10:34 AM
They cannot not visit Hermione in her prefects' room, with her up at all hours with scroll and ink and towers of books. They need the privacy. Harry floats through the days in glassy-eyed quiet. (They do not push-- all three are afraid of breaking him.) Ron is worried about his parents, his brothers, breathing the same air as Death Eaters. Hermione feels scuffed around the edges, brave but knowing her blood marks her for harm.
So she lets them in. She spreads her homework on the floor, and the boys study on the bed. The silvery cloak devours a bedpost.
For five years this hour has been their signal for sneaking and narrow escapes. Their bodies cannot help but thrum awake at midnight, primed for adventure. This time there's nowhere to go. The rules have tightened; their throats have tightened. It's too quiet, and this time someone might die. When Hermione dots her 'i' and rolls up the parchment, they don't leave.
The other boys cover for Harry and Ron. Had it been just one of them, they'd have jeered, but it's both, and everyone in Gryffindor House knows it's useless to pry the three apart. The War's coming, the whispers say, so they let them be. Harry might save them all. It's more than loyalty which compels them to do what they can for Harry. For the people who share his life, and his dangers. Selfishness goes a long way.
Up in Hermione's tower-top room, they are learning not to be selfish.
Ron is fidgety at first. It's not that he's scared of breaking the rules for a good cause. But as for the cause... Hermione's hair smells of roses, and she bites her lip. He has to look away every time. It's Harry who gets him to stay, shins knocking in the air as they sprawl on their stomachs. The boys murmur jokes and Quidditch stories over Hermione's head. She glares at them now and then, but her hand covers Harry's on the gold duvet. Harry is always shivering. This is their only chance to warm him.
They each kiss her cheeks when they leave.
* * *
"Er..."
Hermione looks up from her phalanx of notes. Harry has fallen asleep on Ron's shoulder.
"Poor dear," Hermione whispers. "Well and knackered." She gently tugs Harry's Charms exercises. Ron reaches over and helps lift Harry's limbs out of the way.
When she looks up again, the long, freckled arm is still draped over Harry's wide shoulders. Ron's cheeks are getting pink. She smiles, deftly plucking the eyeglasses off Harry's nose. "Stay here," she says.
"You sure?" Harry is breathing softly on Ron's skin.
"Yes."
When she has double-checked her Arithmancy, Hermione settles on the other side of Harry, on her back. Her hair cascades over the edge. Ron thinks he sees the same weariness in her eyes as his own.
She touches Ron's hand. "Are you comfortable?"
Ron can't answer. When they're out in the corridors, grabbing meals in the Great Hall, kicking shins under the desks, peering over books in the library, there's a routine. This isn't in the script.
It's so quiet. Harry's breathing softly. Ron doesn't like the look in her eyes, but he can't deny it. We almost lost him last time. There will be a next time.
Harry has always been their strong link, like a precious stone on a pendant. It's Hermione who's spotted the change. As the candlelight plays over Hermione's rich walnut hair, Ron meets her gaze and realizes that it's not just Harry anymore. Four years have ground them diamond hard; they are together or not at all.
They sleep on top of the sheets, and wake up warm.
* * *
The next night, it's Harry awake, and Hermione collapsed on his chest. It's been a rough day; she was nearly hexed trying to break up a duel among the second years.
The boys look at each other.
With large hands gone gentle, Ron pries off their shoes.
* * *
The third day is a Friday, and just as well. They spend their time in the common room, though it's a battle to get Hermione away from her History essay. The conversation shifts to Malfoy and his missing bodyguard.
"It's Crabbe, not Goyle," Harry says.
Dean snorts. "Malfoy looks unbalanced with just the one. Like he'll fall overboard any minute."
"He's been quiet this year, eh, Harry?" Says Ron. Maybe last year's hexes on Hogwarts Express had muzzled their resident tormentor.
"Malfoy? Yeah. But somehow that doesn't make me less paranoid."
Hermione doesn't say anything. She's asked Goyle about his friend (she's not a Gryffindor for nothing.) The boy just shook his head, and said, "Not around Draco." We don't talk about him anymore. She can't be sure if it's grief or ostracism. Both? Hulking bully that he is, she doubts Vincent Crabbe is dead, and hopes he's safe. If even the Death Eaters' families are worried, she is worried too.
She watches everyone now. Even her fellow Gryffindors.
Later, Ron is putting away his chess set when Hermione pops in the boys' dorm. "Coming?" she asks.
"Can't leave you alone with him," grins Ron, offering his arm. She takes it.
"Hm, can't have that." Hermione sighs, and kisses him on the cheek. "At least you two aren't as blessedly clueless as last year."
"We were not that clueless!" He opens the door.
"We sort of were, Ron." Harry is sprawled on the bed. Hermione hits his chest till he gets up.
"Now that you've noticed that I'm a girl, we're going to do this properly!" She pulls the sheets down and transfigures extra pillows. "You can change in the alcove."
Harry's about to say something when Ron comes over and ruffles his hair. He's always been taller than Harry. He's starting to turn from gangly to graceful, and his voice has changed. "Bossy," Ron complains at her.
"Practical," says Hermione. She looks at them, Harry leaning on Ron, Ron touching his shoulder.
"What are you thinking, Hermione?" Harry sits, grasps Ron's hand, takes Hermione's.
"Crabbe," she says. "Trust becoming a luxury, and not just for the Slytherins. The classes aren't enough to distract us, are they? Everyone knows the Ministry's hushing things up." She stops talking. They're not the precise words. This is war.
"We'll stay," declares Ron, at length.
"Bloody miraculous," laughs Harry, standing up and going for the alcove.
"What is, Harry? And don't throw your robes on the floor." She leans on Ron, lets him touch her hair.
"This is Hogwarts, not Beauxbatons. We're Brits. It's a wonder we can pat each other on the back and still look each other in the eye."
Ron laughs too, and Hermione giggles. She raises her wand to lock the door. "We'll do this properly," she says again.
They puppy-pile under her covers, laughing the laughter of weekend sleep, poking elbows and spitting out hair, till at last all is still.
This is love.
* * *
They know where it's leading, but they're in no hurry. It's better this way-- to have no secrets at night, and ease the separation by day. Hermione has fewer classes in common with the boys, and Harry is often called away for private training. Curfew is their time.
For one thing, Hermione muses, they actually finish their homework before breakfast.
When the door locks and the candles go out, they discover each other's secrets. Hermione has ticklish ankles. Ron knows two hundred limericks. Harry can touch his nose with his tongue. Lessons they can't learn in Hogsmeade over hot cider, because it's too dangerous to go out.
The boys stash extra toothbrushes and nightclothes in the bottom drawer. Hermione educates them on the finer points of a girl's wardrobe. Harry produces an enchanted die to determine bathroom order. There's the inevitable scene of showing hers, showing theirs, and they get the giggles out of their system. The shock of sudden warmth and tangled limbs becomes a familiar comfort.
Tonight: they've already commiserated over Potions take-home exams. The twins thought they saw a silver-pawed rat at the shop, and called the Ministry. Harry was nearly cornered in a hidden staircase by a pack of seventh year Slytherins.
"May I?" Harry says. Hermione is between them.
She nods. They all three listen to the sounds she makes, Harry's nimble fingers tracing the curves that weren't there before.
When she kisses Harry, Ron steadies her with hands on her waist. They draw closer.
"So tired," Hermione whispers.
"Shhh," Ron says.
* * *
Hermione comes back late to find Harry and Ron kissing in the alcove.
She's been called a Mudblood whore to her face today. The sight of them fills up that empty space she's carried since then. She knows better than to ask why. It's faster with boys, and they themselves might not know.
"Come to bed," she says. They startle, and she laughs. "Come on. It's warmer." She locks the door.
* * *
They hate it when they fight. Hermione's eyes prickle when the boys yell and shove. Ron mumbles under his breath and tries to joke when she glares at Harry. It's the worst for Harry, though, a tiny crack in the foundations of his world when Ron and Hermione snipe like fettered animals. His cupboard's far away, this time.
"We have to make rules," Harry says one night.
They're struck dumb by this. Even Harry looks surprised. Somehow it legitimizes the arrangement.
"All right," Hermione says slowly. She has no idea where to begin. Her hands fumble, wanting a book for this unknown language.
Ron stares at his slippers. "How about, whomever's fighting has to hug?" He blushes.
"Er," says Harry.
"My mum used to say that," Ron offers.
Hermione squeezes between them. They like having her on their laps, and she's grown to like it. Not clueless at all, this year. "We could try?"
Harry leans in, nuzzling her neck. "We've all three got horrid tempers."
"I've rubbed off, I see," grins Ron.
"You could say that, dear," says Hermione, and they chuckle. "We'll try it. Then we'll talk, all right? No stalking about with a stormcloud overhead."
Ron pokes Harry. "Yeah."
Harry sticks his tongue out and instantly they're knotted up again. It's not even time for bed.
She's so close that she knows Ron's cinnamon and clover, Harry's dirt and peppermint. Their hearts thud through her chest. "I don't understand," Hermione chokes out.
"Neither do we," Harry says, for all of them. "Can't be worse than out there, right?"
* * *
Harry doesn't like being the weak link. Part of him is still scared he's not a real wizard... that he'll fail his parents' legacy. The scar on his brow is a glorified bull's eye. Somehow he always falls short of fitting in.
He loves their bedtime routines. He could spend all evening curled up on Hermione's lap, or treated to Ron's backrubs, or just... grazing fingers, kissing shoulders, brushing ankles under the covers.
Some nights it's too much. He sits back and watches them kiss, thrilled that they're comfortable enough to let him see, terrified that he'll never be able to fit. Hermione bosses them as much as ever, her maturity giving her a bit more control. Ron is just glad to have something that's his: an affirmation of equality.
Harry doesn't know where to be.
Is he gay? Is he straight and experimenting? Is he bisexual? He feels the Muggle-ness of the words. Hermione's surety and Ron's enthusiasm stop him from asking.
They are quite lovely when they kiss. "Harry," Ron says, stroking her belly. "C'mon, mate."
There are millstones in his stomach. He gets up, grabs the cloak, and is out the door.
* * *
"Hey." Ron's awake when he returns. Hermione is curled up in bed, alone. "Walked it off?"
They sit in the alcove's window seat. The cloak has eaten up Harry's ankles, and he stares at the dented cushions under his invisible feet. "I guess."
"No stormclouds, she said." Ron's smile is a flash in the darkness, tinder catching in the night.
Harry leans on the cold panes. He can feel the wards pushing on the glass. "Is this normal?"
Ron is suddenly shy. Harry can tell by the way he scrubs at the hem of his shirt, lip worried between his teeth, and even the lines of his shoulders spelling out aw shucks. "Harry. I. Um, well, y'see, I'd wondered."
"Wondered." Ron glances up, and Harry imagines that his own body reads recognition.
"It... it didn't seem so bad. I mean. Well."
"Not a horrible thing to think," Harry adds, cheeks warming.
"Yes, but..."
"Didn't want to leave her out."
Ron grins, beatific, like the day they brained a mountain troll among the three of them. Harry's heart is certainly beating as fast as then.
"Ron, listen. This won't ruin us, right?" It's not a question. "The three of us, we'll be friends."
And there comes a moment when it's too much to bear: your best friend looking at you from across the window seat and sharing the knowledge that you'd die for him. A secret that tremendous could burst out and make the sun rise at midnight, but it's just them. Just Harry and Ron. They are terribly glad Hermione can share the enormity of it with them. (They suspect she has always known.)
It's a good thing they've figured out the nose thing already. Ron is more careful when he kisses Harry. But Harry is drowning fast, and he doesn't care about pedestals. Just Ron's lips and his long leg folded against him and the warmth of his hand on his right cheek, the cool of the window on his left.
Ron squeaks.
Harry has to laugh. "Didn't think I would, did you?"
He's red to match his hair, but he's digging through Harry's robes in a second. "C'mere, you."
"Nngh, it's not a Snitch--"
"Shut up, Harry Potter," says Ron, and Harry's nerves dissolve under his kiss. They scrabble and buck, learning to talk with different lips and tongues. Harry's glasses are getting smudged. Ron manages to nudge the precious cloak off the seat, and he rises, drawing closer, so that Harry tips up to kiss him.
It's glorious to feel so unashamed. They let their fingers do the exploring, the measuring, and their moans quaver softly with laughter. I give this to you. Interminable heat, enthralling rhythm, the shot of sparks which surely must be magic. Harry hugs Ron to him, overwhelmed. Ron turns his head; they glance at Hermione -- sleeping soundly -- and are suddenly glad to do this first with each other, all rough edges and boys' play.
So they don't hold back. Pumping fists and hard kisses, hips snapping up and down, all their lives on the tip of their tongues. They are both used to being quiet; all it takes is one escaped moan and they're breaking hold tight hold tight.
* * *
After, Harry rests his shoulder on Ron's chest. His back is against the wall. Ron's breathing on his forehead, inches from another kiss. Harry wipes his hand, reaches under the robes to stroke Ron's flank. Ron is so much taller, broad and long-limbed. It's dark and warm. Ron is a solid enclosure around him, and Harry thinks, this is what it means to be safe and needed. He didn't think it could happen at the same time.
He reckons it's all right for Ron to be the protector. It's taken him years to figure that.
And at last they cross those inches, and Ron's whispering something.
"Harry... Harry, I'm sorry, Harry."
"What?"
Arms squeeze tight. "I didn't know. I should have known. I am rich."
* * *
They nearly jump out of their socks when Hermione, half-asleep, points her wand at them. At bed-level.
"Immacula," she mumbles. Even with her eyes shut, the spell's just right.
Ron and Harry look at each other.
"...sh'nt dirt' the quil'..." says Hermione into her hair. "Feet cold," she adds, more distinctly.
They pull back her grandmother's quilt. They don't need to be told twice.
The criminality of Draco Malfoy had grown in the telling. If rumors were to be believed, he was a Death Eater, a master of disguise, a child murderer, a smuggler of illegal charms, a playboy, a kidnapper, cruel to animals and women -- an all around dastardly Pureblood, pure blond wizard. Only his age mates seemed to remember that he was a greasy git, the spoiled brat of Slytherin. The upperclassmen had regarded him as Lucius Malfoy's son; the lower years only comprehended that he and Harry Potter were rivals. It was too bad, in any case. As colorful as the rumors were, they all concluded with his messy demise.
Of all their classmates, only Harry knew that Draco was very much alive.
At the moment, he was stepping out of a Bierhaus in Düsseldorf, mellowed by the fine dark beer and the pleasant company. His jacket was slung over his shoulder, his white collar unbuttoned, and golden-brown hair loose. His eyes were the same, of course. Few glamours could conceal that Malfoy grey, and Draco had drawn the line at contact lenses. His companion, a Muggle named Erhardt, continued their conversation. "It's really unclear how many records were lost in the Dark Ages, Dag. And the Celtic roots, mein Gott, there's a missing link if I ever-- what is that?"
Draco looked up to see a snowy white owl perched on the centuries-old tavern sign. It flapped its wings, swinging a little.
"It's not an omen, is it?" Said Erhardt, laughing nervously. The light of passing cars caught in the bird's luminous eyes.
"Worse," muttered Draco. "Call a taxi, your wife must be worried. I'll send you the translation next week."
"Ah, she'll just be annoyed I interrupted her card party. Later, Dag."
"Later." Draco glared at the owl. "Just as bloody irritating as your master," he said in English. "Go on, over the rooftops. I'm across the river. Mind the wires. As much as I'd like to send Potter an early Christmas gift of roast bird."
Hedwig hooted at him derisively. Draco watched her take off before stepping into the shadows and Apparating.
Ten minutes later he shut the window, leaving Hedwig to hop around the perch-less flat. There was a long silence as the owl pecked at New Age sculptures and Stone Age artifacts. She wobbled over to the kitchen; she was a resourceful owl, and knew where there was sink, there was usually water. And cereal, since the man didn't seem interested in feeding her.
A string of expletives erupted from the living room, and Hedwig fluttered. She was well on her way to turning the tap when Draco stalked inside. "What the bloody hell is he playing at! And what are you doing?" He filled a water bowl, banging it on the counter in front of the owl. "This is a joke. This is a sodding joke, and let me tell you, you overgrown feather duster, it is not funny!"
Hedwig nipped his finger.
"Ow! Shite. It's got to be something else. Old Man probably wants me out in the open. Of course Potter would think it amusing to wind me up." Draco sighed. He'd just gotten used to the Muggle world, too. It was tacky and plebian and boring, but at least no one spit in his face because his father decided to be Evil. Hopefully Voldemort was wringing his neck in hell. Or maybe Mother was doing it for him.
He picked up the phone to make plane reservations. Muggle travel, while noisome and inconvenient, allowed him time to think. "There goes the dinner party with the Schillers. And the Volmehang trip. If the Eaters hold a vampiric bacchanal there, it won't be my fault. So this had better be good."
* * *
"Give it to me!" The girl's voice echoed shrilly down the corridor.
"Poor little Malfoy, your daddy's not here to save you," crowed a male voice.
In the adjacent classroom, Harry stopped in mid-lecture. "Wendy, please read the next chapter sections out loud. Bran, take off points for disruptions. I'll be right back."
The students stared at him, bemused, as he opened the door and stepped out.
"My father's Bert Nichols! I don't know what you're talking about, now give it here!" Ophelia Malfoy was alternately squirming out of her assailant's grasp and trying to hit him. The onlookers were doing nothing to help.
"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Merrick," Harry said coldly. Everyone froze. The boy, a tall Third Year, had Ophelia's wand over her head. "Return it. And apologize."
"Professor, sir, we were just goofing around--"
"And I," Harry said, stepping up to the boy, red gloves drumming on his arm, "am tempted to snap your wand for such vile misbehavior. By a Gryffindor."
A crowd was beginning to gather; they were mostly upperclassmen who had free hours. "Here. Sorry," bit out Merrick. "Miss Malfoy."
Harry nearly laughed at her haughty glare. How many times had he faced off against that self-same expression of loathing?
The look on Merrick's face was more unsettling. Harry pitched his voice so the whole crowd could hear. "All the honors heaped on Gryffindor House do not give you license to bully those weaker than you. Those honors were dearly bought." Red gloves clenched, and everyone held their breath. What Harry had personally paid went without saying. "You are in your third year. Miss Malfoy has only been here for two weeks. She's got more courage than a pack of you, and she's a Slytherin. Reflect on that, if you would, Mr. Merrick."
Merrick gulped. Being told off by the Hero of the Wizarding World would be nothing to owl home about. "Yes, sir."
Harry nodded, and looked around. "Don't you all have some place to be!" The crowd churned into motion again.
Ophelia picked up her books. Throughout the speech, she'd stood silently, her bright hair standing out as vividly as a Weasley's. When she brushed past Harry, he heard her say, "Stupid meddler."
He sighed. Of course a Malfoy would be too proud to take a favor from the likes of him. He reentered the classroom as Wendy finished reading. "Any questions?"
* * *
The clatter of changing noticeboards roused Draco from his thoughts. Having spelled his baggage tiny and glamoured the cage with Potter's owl into a decidedly silent carry-on bag, he crossed the terminal to line up at his gate.
Draco Malfoy, passing for a Muggle. How my dear housemates would have laughed.
It wasn't that Draco had abandoned all prejudice, as replaced old ones with new. The Muggles had a better word for Pureblood: aristocrat. The landed gentry, the wealthy elite. Draco found the new dichotomy more apt, what with utter pillocks like Weasley claiming purity. These days Draco allowed that Muggle-born wizards could marry their way in, especially if they had better manners than their Pureblood counterparts. His years in the upper echelon of the wizarding world had introduced him to all sorts of purebred prats, not the least of whom was that imbecile Voldemort. And he had a strong suspicion that the Evil Which Would Not Die But For Well-Armed Orphan Boys hadn't been as pure as the rest of them.
A pity that his father had kicked him out of the aristocracy not two months before the War.
By the time Draco had gotten over the injustice of it -- just because he'd rather take his N.E.W.T.s than wash his hands with blood! -- he and the rest of Hogwarts were experiencing the stark horrors and brutalities of war, firsthand. And like everyone else who survived that year, he'd grown up.
Though he'd taken some spectacular risks for the 'good' side, his actions were only enough to ensure the wrath of the remaining Death Eaters. Not quite enough to earn him any public accolades. On the hit list of numerous homicidal maniacs, shunned by the greater part of society, Draco concluded:
Aristocracy was boring. And unsafe.
On a calm, clear day, the spent magic and burning flesh still heavy in the air, he'd stood upon the Scottish heath and made a deal with Harry Potter.
Running while the running's good, Draco? Not Malfoy. Malfoy was his father, and Draco didn't ask what else Lucius had done to Harry.
You know me too well, Potter. Not everyone's a Gryffindor. Better a coward than a corpse.
After a life of being spoiled silly, he'd itched for a challenge, and the Muggle world was just that. After all, everyone knew the really worthy scions larked about in their youth before settling down to their duties. Malfoy Manor and all the ancestral lands were being held by Gringotts pending his triumphant return.
"Ah... first class seats. Don't say I never did anything for you," Draco murmured, thumping his 'rucksack.' He sat back, feeling almost as self-satisfied as he looked. So what if the world thought he was dead? He had wealth, land, and good breeding. No power yet, but that was for the taking.
And yet... He had gotten used to working for a living. His natural ruthlessness and social acumen had carved him a place in Muggle high society. If only for the novelty of having earned something, he couldn't give that up. There too was the constant reminder of his dead parents, who had been his universe for so long that it still ached to think of them, much less walk the halls and cobbled streets of his childhood. So here he was, twelve years later, still serving as Snape's eyes and ears on the Continent.
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