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As soon as Ron stepped back into the life that he and Hermione had been sharing, inside that tent, that intimate capsule, their only protection – something inside Harry clicked back into its rightful place. They had made it work, Hermione and him, they had sat together back to back in the mornings and had worn each other's sweaters when they were on watch duty, he had ignored it when she cried over Ron and in those moments couldn't speak, she had ignored it when he felt frustration bubble in his chest over Ron and in those moments swore like a sailor at even the most minor setback. They had laughed like madmen at times even when nothing could really be that funny, because they felt like they had to laugh for three, the two of them. They hadn't listened to the radio because it reminded them of Ron, and they hadn't had to explain it to the other. He had cooked for them, the few meagre dishes he knew from his time at the Dursleys. She had eaten it without comment.
So yes, they had made it work – and really, sometimes it had worked rather well, even with the darkness outside gathering ever more; sometimes it had even had a faint flavour of home – but still nothing could compare to the pang Harry felt in his gut when Ron was standing there again, gleaming with ice water, the sword almost apologetically at his side. The great, big oaf, with that self-conscious, tentative smile-itching-to-become-a-grin on his face.
When Hermione exploded at him, in the way that she had – completely fair in her fury, at least this time, but always with an undertone of knowing that it would be okay, which is something that he learned to feel and appreciate in Ron and Hermione's eternal disagreements – he knew, this time, not to instinctively take Ron's side. He deserved it, and besides, they all knew that it would be okay, he knew Ron felt it too, in his uncanny sensitivity to what Hermione wasn't saying, despite all the things she was saying. So Harry said nothing, nothing major at least, but smiled at Ron from behind Hermione's back and felt the world shifting back into its normal orbit. There was a warmth in his stomach despite their plunge into the icy lake. His anger at Ron had dissolved completely during his fight with the locket, his oh-so-honest fight; all of the things Harry had uncomfortably known about Ron but had never really dared to acknowledge had been laid bare – jealousy, fear of inferiority, and oh, Harry could feel how Ron had been cured of those things at least in part. The extent of his love. Harry had known this and yet he felt both unsettled and like everything was exactly as it should be. His heart was thumping just from the memory of Ron's face in that moment when he realised that yes, this was his fight and yes, he could do it.
It was night, but he felt energised and elated. They talked of the locket's destruction. They left out the part of the ghostly Harry and Hermione kissing – it was too early for that, too fresh. Nevertheless Hermione's admiration was real under her act of anger. Ron seemed tentatively happy. Hermione made a fire and Harry cooked them a late-night snack of watery vegetable soup. Ron told him it tasted terrible, which caused Hermione to give him a look colder than the lake they had found the sword in, but Harry laughed – for real, not like a madman this time. At one point Hermione, betraying her angry act somewhat, reached into her beaded bag and pulled out a bottle of Firewhiskey – to their raised eyebrows she only offered a shrug and said she had been saving it. Harry could think of other occasions where it would have been welcome, but he also felt that she was right; no time was better than this one. They clinked glasses, Hermione without meeting Ron's direct gaze, but Harry could already feel the lines that bound them growing tighter again. He happily chugged back his glass and got Ron's laughter and Hermione's played disapproval when he had to fight off a fit of coughs. They drank merrily, Hermione produced a second bottle, Ron's reconstruction of the Horcrux's destruction quickly grew more imaginative and raucous. Harry thumped the table and contradicted nothing, no, it was all true...
It was Hermione who ushered them to bed when the second bottle was half empty. Harry and Ron were singing an enthusiastic mash-up of different Sorting Hat songs, severely off-key – she laughed, but put her hands over Harry's mouth, muffling an increasingly inventive solo about the sliminess of Slytherins.
“We still need to be careful,” she reminded them, and this sobered them somewhat.
“Hermione's right,” Ron agreed – she managed a small look of disdain at him, but Harry could tell her resolve was crumbling already. He suspected things would be almost back to usual tomorrow morning; the idea filled him with a liquid happiness.
They had a big glass of water, all of them. It felt like a ritual. Harry and Ron stumbled off to their beds; Hermione said goodnight from behind the tent flap that separated hers from theirs. Harry could hear her getting between the covers. He crashed into his bed, the green overhangings of the tent swaying merrily around his head. When he closed his eyes the blackness churned just as merrily.
“'m drunk,” he told Ron, who he could hear rummaging about.
A gruff “yeah,” was all he got in response before Ron put out the flame in the lamp, so he deduced that Ron felt the same way. That was good.
He had never realised falling asleep felt so much like literally falling, as the darkness of the night rushed up past him – like sinking through clouds, he thought vaguely, clouds...
The next thing he knew was that there was someone standing next to his bed. He instinctively sat bolt upright when this realisation hit him, his heart jumping up into his throat, his every muscle immediately tensed up, ready to leap to attention –
“Harry, shhhh,” the figure hurriedly whispered and – oh, he realised, it was Ron. He let his torso fall back onto his pillow, the jolt of adrenaline that had been rushing through his body slowing down. The tent wasn't as pitch dark anymore as when they had headed off to bed, so he guessed that he had been sleeping. It felt like several hours had rushed past in mere seconds.
“Ron, what –” he murmured blearily.
“I'm sorry,” Ron muttered, “I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”
“No, it's okay,” Harry whispered back as his heart rate slowed down to its normal pace, “why are you up?”
“Couldn't sleep.” Ron crouched and settled himself cross-legged on the floor next to Harry's bed. Harry rolled over on his side and rested his head on his hand. In the diffuse, very faint light of morning that was penetrating the canvas of the tent, Ron's face looked a lot darker than it really was, with dark shadows where his eyes were.
“What's up?” Harry asked after a stretch of silence.
“I feel weird.” Ron's whisper was so soft Harry barely heard it.
“We've had too much to drink,” Harry responded, passing a hand over his eyes. There was a dull pounding behind his eyes, the beginnings of a hangover.
“No, I...” Ron sighed. “I dunno.”
Harry, remembering that he had been somewhat prepared for a headache, reached for the glass of water he had put next to his bed went they had gone to sleep and had two great gulps – he offered the rest to Ron, who drank it.
“Is it about Hermione?” he whispered, sensing Ron's need to talk further. As he said the words he felt his tongue being unwilling to cooperate and realised that the Firewhiskey was still thrumming in his veins. There was no sound from Hermione's side of the tent when Harry listened; she seemed to be deeply asleep.
“Yeah, I guess,” Ron unhelpfully responded.
“You guess? Okay, that's obvious then,” Harry semi-sarcastically returned, but even in the dim half-light he could see Ron's pained face, so he quickly followed up with: “What about her?”
“I love her,” Ron just said in a low whisper, simply, easily – Harry felt a light shock at the swiftness of his response. It was nothing he didn't know, yet he somehow wasn't prepared for it. He gulped.
After a moment he said: “That's good,” and he didn't mean for it to come out as a question, but it sort of did.
“Yeah. It is.”
Harry felt a strange feeling pooling in his stomach. He felt that he was blushing, as if Ron's directness of intimacy was directed at him. “I know she loves you,” he offered – because it was true.
Ron smiled. “Yeah.” And Harry could tell that he didn't doubt it anymore, that it was clear to him now, too, like it had been clear to Harry for a long time. “Harry?” Harry looked at him. “Do you... love Ginny?”
Oh, not that. He knew he would have to have this conversation with Ron at one point – but he wasn't sure what exactly 'this conversation' was, so he had hoped he could hold it off until he actually knew what the hell was going on with him. It had been strange for him to realise after days that he hadn't spared Ginny one thought, and that thinking about her didn't necessarily make him feel better; instead, it made him feel slightly claustrophobic. “Um –” was therefore the most eloquent response he could give.
Ron whispered, almost immediately: “It's okay.”
Harry shifted on his bed. He wasn't sure what to do with this blessing of Ron's. What was okay? Was it okay that Harry was utterly confused about his feelings for Ginny? How did Ron know? But in the gloom, as Ron sat there, his hair tinged darkly greenish, his face close to Harry's, Harry let it go quite easily. It was okay. It was good to hear that some things were still okay. He felt utterly at ease all of a sudden, had the thought that maybe this was still the Firewhiskey talking, but decided it didn't matter; it felt good to lie there with Ron next to him.
“Harry,” Ron whispered in the comfortable silence between them, as Harry felt that maybe he was falling asleep again, “it's really good to be back here.”
Harry opened his eyes (not really having realised he'd closed them) and saw Ron's face – open, familiar. “We missed you,” he responded, and then, without thinking, without his usual 'is-this-acceptable': “I missed you. A lot.”
“I missed you too.” And then, even more softly: “I'm sorry.”
“It's okay. You're a twat, though.”
Ron's snort was a bit too loud, but as they listened, Hermione didn't seem to stir. Ron looked at Harry – Harry could feel his eyes even if he couldn't really see them – and said: “It was terrible to be alone.”
“Yeah mate,” Harry whispered evenly, “you kind of chose that yourself.”
“I know.” Ron seemed to be thinking deeply, then, quickly, slightly slurred: “But away from here... And back there, with the locket... I just realised how much it means to be here with you.”
And Harry would have said something back, something about how much it meant to him that Ron and Hermione were there, or something like that, but then it never happened, because: Ron leaned in and kissed him.
His brain froze up, his body was shocked into utter motionlessness. He didn't even have the sense to withdraw, he just allowed Ron to press his lips to his own for what seemed like several seconds.
Ron pulled back rather matter-of-factly, not slowly, not quickly.
Harry's brain kicked back into gear, and as it was frantically trying to reconstruct what had happened and what major clues it must have missed, Ron whispered: “I didn't think I was going to do that.”
Harry blinked, felt that his mouth was hanging open - “You – you didn't think you were going to do that?” he squeaked finally, after gaping at Ron like a fish for a couple of incoherent seconds.
Ron shook his head. “No, I didn't, I'm sorry, it's nothing, I – let's just go to sleep?” And then, the utter wanker actually started getting up to go back to bed.
Harry gawped; then said in a louder whisper: “No! What are you doing? What is going on?”
Ron turned back to him. “I don't know, I... I'm sorry.” He looked dejected as he rubbed his hands against his eyes. “It's just something... that I thought about while I was away.”
“You thought about kissing me while you were away?” Harry whispered hoarsely.
“Yes,” Ron simply said and once more, the straight-forwardness gave Harry a jolt.
“But... why?”
“I dunno, Harry,” Ron said, his whispers getting more animated, “I just realised, being away from you... that I, well, that I wanted – to kiss you.”
Harry felt his confusion diminishing at this, for some reason – Ron wanted to kiss him. In different circumstances (Harry had to admit to himself) this would have been some cause for celebration, or maybe not, because he had no clue what would happen if he ever were to fully admit to himself, let alone Ron, that he certainly wouldn't mind kissing Ron; and of course he had always been very aware of the fact that Ron and Hermione were gravitating ever closer to each other slowly but surely, and that he and Ron were the best of mates and that kissing wasn't usually a part of being best mates. He had never thought about what would happen if he would, if he would kiss Ron or tell him about it. It had never been necessary or even possible, really, to fully think it out. And now there was Ron, sitting like that in the diffuse darkness, cutting to the chase in a way that Harry wasn't used to; he loved Hermione, and at the same time and apparently in a totally unproblematic relationship to that he wanted to kiss Harry, so he just had...
Ron took his silence for further rejection, obviously. “Look, Harry,” he murmured, “don't worry about it, I'm just... drunk, I guess, and it just seemed...” he trailed off.
“Seemed what?” Harry prompted, feeling his blood pumping in his ears.
“It seemed like something that could be good,” Ron whispered, “but you obviously don't think so, so let's leave it, don't worry about it.” He turned around to get back into bed.
“Ron,” Harry hissed, a bit more sharply than he had intended, “what about Hermione?”
Ron faced him again. “Erm,” he said, “well, I want to kiss her too.” And the way he said it, like it made utter sense, like it was no big deal, hit Harry like a punch; it just seemed so acceptable, as Ron was sitting there, the gap between their faces small, Firewhiskey still on Ron's breath – it just seemed like something that could be good –
“Okay,” he said, without even really thinking.
Ron didn't move. “Okay?” he echoed.
“Okay,” Harry affirmed.
“Okay as in...?” Ron sounded confused.
“Okay as in okay,” Harry breathed, and wrapped his hand around Ron's neck and pulled him in; the kiss was awkward at first, his aim was affected by the alcohol and the darkness and the utter alienness of kissing Ron, so his lips landed more between Ron's mouth and nose than on his lips. Ron was the one who seemed flabbergasted this time, but as Harry repositioned himself and found the angle he needed to close his mouth around Ron's lower lip Ron jolted slightly, and immediately took Harry's face in his hands and moved into the kiss. It was a careful, slow exploration – Harry felt his eyes closing of their own accord as Ron took the lead, sucking gently on his upper lip. Harry's stomach felt like it had turned to jelly, and as he matched Ron's kisses with growing responsiveness his brain kept singing is-this-really-happening-is-this-really-happening – he knew for one that this was not like anything he had shared with Cho or Ginny, but then this was Ron, and Ron was so much more important than either of them, and Ron had wanted to kiss him so that was what Ron was doing and... A shudder ran down his spine as he felt Ron's tongue licking carefully at his lower lip – and then, as unexpectedly to him as it probably was to Ron, he threw all caution into the wind and opened his mouth, slid his tongue past Ron's and plunged it into Ron's mouth; Ron let out an 'oomph' but matched Harry perfectly as he upped the pace, their tongues massaging each other, it was an open-mouthed, wet, frantic kiss, Ron sliding one of his hands down to Harry's shoulder, the other, pushing down the covers, to his waist and when Ron broke the kiss only to press his mouth hotly to Harry's neck where his pulse was racing, his tongue leaving a wet, warm trail as he licked along Harry's jawline, the pressure of his hand on his waist, Harry felt his cock twitching to attention inside his pajama trousers.
He let out a strangled sound as Ron bit down on the skin of his neck and slid his hand under the ratty t-shirt Harry was wearing. His hand was slightly cold; Harry jumped at the contact, at Ron's fingers feeling a way up and – he almost laughed at this, before stifling a moan – experimentally moving across a nipple. He kicked the covers off him and tugged at Ron, who quickly got the hint and with a soft grunt crawled into the bed with Harry. There really was no room for two; Ron's knee landed between Harry's legs, and when he eagerly leaned in for a new kiss that ended with their entire bodies aligned, chest to chest, hips to hips – Harry felt Ron's cock jutting out, a realisation that made him feel heady, drunk –
Harry jerked his hips forward intuitively against Ron's. The friction this produced was quite delicious; Ron gasped as Harry hummed his approval. But Ron sat up – before Harry could protest he thrust his hands under Harry's t-shirt again and with some difficulty, with some clumsy help from Harry, pulled it over his head. He unabashedly ran his hands over Harry's chest, like trying out its feel; Harry gasped audibly when his hands dipped low on his stomach, close to the waistband of his pajamas.
“Ron,” Harry groaned under his breath. He was still struggling to wrap his head around the reality of it all, but his body was reacting as if it didn't have a care in the world. His erection was full-blown by now; Ron brushed his hands past it and Harry thrust upward, wanting more friction. “Harry,” Ron returned, in the same low tone; Harry could see his grin in the slowly lightening gloom and it made him feel light-headed. This was real, it was happening.
Ron kissed him, deeply, briefly, then moved his mouth to his neck and kissed and licked a path down, swiping a tongue across his nipple, around his bellybutton. He hooked his thumbs around the waistband of Harry's trousers. Harry lifted his hips and Ron clumsily tugged his trousers and boxers down in one go – Harry realised he was suddenly completely exposed, his boxers around his thighs, his erection free and nestling against his stomach.
“You're still –” he managed to say before Ron closed a hand around his cock, which momentarily caused him to lose his ability to finish the sentence as he tried to reach upward and create more contact. Ron got the hint and paused for a second, quickly pulling his shirt over his head, revealing the torso that Harry knew quite well already, by eye if not by touch. Ron returned his hand to Harry's cock, moving his fist up and down loosely; Harry couldn't help it, he moaned –
And then, the light went on. Harry jumped so violently he almost threw Ron, who gave a yell, off the bed. Hermione was sitting cross-legged before Ron's bed, one of her beautiful, bright flames flickering next to her face.
“Fuck,” Harry yelped, feeling utterly caught – it was only then that it hit him fully what he and Ron were doing, and that it was, indeed, real, and that effectively they were betraying Hermione. Ron, who had only just been saying how he loved Hermione! He, Harry, who knew what his best friends meant to each other! The scene was indeed quite incriminating; they both looked thoroughly snogged, and Harry's erection was still proudly on display. Besides, who knew how long she had been sitting there. Harry felt a horrible sinking dread – what were they thinking doing this to Hermione?
Ron said: “Hermione.”
She looked at him. Her expression changed with the flickering of the flame that threw its shadows over her face, but to Harry it seemed mostly neutral – her eyes were large, reflecting the flame, and her mouth was relaxed. She rather looked as if she was thinking about how to solve a particularly challenging rune translation problem.
“Hermione,” Ron repeated, and Harry didn't really understand what he was doing as Ron got off the bed (Harry took this as an opportunity to hurriedly pull up his trousers), but he cautiously approached Hermione, who still remained uncharacteristically silent. Harry noticed that she had the Firewhiskey bottle in her lap.
“Hermione, I know you're still upset with me, but listen,” Ron said, a slight pleading note in his voice. She didn't look angry. She didn't tell Ron to stuff it. She didn't tell him anything, but he took her silence as an encouragement to go on. He crouched against her, touching her knee and looked up at her face. A muscle in the corner of her mouth twitched – she glanced at Harry before looking back at Ron. “I haven't been able to tell you yet how it was to be away from here,” Ron murmured at her; Harry recognised the strange, new tone he had also had when he told Harry he had thought about kissing him. “I've never missed two people more in my life. It was your voice that brought me back here, did you know that?” As she blinked, Harry saw that her eyes were wet. “And with the locket, Hermione... It showed me everything that I'm afraid of. It's like it knew everything about me, which, well, I guess it did.” Hermione was still looking at him intently, and Harry had never seen her look so completely silent; except for her eyes searching Ron's face, she was perfectly still. He was struck by the naturalness of their heads as they were bent close together, realised that Ron's tone was filled with a deep warmth, the same unexpected warmth that he had also used with Harry... “It showed me you. Both of you, without me. I know now –”
She cut in: “We were nothing without you, Ron.” Her voice trembled.
“I know that now!” he responded fiercely, “Just like I know now that me and Harry are nothing without you, and even you and me... We need Harry, you know we do, do you remember what we said to each other before we left on this trip?” His grip on her knee looked like it might have been painfully tight.
She sniffed, then seemed to make up her mind; she looked at Harry as she said it: “That we would give everything and share everything.”
“Yeah,” Ron said softly and looked round at Harry. There was a silence in which they both looked at him in a way that carried a secret significance, one that he couldn't completely understand. Harry felt a heavy weight on him – he hadn't known how Ron and Hermione must have talked about coming here, how they must've said to each other that it was entirely possible that they would die, for the world that they knew and loved, but also, really, truly, for him, for him maybe more than for anything else, and that they had still decided to come here, vowing to give their life if they had to, their everything. He gulped at the intensity of their combined gazes, didn't know how to respond to them.
Ron broke the contact first; he put a hand on Hermione's cheek and said: “We really do belong together, you know,” and in his tone Harry could hear that they had talked about this before. Hermione smiled, a half-smile, her eyes still shiny.
“Harry,” she said, and he jumped, not expecting her to address to him, “do you want some more whiskey?” She held up the bottle. Her face was a mask of normality, as if she offered him hard alcohol after having witnessed Ron almost jerking him off all the time. But yes, he did want some more whiskey, he needed something to restore some sense to this whole situation, and he also wanted to be nearer to them, into the circle of light of her flame, into their understanding of each other... He rolled off his bed and took the bottle; he swallowed a too-big mouthful and stifled coughs as the fire spread through his chest. Ron took the bottle out of his hands and chugged back a generous amount. Hermione drank several mouthfuls and passed the bottle back to him – they drank in silence, quickly, even before the bottle was empty Harry felt the impact of the alcohol hitting his blood.
Then, and even though he had maybe been expecting this in some way it still took him by surprise, Hermione leaned in and kissed Ron full on the mouth. Ron responded immediately, circling her with his arms; Harry couldn't help being fascinated by their kiss – it was hard, it was forceful, he could only imagine how it tasted with the Firewhiskey between them, and when Ron pulled back Hermione let out a small sound. He wondered briefly if this was really their first kiss, or if similar things in such ethereal half-light had happened between them before and the daylight had always simply forced them back into reality. But then Ron had turned to him again, and kissed him without further ado – his brain felt fuzzy, his body electric as he matched the now almost familiar feel of Ron's tongue with the added burning of Firewhiskey and – he imagined vaguely – Hermione.
When Ron pulled back he looked happy, and when Harry glanced at Hermione she was looking at him in a way that suggested that she was happy too, and then that made him happy in a very elemental way, a way he didn't really understand.
“Why didn't you wake me?” Hermione asked them and Harry, the part of him that still resisted the combination of the strange alluring reality of Ron and Hermione so close to him, so familiar and so new and the Firewhiskey making its way to every part of his body, wondered why – but then Ron said: “I knew you'd hear us,” and kissed her, and in a strange way it all made sense, because what Ron said was true, they belonged together, without Ron he was incomplete and without Hermione he was incomplete and Ron and Hermione were incomplete without each other... Harry drained the bottle as Ron pulled Hermione's pajama top over her head easily, and the shock of the pale swell of her bare breasts was enough to put his cock at attention again, despite the alcohol buzzing in his veins. No, this couldn't be the first time Ron and Hermione had done this, it couldn't, Ron knew his way around her too well – he kissed her throat, a hand on one of her breasts, massaging it slowly. Harry gulped audibly when he noticed that she was looking at him directly, her mouth slightly open, her head angled to give Ron better access.
“Are you okay, Harry?” she asked, breathlessly, even while tangling her fingers in Ron's hair.
“I don't know,” he said truthfully.
“You can tell us to stop if... if that's what you want,” Hermione said and managed to sound reassuring, even as her breath hitched from Ron's ministrations.
He didn't know what he wanted, precisely, but he knew what he didn't want and that was for them to stop. He shook his head, at which Hermione's eyes fluttered shut, the shadow of her lashes long on her cheeks from the flickering flame hovering next to her face, and her mouth fell open; she made small sounds as Ron kissed down from her neck, closing his lips over one of her nipples. Harry's body felt like it was on fire – the whiskey amplifying the heat that was pooling in his abdomen.
Ron let go of Hermione's nipple with a soft pop – he had apparently been sucking on it – turned to Harry and smashed his mouth into Harry's; Harry muffled a sound of surprise at the lack of transition and was almost flattened to the ground by Ron's aggression. He was dimly aware of Hermione getting up before pushing back into the kiss; one of Ron's hands found its way to his crotch and quite deliberately sought his cock. He gasped into Ron's mouth as Ron's teeth grazed his tongue.
“Here,” Hermione said. They looked at her to see that she had expanded Harry's bed to a size that would quite comfortably hold them.
“You're brilliant, Hermione,” Ron said in a low voice, and Harry laughed at that – she was, she was brilliant, but it was usually something that Ron said when he needed her help for homework, and it just seemed extremely funny to him that he said it now, his voice almost a growl, with his hand on Harry's cock, with Hermione sitting on her knees on Harry's bed without her top on. “Yeah, you are, Hermione,” he smiled, and he felt as if everything that was happening was quite right.
They joined her, and as Ron was pushing Harry forward gently he ended up on his knees between them. Hermione's face was open and questioning. Harry knew what the question was. He looked back at Ron, because he remembered Ron's face when the locket was taunting him. There was nothing like that in his expression now; he looked hungry, expectant and Harry realised that it was not the kiss that had bothered Ron but the fact that it would happen without him, and this was good, this was better, this was exactly right for Ron too. At some point between where everything was still normal and this he had decided to just go with it, because in some sense this was more normal and right than anything could ever be; so with Ron's tacit confirmation he took Hermione's face in his hands and kissed her. Her lips were cooler and softer than Ron's and she tasted slightly different. She allowed him to kiss her gently, experimentally; he felt her hands coming to rest lightly on his back. Harry's heart was hammering wildly. At the same time, Ron moved in and pressed his lips to Harry's neck, kissing and nipping as he slid his hands from where Hermione's were resting to Harry's stomach. Harry broke the kiss with Hermione and at that moment realised that he was in fact being embraced by both of them at the same time, and that small thing inside him that had clicked back into place when Ron stepped back into the tent was even more firmly back where it belonged; he ached with it, with the rightness, and kissed Hermione with double the gusto, which she returned, bringing her body closer to his so her breasts brushed against his chest. Ron was nibbling and sucking on that point where his neck became his shoulder and slid one of his hands lower, easily slipping under Harry's waistband and gripping the base of his erection with a firm hand. Harry gasped into his kiss with Hermione. She muffled his moan with her tongue.
Ron said into his ear: “I love you,” and Harry knew it was meant for him and Hermione equally.
“Me too,” he sighed, and Hermione said in the small space between their mouths: “I have always loved you,” and she reached behind Harry, bringing her torso into more contact with his, a soft, fleshy contact of breasts and belly, different from Ron's harder body. He felt her feeling around for Ron's cock and knew she had found it when Ron hissed.
Ron stroked Harry's cock irregularly, hindered in a sense by Hermione's hand, whose movements Harry could tell were confident – judging by Ron's breathing in Harry's ear she was doing quite well. Their position soon became awkward; Harry's knees started to hurt and Hermione's arm must have been aching too, reaching behind him like that. So he put his hands on her shoulder and pushed her flat on her back – Ron gave a grunt of disapproval at the loss of her hand, but as Harry leaned over her and tugged her pajama shorts down her hips, revealing white, sensible knickers Ron laughed, laid down next to her and quickly kicked off his own trousers. In the flame light Harry looked at both of them, lying next to each other. Ron's cock with the ginger hair at the base looked different than his own; Harry couldn't remember if he had ever seen it hard before. Hermione, spread out as she was, gleamed with a slight sheen of sweat in the light, her breasts were heavy, with small, dark nipples. Sitting before them he shook his head, not quite believing the utter hunger with which they both looked at him – he, who had always been envious of their connection, of their seemingly-predestined love...
Ron rolled over on his side, kissed Hermione and trailed a hand over her belly. He slipped his fingers over the cotton of her knickers, to which she gave a rather aggressive growl; Harry could see her bucking up to meet his fingers. His cock throbbed at the sight and he quickly got rid of his own pajama trousers – the sounds Hermione was producing made his head spin.
He just watched them for a while, breathing speeding up. Ron helped her to get her knickers off, and this, this was an entirely new sight for Harry. Her breasts he had seen during their stay in the tent a couple of times, but oh, Ron's fingers finding their way through the wiry, dark hair revealing a glistening pussy until she was moaning in earnest. She was moving against his hand, breasts trembling and Harry could tell Ron wasn't completely sure what to do, but he seemed to be doing okay.
“Ron,” she said, and then, “Harry,” so he got closer to them, uncertain. She laid a hand over Ron's fingers and guided them, showed him the rhythm she needed, and soon she was humming with pleasure – she stretched out a hand towards Harry, who took it and allowed her to pull him closer. He stroked her breasts and placed kisses against her jawline, where he felt the flutter of her pulse. Ron locked eyes with him, eyes so serious that it was almost unsettling. Sweat was gathering on his brow as he tried to keep up with Hermione's guiding hand. Harry licked her throat and experimentally bit down on the wet skin. The moan she rewarded him with pushed him to do it again, a bit harder. She tangled a hand in his hair. His cock was painfully hard as he nipped and bit a way down to one of her breasts; just as he grazed the nipple with his teeth she tensed up, let out a small cry and rode out the shocks of her orgasm against Ron's fingers. Harry caught sight of Ron's face, in awe, like he'd seen something terrifying or brilliant or maybe both.
Hermione came down with a sigh and laughed breathlessly, pulling both of them in for a sweaty, sticky hug. Harry, feeling drunker now than when they'd had the whiskey, had his head on her heaving chest, listening to her racing pulse slowing down. After a couple of seconds she acted though; she released them and sat up. She climbed over Ron, who quickly took her place in the middle. Harry glanced down at Ron's cock, which was weeping pre-come, and didn't waste too much time, feeling about ready to burst himself and moved his own erection directly against Ron's, who groaned in gratitude. “Yesss,” he hissed, before kissing Harry roughly, hungrily.
They both didn't exactly need a whole lot anymore, equally turned on by the long foreplay – Hermione's hands were fluttering from the one to the other, Harry could hear her kissing Ron's neck, then her fingers were on his nipple, tweaking it, then on his bum, oh, and Ron was rubbing his cock against his brilliantly, they broke the kiss only to pant into each other's mouths, breaths mingling, Firewhiskey, Hermione, each other, Hermione's hand was between their bellies, teasing, stroking, and then on their cocks as they rode against each other, her grip was exactly the steadiness they needed and biting his lip until he tasted blood Harry came all over her hand and Ron's cock, came so hard pain was mixed in with his pleasure, his hand on Ron's side probably causing a bruise, Ron groaned and pushed his forehead against Harry's roughly as he rode out his own orgasm in thrusts against Harry's stomach.
Hermione made an incoherent sound.
Harry and Ron grasped at each other in the afterglow, shoulders, hips; Harry's hand slipping across Ron's side to Hermione's body, pulling her even closer so Ron was trapped between them. There was a wetness on his cheeks and Harry thought for a moment Ron might be crying, and then he realised that it was really him, from the intensity of his orgasm, and of Ron and Hermione and their hands on him. Because this was exactly how it was, the three of them, Ron in the middle, because they were nothing without him, they were nothing without each other.
Their breathing slowed in unison.
“I love you,” Ron said unsteadily. “I love you too,” Harry and Hermione said together.
The flame had gone out, Harry realised – it had been out since Hermione had come, when her focus had slipped. The light in the tent was a pale green. It was morning out, he could hear birds.
Hermione pulled the covers from somewhere around their feet over them. Ron rolled onto his back as she did so, receiving her into the crook of his arm as Harry shifted too, putting his head on Ron's shoulder, his leg draped over a hip. Hermione settled in. Ron held them both, his breathing deep already. Harry sought Hermione's hand on Ron's stomach, found it, and intertwined his fingers with hers. She sighed a small sigh.
The tent was around them, they were together, in their private universe, where it was safe. Falling asleep, it felt like falling, falling through clouds.