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“I don’t want to do this essay,” says Ron. “Hermione. ‘Mione. The brightest witch of our age, will you be an absolute darl , and— oi! ”
Harry’s hand doesn’t come up fast enough to cover his mouth: his laugh escapes before he feels it rising. Ron rubs the spot of head where Hermione had whacked him with her copy of Potent Potions: A Fourth Years’ Guide. Hermione giggles too, dropping the book next to her in the emerald grass. It’s still dewey from the morning dawn, but everyone knows Hermione mastered the drying spell in her first year after Neville spilt a jug of pumpkin juice over her book bag, so Harry’s first instinct isn’t to rush over and pluck it out.
Instead, his first thought is to lay down. He scoots over a little on his Accioed picnic blanket, and drops his head lazily onto Hermione’s lap.
“Oi,” says Ron again, loudly. “I just got mortally wounded, where’s my special treatment— hey, quit laughing, I want a hug.”
“Awww, Ickle Ronnikins,” Hermione grins, reaching out a hand to ruffle his hair. “Is someone lonely?”
Ron raises his wand in what Harry’s sure is a threatening action, but just comes off almost lovingly: Ron’s pointing his wand like he’s about to cast Orchideous! and present them both with a beautiful bouquet of daffodils.
Harry opens his arm and taps the square of blanket beside him languidly. “You need to look more threatening,” he says. Ron bonks their heads together as he settles into Harry’s side. “How are we supposed to defeat Voldemort if you look like a kicked puppy half the time?”
“Maybe that’s the whole plan,” says Ron, crossing his arms so his elbow digs into Harry’s side. Harry bats at his hands until he uncrosses them. Behind them, he hears Hermione laugh again. “No, really! I’ll lure him in with my devilishly good looks, and then while he’s distracted by my massive muscles and sexy gaze, you guys can hit him from the back.”
“The only context in which the Unforgivables are permitted,” Hermione sighs dreamily. When Harry glances up at her through his lenses, she raises an affronted eyebrow. “What? If we’re ever in that hypothetical situation of dire mortality, I should think we’d be permitted to utilise any tool available to us — including, but not limited to the Killing Curse.”
“Merlin’s Beard, ‘Mione,” Ron whistles. He rolls over on the blanket until he’s half lying in the grass, and wrenches up a handful of the blades. Harry watches them trickle through his fingers and sprinkle over his bunched-up robes. He holds up a particularly long one with his non-wand hand, waving it above his head childishly. “Lord Voldy! The Ministry gave me a one-hour pardon to the Killing Curse—bend over!”
Hermione barks a sudden laugh so loud and happy Ron falls the rest of the way over in the grass. She’s wheezing in seconds, and Harry sits up to give her a big thump on the back while Ron, ever oblivious to Muggle actions, stares. “I’m—fine,” she wheedles out, through her streaming but joyful tears. “Jesus Christ, Ronald. Don’t make me laugh like that.”
“Aww, Hermione,” says Ron, beaming. “Wait. Who’s this Jesus fellow?”
And Hermione’s gone again. Harry settles back onto the rug.
It’s nice, this period of relative stability. Harry knows it’s only relative, because it always is: this blip of dappled sunlight will, like every year, give way to a storm cloud — a Dementor, a prophecy, a Dark Lord’s wrongdoing. Last year, maybe, he might’ve sat and wallowed about it — stared at the grass and thought about how come summertime, the emerald would shrivel to burnt orange and brown, sit and think about his Mum and Dad and the black cloud on the horizon, about the gaping abyss in his heart each year seems to widen — but this year, Harry’s been attempting somewhat of a new outlook.
In between tasks — now that he’s got his best friends back by his side — he tries to look at the good things. He doesn’t focus on the impending Third event. Instead, he distracts himself with Ron, with Hermione. They go to Hogsmeade and throw snowballs at one another by the empty Shrieking Shack. They eat themselves stupid at Honeydukes, and he and Ron laugh when Hermione lets yet another chocolate frog escape. They dance in the Gryffindor common room in front of the fire with Dean and Seamus, and he and Hermione cheer when Ron beats Neville in Wizard’s chess. Hermione charms their matching textbooks to reflect the writing in each others’, and they write little notes to one another in the margins — HARRY HERMIONE ARE YOU GUYS AWAKE I AM FALLING ASLEEP PROFESSOR BINNS IS SO BORING. Hermione drags them all down to the kitchens to help the house elves cook, and they laugh while Ron puts on a performance of bad teacher impressions for Dobby and Winky and their friends. He knows it’s finite, but with Ron and Hermione, Harry’s never felt more—
A weight settles on his back. Harry blinks.
Hermione’s stopped laughing. Instead, she’s crouched by his side, skirt bunched up under her knees, one hand on his shoulder, lips parted like she’s just finished a sentence and is about to start on another. Ron’s right in front of him, fingers entangled with his. “You alright, mate?” he says. “Is your scar hurting?”
“If it is, we should get Dumbledore,” Hermione says immediately, brushing down her skirt and standing. “Do you need me to get him? I’ll go right now. I’m not taking no for an answer this time, Harry, I mean it. I’ll write to Sirius, I really will—”
“No,” Harry bites out, hasty. It comes out a little snapper than he means, and he melts. “No—thank you. I’m alright. I’m fine.”
Hermione’s eyebrows furrow. She crosses one leg under the other, and sits back down. The grass under the blanket crinkles like wrapping paper as she does. “What’s wrong, then?”
“Nothing,” says Harry, honestly. “I was just—thinking.”
“Nice,” says Ron, appraisingly. The corners of his mouth quirk up. “That’s new.”
Hermione hits him over the head with the back of her hand. Ron goes down again, moaning and clutching his scalp. Harry watches them both as they bicker, and all he finds himself thinking is that—
"I love you.”
Ron and Hermione stop. Hermione sits up slowly, eyes impossibly wide, as if she can’t quite fathom hearing those three words in the air. Ron shoots up fast — so quickly he bangs his head on Hermione’s as he does, and goes down again. “Come—again?” he mumbles, hands cradling his bruised brain. “What, mate?”
Harry ducks his head. “Sorry,” he says, trying unsuccessfully to bite down the rising heat in his cheeks. “I just—I mean, if it’s weird, I can—”
“ No, ” says Hermione, so emphatically Harry would think it was a shouted spell if he didn’t know otherwise. “No, Ron’s being a dick. Ron, shut up.” She shuffles forward on the blanket to grab both of Harry’s hands. “It’s not weird. We’re best friends. I mean—you’re both the only friends I’ve ever had, and…” she trails off, coughing. “I love you so much. I love you both so much. I wouldn’t change either of you for the world.”
There’s a moment of silence. When Harry decides it’s safe to look up again, Hermione’s glaring at Ron so hard she could drill holes in the side of his battered face. “What?” he says. “You know I love you both. I’ve said it before, right?”
“No,” says Hermione, very, very slowly. “You have not.”
Ron blinks. “Well, there. I said it.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You guys are… cool, or whatever.” Hermione’s glare darkens. He throws both hands up. “‘Mione, what do you want from me? We hug. We hold hands. Everyone in the hallway keeps asking me if I’m in a throuple with Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, and every single time I have to sit them down and explain how no, they’re idiots, and we’re friends, and that’s what good friends do. Or whatever,” he adds hastily.
“That tacked-on nonchalance didn’t disguise your blatant tenderness, Ronald.”
“Aw, man .”
Harry doesn’t bother to bite down his emotion this time. He lets himself smile, full and wide. “I love you both,” he says again — this time, just because he can. He doesn’t say the rest of what he’s feeling — how he’s not said I love you in any other context before, how he’s never heard it in any other situation, how he thinks he might be dead a million times over in every scenario if it weren’t for them — but he knows Ron and Hermione understand it anyway.
“Yeah, yeah,” says a scarlet-eared Ron, and lobs his curled half-written essay across to Hermione. It hits her square on the nose. A little dab of black ink lingers. “You gonna do my essay, or what?”
“I will not ,” harrumphs Hermione. “Do your own work, or I’ll report you to McGonagall.”
“Merlin’s beard. I hate you all.”
“No, you don’t.”
“...no, I don’t.”