, where she should bend her knees to fit along his, and where his hands would naturally rest in this familiar position. Holding her down with hands across her rib cage and hips, Harry positioned Hermione directly in front of Ron’s view, nuzzling his cheek into her neck. 

Ron closed the gap between him and Hermione, gently brushing his nose against hers like before. Still caged in Harry’s grip, Hermione pushed her head closer to Ron and delicately pressed her lips into his. The tenderness of his lips felt like a cool drink of water on a hot day, like medicine for their bickering. She felt his hands cover the expanse of her cheeks, ensuring she couldn’t escape. 

Every brush of Ron’s lips turned more possessive, pleading as if he was still trying to prove something to her. She melted further into him when he slipped his tongue in her mouth and tangled against hers. Harry’s hands still gripped her waist, stroking along her sides, over her hips, to just barely brush the underside of her breast.

Hermione slipped her hands underneath Ron’s shirt, gently running her fingers against his abdomen, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps. She tugged the hem up, a wordless request, and her bitten fingernails caught on his chest hairs and elicited a groan deep within Ron’s throat. Ron sat up, tearing his sleep shirt off in a hurry before returning to Hermione. Harry had already reached around to push her denims off her hips while Ron unbuttoned her flannel shirt. 

She loved that flannel—clung to it like a lifeline, wearing it every night Ron was gone. Small holes littered the garment, but she didn’t care. It had kept her warm, but more importantly, it smelled like Ron. Like the Burrow. Like home. He would have to pry it out of her hands if he wanted it back.

With each button undone, Ron feverishly kissed an apology into Hermione’s exposed flesh.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, pushing the flannel off her shoulders and kissing her collarbone.

“I’m sorry,” he continued, peppering more apologies down her sternum. 

Harry’s grip never loosened, holding Hermione taut against him as he laved at her neck. After taking off her shirt, Ron’s lips returned to hers, desperate and urgent, using his free hand to trace along her jawline. Now wearing only her camisole and knickers, Ron’s eyes roved over her entire body, unable to ignore her hardened nipples beneath the thin cotton. 

“Fuck, Hermione,” Ron whispered, almost to himself. 

Harry watched him, the burning in his chest expanding, triumph, desire, and heat soaring through him. He accented Ron’s words with a nip to Hermione’s neck, feeling her writhe against him.

Eager for more, Ron’s hand moved down her abdomen to brush against her clit. He touched her cautiously, only pressing harder when she moaned in approval. As her whimpers morphed into strangled groans, she could feel Ron’s confidence grow even as Harry tore her face back toward him.

Unable to wait any longer, Harry pulled Hermione’s head toward his jaw, allowing her to rub the rough stubble on his chin against her cheeks. 

Grabbing her chin, Harry pulled her into a searing kiss, muttering, “My turn.” Their lips finally meeting, Harry captured her gasp in his mouth, raking his hand through her curls.

Dissatisfied with their position, Harry pulled her on top of him, straddling his hips. With one hand gripping her waist, she could feel his enthusiasm growing below where he held her in place. 

Harry grabbed a handful of Hermione’s curls at the nape of her neck, pulling her down into another kiss and greedily pressing along the seam of her lips. She winced from the force, allowing him to slide more of his tongue into her mouth. He continued to steal her breath as he kissed her harder, over and over again. She started to feel dizzy from the lack of oxygen and was suddenly grateful to be held in place against him.

Hermione untucked Harry's t-shirt and pulled it over his head, dragging her fingers along his lean muscles before letting them linger on his waistband. Yanking her camisole over her head and tossing it aside, Harry couldn’t help but think how beautiful she was.

“Look at you,” he whispered, mostly to himself, as he reached up to palm her bare breasts. 

Hermione began to untie Harry’s pyjamas, immediately dipping her fingers below his waistband to the warmth from his groin. She pulled off Harry’s pyjamas and pants like she was entranced, allowing him to kick them to the floor without a care. The minute her fingers curled around his cock, Harry groaned loudly, his eyes flying open and landing directly on Ron. 

Ron’s gaze was fixed on Harry’s hands cupping Hermione’s breast, her hands shoved in his briefs, the flush in her cheeks, the way he gripped her hips. His throat ran dry at the realisation—it was painfully obvious what happened while he was gone.

His best mate? The girl he–? 

He pushed up on his elbows away from them, trying to get his bearings. 

“Ron?” Hermione quietly asked, reaching out to him and tugging him closer, compelled to close the gap he made. Her face was flushed with arousal, but her eyes were pleading. 

“I– I– I can’t–” Ron heaved, panicking. He felt white-hot desire and jealousy flood his senses, unable to think clearly anymore. 

How had they come together? How many times? How long did they wait before falling into bed?

His eyes locked with Harry’s. The green eyes behind his glasses were ablaze with a look Ron had never seen before; it electrified him. He could see the sweat collecting on Harry’s forehead, close enough to touch, to taste. Harry yanked his face forward before Ron could lose himself in more intrusive thoughts, and their lips met, hard, punishing, and a bit clumsy. Harry pulled back slightly, looking directly into Ron’s blue eyes. 

I just kissed Harry, Ron thought. Harry. No, Harry kissed him. Kissed him like he could lose him. Kissed him like he needed him. 

Surrendering himself to the pleading look in Harry’s eyes, Ron kissed him again, his tongue sweeping instinctively against Harry’s lips. The mood of their kiss shifted then; Harry grew more frantic, and he surged to grab Ron’s face, Hermione slipping off from her position straddling him.

Running his thumbs along the soft curve of his jaw, Harry whispered, “It wouldn’t be us without you, Ron.”

In a swift movement, lips never tearing apart, Harry pushed Ron down on the bed and onto his elbows. Their kissing turned into an urgent, desperate clash of tongues and teeth. Their bare skin sang with the rightness of their connection, Harry pressing his body all along the length of Ron’s; they both gasped when their cocks brushed for the first time, then ground into one another without a second thought. 

Frantic with need, Harry pulled away and continued his ravenous pursuit down Ron’s chest, abdomen, and hipbone, pausing just beyond the waistband of his pants. Each kiss pressed harder than the last, teeth followed by tongue, as if the bruises and bites could claim his ownership. Harry looked up, his green irises nearly eclipsed by his widened pupils.

“Alright, mate?” he asked as if they could turn back now.

Staring back at him in awe, Harry’s wild hair and swollen lips made blood rush to Ron’s cock; he was the hardest he’d ever been. Looking punch-drunk at the sight of them kissing, Hermione crawled back over to them, bracketing Ron's chest with her arms and kissing him feverishly as Harry had. Ron met her enthusiastically, hips jerking at the feeling of Harry bringing his hands closer to his aching cock. 

Hermione snaked her hand between Ron’s body and Harry to help him yank Ron’s pyjama bottoms down to his knees, the length of him finally springing free. Harry and Hermione let out twin groans at the sight of him, Harry biting his way up Ron’s exposed thighs. Hermione wrapped her delicate fingers around Ron’s cock, pumping a few strokes softly before making eye contact with Harry.

Hermione shivered at the intensity she found there; for a moment, she went still, marvelling at the circumstances she found herself in, but then Ron brought a hand up to graze her nipple, and coherent thought left her again. 

Her gaze following Harry’s journey up the inside of Ron’s thigh, she released her grip and began kissing up Ron’s chest before nestling herself against his side. He met her there with a languid kiss, which he broke off with a hiss as Harry’s fingers finally reached where he was desperate for his touch.

Harry took his friend’s cock into his hand, stroking gently at first and then quicker, trying to keep pace with Ron’s uneven breaths. Ron groaned, his head lolling back roughly onto the cot. Harry swiped his thumb across the tip slowly, and before Ron could react, Harry pulled him into his mouth. 

Ron closed his eyes, temporarily blinded by sheer pleasure. His skin was electrified, a frenzied collection of coils tightening underneath his skin. Ron impulsively bucked up his hips, seeking further relief inside Harry’s mouth as he bobbed his head repeatedly. Harry hollowed out his cheeks, sucking enthusiastically, acting purely on instinct.

“Fuck. Bloody amazing. Fuck,” Ron moaned out between frantic breaths, growing louder with each swirling motion Harry made with his tongue. 

Ron impulsively grabbed handfuls of Harry’s hair as he took him in deeper. Harry felt his grip and moaned around Ron’s cock, helplessly hard and grinding unconsciously into the bed.

Hermione attached her lips to Ron’s neck, gently grazing the length with her teeth. Her eyes fluttered closed at the sweet, salty taste of his sweat on her lips. When she opened them, the evidence of Harry pleasuring Ron made her feel both possessive and prideful—the beads of sweat on Ron’s forehead, the trail of red marks down his torso, her smattering of loving nips and bits along his freckled skin. There was a rushing in her ears and a throbbing between her legs, her heart almost painfully full.

When Harry’s insistent sucking grew merciless, Ron took out his frustration on Hermione, dragging her towards his face to kiss her—hard. She shoved her tongue back in his mouth in defiance, deepening the kiss; it was as though she was channelling the last of her frustrations into Ron’s mouth, exerting her last bits of anger through this fight for dominance. 

Harry briefly looked up at Hermione, his mouth full, to see her heady gaze, desperate with desire. Hermione slipped her hand down to Ron’s crotch, wrapping her fingers around his cock, just below Harry’s wet grip. Applying steady pressure to the base of the shaft, Hermione pumped her hand in a tight ring around Ron. Ron propped himself up on his elbows, dazed at the sight of them working together for his pleasure. He could’ve died happy right there.

Ron’s erratic movements and breathy moans told Harry he was getting close. When he could see his and Hermione’s kisses also grow desperate, he reluctantly released Ron from his mouth. 

Hermione and Ron didn’t notice that Harry was now within arm’s reach on their side of the bed. Harry pushed his hands through both their hair—soft chestnut curls in one and silky red waves in the other. He curled both sets of fingers into fists, eyes darkening as he tightened his grip possessively.

His head slanted upright in Harry’s grip, Ron pulled Hermione in for another kiss, unable to keep their lips apart for more than a few moments. Growling, Harry used his grip on their hair to tear them apart, dragging Ron’s mouth towards his own instead. He claimed Ron’s lips again, tugging his bottom lip into his mouth and biting. 

Pulling back, he directed Hermione towards him next, a string of saliva still connecting him and Ron as he thrust his tongue into her mouth. The three of them let out desperate, matching moans, their bodies pressed together helplessly. Harry had no idea what to do with the feelings that ripped through his body; he released them both and sat back on his heels, panting, watching. He brought his hand to his cock, stroking gently, longing for relief.

Ron pushed Hermione flat on her back beneath him. He looked at Harry for a moment, their eyes meeting, Harry’s hand lazily stroking his own cock. Harry gave him a nod, his tongue peeking out to lick at his kiss-swollen lips. 

“T-Touch me, Ron. Please,” Hermione slurred, almost drunkenly. 

Feeling emboldened and needy, she opened her legs widely; one of her knees rested against Harry’s legs as he kneeled beside them. Ron couldn’t help but stare, reaching out to drag the back of his knuckles against her visibly moist slit.

“Hermione, I–” Ron choked.

“I know, I feel it too. Please, Ron. I want you to,” Hermione pleaded, looking up at him with tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

“Touch her,” Harry echoed, his hand moving faster on his cock, his gaze burning as he watched them both.

Spurred on by their words, Ron’s lips first attached to her shoulders, leaving a trail of kisses down her clavicle to her chest. His teeth caught on her nipples, pebbled hard from the teasing graze. He peppered each bud with alternating soft nips and swipes of his tongue, stealing moans as he moved further down her body. She could feel his erection twitch against her thigh with each kiss he pressed into her bare skin. 

He reached her mound and paused, his breath disturbing the curls that covered her lips, looking up at her. She gave a shaky nod, her breath shuddering as he used both hands to spread her lips. Tentatively, Ron snaked the tip of his tongue against her clit, and she shivered, the gentle touch driving her wild with need. 

“Please,” she moaned again. 

Harry reached out and closed his thumb and forefinger over one of her nipples as she bucked up against Ron’s mouth. This time he met her with the flat of his tongue against her slit, drawing a long, slow lick from the bottom to the top. Hermione keened, her senses overwhelmed, as Harry leaned down to lave her nipple with his tongue. 

Ron began to lick in earnest, not waiting long before he added a finger to the mix, pressing one long digit deep inside her as his tongue flickered over her clit. She was losing control over her reactions, short, high-pitched moans leaving her as he set his nerve endings ablaze. When Ron added a second finger, she arched her back, inadvertently pressing her breast into Harry’s mouth. Harry took advantage, sucking hard, scraping her nipple with his teeth, flicking his tongue. 

Her hands scrabbled against the bedding, looking for purchase, and Harry snatched one, threading their fingers together as he pressed it back against the bed. She let the other hand fall into Ron’s hair, where she met Harry’s other hand, the three of them tangled together, touching at multiple points. 

There was instinct driving them, one they hadn’t known they had before tonight, that same impulse that brought them out of danger time and time again, that innate understanding of one another and their roles.

Hermione’s moans sped up with Ron’s fingers, her orgasm suddenly impending with unfathomable force. She found her mouth covered by Harry’s, his tongue in her mouth and on her neck and nibbling her ear, her hands still trapped, the wet sounds of Ron’s exertions filling the tent, the paired moans that came from Harry or Ron at the escalation of her pleasure. When Harry moved his hand from Ron’s hair and pinched her other nipple, the wave crested, and she fell. 

“Ohh, my god,” she groaned, body arching, her walls slamming down on Ron’s fingers, her release gushing onto his lapping tongue, her toes curling, her grip painful on Harry’s hand. 

Ron didn’t stop, dragging her orgasm from her, revelling in the sloppy sounds of his fingers plunging in and out, the sweet taste of her pleasure on his tongue. At last, it became too much, and Hermione pushed at Ron’s head, demanding he release her from his torment. 

Ron lifted his face from Hermione’s body, his cheekiest grin spreading across his lips. Face covered in her juices, Harry swooped in to kiss Ron before he could even wipe his chin. They shared Hermione’s taste between them, Harry groaning at the sweet musky scent of her clinging to Ron’s breath and the bitter tang of her against his tongue. 

Ron lifted on his knees, and for a moment, his and Harry’s erections pressed against each other, drawing agonised groans from both of them. Harry continuously claimed his lips, cleaning every drop of Hermione’s release from his face. He pulled back, grinning at each other momentarily, disbelief and relief reflected in each other’s eyes. 

Coming down from her orgasm, Hermione watched them with wide eyes, leaning on her elbows as they kissed above her. It sent a pulse through her cunt, the sight of them sharing the taste of her, their obvious pleasure in it. She whined, reaching out to tug Ron back towards her. 

He smiled—that perfect bashful smile—and moved back up her body, settling on his knees between her legs. With shaky breaths he desperately tried to hide, Ron lined himself up at her entrance and pressed inside her slowly. At first, it was slow, languid motions, as if Ron didn’t trust his strength not to hurt her. The two of them gasped, feeling just how well they fit together.

Harry stroked Ron’s hair affectionately, providing encouragement as Ron gained momentum and depth in his thrusts. Hermione watched them both intently, pupils blown wide in pleasure, as her hand reached for them, desperate for more skin-on-skin contact. 

Harry laid beside Hermione, running his fingers along her arm, Ron’s hip, and down their sides. Unable to control himself any longer, he dragged Hermione’s face into another punishing kiss.

“Touch me too?” he pleaded against her lips. 

Hermione used her free hand to reach for Harry’s cock again, immediately finding her throbbing prize. She stroked his length consistently, rocking her whole body to the same tempo Ron pressed into her. Hermione worked to move in time with Ron’s thrusts, growing more confident as the three of them finally found their rhythm. Each push and pull sent ripples of building pleasure down her spine, slowly building to a peak at her core.

The tent began to fill with their desperate pants and whimpers. With each thrust, Ron pushed deeper into Hermione, causing her to squeeze Harry tighter. Harry’s hands were in constant motion, roaming from Ron’s biceps to Hermione’s thighs, brushing against the spot where their bodies were joined, reaching up to tweak her nipples, dragging his thumb along Ron’s bruised lips. 

“Please, please, please don’t stop,” Hermione pleaded. 

Ron moaned, snapping his hips faster, and Harry attacked her clit with his fingers, rubbing in frantic circles as she climbed higher and higher towards another peak. She willed herself to concentrate on moving her hand across Harry’s cock, forcing herself to keep her eyes open to ensure she didn’t miss a moment. 

“Hermione,” Harry groaned, his voice hot against her neck. “You’re so beautiful. Come for us.” He swirled his fingers faster, his words sending bolts of lightning down her spine. 

“Fuck, Hermione,” echoed Ron, crowding his face against her, leaning into his thrusts as he captured her lips and panted against her mouth. “Come, Hermione.”

The growing tension inside her finally snapped, a violent, shuddering thing, throwing her head back and screwing her eyes shut. Hermione wailed as the second orgasm washed through her, filling her with sticky, heavy contentment.

Ron didn’t stop thrusting, and Harry’s fingers never stopped their motions; she could feel her pelvic muscles contracting even through the aftershocks of the orgasm, strangling Ron’s cock inside her. After a few more thrusts, she felt Ron spill inside her, his voice joining hers, calling out their pleasure. His weight quickly collapsed on top of her, taking in a mouthful of her hair. 

“You’re so good Hermione, oh God, you’re so good, don’t stop love, please, ah, fuck, yes–” Hermione kept stroking Harry along with his whispered pleas, finally feeling his legs shake as he came on his own stomach. 

Harry tumbled onto his side, burying his head in the crook of Hermione’s shoulder while stroking Ron’s hair. Feeling drugged by the release, he lazily ran his fingers against where she and Ron were still intertwined. They both turned to face him, staring back with sleepy, softened eyes. 

Is this how it could be? Is this how it was supposed to be? 

It felt right; it felt like it was theirs and theirs alone. Harry never felt closer to the two of them or felt so safe. He leaned forward and kissed them, first Hermione and then Ron, their lips meeting tenderly in the aftermath.

Just as there had been in the moments before, there was a long minute of silence. Their breathing slowed, the sweat cooling on their skin, their fingers threading lazily together. 

This time, the tension was gone, the storm broken, and the rift mended. Ron pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Hermione’s shoulder and trailed a finger up Harry’s arm. Hermione nuzzled her nose against Harry’s cheek, hooking a leg around Ron’s. After a moment, Harry propped himself on an elbow to look at them both. 

“It’s you two, you know? It has always been you two.” 

He hadn’t known, not really, not until he’d said it aloud. It was the missing piece, the three of them in perfect balance. Two of them were incomplete without their third. 

“‘Course,” said Ron, his voice still muffled against Hermione’s shoulder. “We’re yours.” 

“Yours,” Hermione agreed, leaning up to kiss Harry gently. 

Harry looked at them thoughtfully, his heart swelling with the strength of his affection. 

“Mine. And I’ll fight like hell to ensure it always stays that way.”

They laid there until their limbs began to feel sore, not wanting the moment to end. 

Before falling asleep, Hermione repositioned herself next to Harry’s side, extending her arm over his stomach and intertwining their feet. Ron curled up behind her, body pressed against her back at all points, meeting Hermione’s hand on Harry’s waist. 

As Harry fell asleep, he heard Hermione whisper, “Goodnight, you two.” 

He slept soundly through the night, mind finally at ease, nightmares kept at bay.

↞•↠

They packed their camp slowly the following day, pausing frequently for long, indulgent kisses and easy, comfortable conversation. Ron cooked them breakfast, Harry at the kitchen table cracking jokes, Hermione wrapped up in an oversized jumper in an armchair, timidly smiling at the wizards. The debate over where to go next was good-natured instead of poisoned with resentment, the lack of new ideas hardly bothering them. For now, at least, there were safe.

“Ready?” Ron asked as they stood close together, preparing to leave. He pulled Harry’s hand to his lips, pressing a firm, warm kiss to his knuckles. Hermione lifted her head from Ron’s shoulder, smiling gently at them from under her hair.

“Ready,” Harry replied, taking one last look at his family before they Disapparated.