![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hp fic: Full Circle
Title: Full Circle
Pairing: Harry/Ron/Draco (and permutations), Harry/Ron/Draco/Hermione, implied Ron/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Words: 4140
Warnings: Threesome. Foursome. Voyuerism. General shady behavior.
A/N: Much love to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thysanotus, happiestwhen and darkasphodel. Also, apologies to darkasphodel for the Ron/Draco.
Full Circle
::
I. Ron
Ron hates that Harry cannot sleep. He hates that Harry is afraid to sleep, hates that there isn't anything he can do about it.
He can hear Harry on the other side of the room, hear the sharp rustle of bed linens as Harry tosses and turns. He can hear Harry's desperate sounds, half-moans half-cries, the sounds of someone trapped inside a nightmare.
He wishes he could wake Harry, but he knows he can't. There's no rousing Harry when these things take him. Ron will just have to wait it out, let every noise Harry makes cut through him like a knife because there is nothing he can do.
Suddenly, Harry quiets, stills. Ron sighs with relief, and waits.
Harry pulls back Ron's bed curtains with a soft splash of moonlight. Ron can barely make him out, but he already knows what Harry looks like. He knows Harry has wild eyes and a tightly set jaw, knows Harry's hair is sweaty and plastered to his forehead.
Ron moves over and tosses back the covers. Harry climbs in without a word.
"Nightmare?" Ron asks.
Harry nods, and makes a small noise of agreement. He doesn't explain, and Ron is glad. He knows if Harry tells him he will only have nightmares of his own.
His back is pressed along Ron's side, Ron can feel him shaking, shaking with the soft, silent sobs of someone who has no more tears left. Ron strokes a hand through Harry's hair, but he's silent, wordless. He has run out of words in the same way Harry's run of out tears. They might be there, somewhere, deep down inside, but they are hidden, and Ron no longer has the energy to look.
It's probably better he doesn't speak, because things like it was only a dream and it will get better are nothing but lies, and Harry doesn't need anymore lies.
He shifts, turning until he is stretched out against Harry, his arm curled around Harry's waist. He buries his face in the curve of Harry's neck, smelling sleep and sweat and boy, and lets his hand slip under Harry's shirt to wander his chest and stomach.
Ron smoothes Harry's skin until Harry relaxes, until Harry's body stops shaking and his breathing evens out. His lips move over Harry neck and shoulder, and Harry melts against him, and when Ron's fingertips trace one of Harry's nipples, Harry makes a small, contented noise.
"You don't have to do this," Harry mumbles, when Ron tugs at the waistband of his pajamas.
"No, I don't."
He doesn't, and he shouldn't. But he wants to, because it's Harry.
He pushes Harry back against the pillows and kisses him, nudging Harry's mouth open with the tip of his tongue. His thoughts drift briefly to Hermione, and for a moment, Harry tastes like guilt. But he shoves it away, ignores the dull ache in his chest, because he knows Hermione would understand.
Harry's hands are sweaty, warm. They shake slightly as they move over Ron's body, over his chest and back and sides. He arches off the bed when Ron's fingers curl around his cock, and he half-moans half-cries into Ron's mouth, different from the sounds he made during his nightmare, but just barely.
He strokes Harry hard and fast, an erratic rhythm that Harry rocks his hips to meet. Harry pulls Ron closer with one hand, his fingernails digging sharp and sweet, and he finds Ron's cock with the other, matching Ron's pace. Then there is nothing but the two of them, nothing but the rough slide of skin against skin and the heavy tug of release.
Ron comes quietly, his hitched breaths hidden inside Harry's mouth and along the line of Harry's jaw. He twists his wrist, sliding his hand up the length of Harry's cock and Harry gasps, his body going tense and his eyes fluttering closed.
He pulls back and watches, watches Harry's face as he comes warm and thick between their bodies, and he wonders who Harry is thinking about, wonders if Harry is thinking about Malfoy.
Ron can't figure out Harry and Malfoy, but he knows there is no point in trying. It's just something Harry does sometimes, and Ron knows Harry doesn't understand why he does it anymore than he does.
II. Harry
After dinner, he tells Ron and Hermione he is going for a walk. They murmur in agreement, ostensibly wrapped up in their game of chess, but he can feel their eyes on him as he slips through the portrait hole.
The castle is practically empty, but Harry feels naked, exposed, and he wishes he'd taken his cloak. He doesn't need it; it's well before curfew and he's not breaking any rules, but the cloak lends a sense of security he only feels when he's in Dumbledore's office or curled up in Ron's bed.
He wanders, down stairs and through corridors, with no mind to where he is going. He only stops because he's come to a dead end, and when he finally looks around, he's only half-surprised that his feet have brought him to Slytherin.
The blank section of stone is the door to the Slytherin common room, and Harry knocks by kicking it. The sound of his foot hitting the stone echoes through the hallway, as dull and damp as the wall itself.
He waits. He hears shuffling on the other side of the wall, distant and muted behind the heavy stone. The door slides opens slowly, like the ancient thing it is, with the grating scrape of stone against stone.
He's greeted by a third-year Slytherin girl whose name he can't remember. She gives him a flat look, but gestures him inside, and she returns to the schoolwork she has spread all across one of the couches as soon as the door creaks shut. She's studying with a friend, a girl Harry thinks is in Ravenclaw, and neither of them watch him as he heads towards the dorms.
He's down here often enough that it no longer causes comment, and there are more important things to worry about, anyway. Hogwarts has changed since the war started; students have disappeared and students have died. People have stopped thinking their friends have to be from their house. The Slytherins especially, since there are so few of them left.
Harry opens the door to Draco's dorm without knocking. Draco is sitting on his bed with a textbook in his lap, and there is a Zabini-shaped lump in the bed along the far wall. Draco looks up when Harry walks in, favoring him with a flat look, but he turns his attention back to his textbook without speaking. Harry sits on the edge of the bed, watching Draco's eyes move back and forth as he reads.
He doesn't look around the dorm, because he doesn't want to see the emptiness. Crabbe, Goyle and Nott disappeared right after the war started. No one mentions it, but there is little question as to where they went or what they are doing. Zabini remained, but he is different now. He's confused and disconnected during classes, and he spends most of his free time sleeping.
Harry often wonders why Draco stayed, but he's never asked, and Draco has never offered. All he knows is that it was Draco's choice, not his father's, and he only knows this much because Draco received a Howler the morning after the others left.
"You weren't at dinner," Draco says finally, his eyes still on his book.
"I wasn't hungry," Harry replies.
Draco sniffs, and gives Harry a long, appraising look before shutting his book with a snap.
"You're not sleeping," Draco observes.
"I am," Harry insists, but it's weak. He knows the dark circles under his eyes tell a different story.
Draco sighs heavily, and opens his mouth, but Harry kisses him before he has the chance to start talking. Harry doesn't want words; he hasn't wanted words for quite some time. Words will not fix anything, and they will not change anything.
The book falls to the floor when Draco pulls him closer. It's a heavy, leaden sound, but Zabini doesn't wake, and they don't bother to close the curtains or cast a silencing charm, because he won't. They learned weeks ago that Zabini sleeps like the dead.
Harry sometimes thinks Zabini is dead. He thinks maybe they all are, and they've just been too busy living in fear to notice.
Draco is different that Ron, different in many ways. He's paler and thinner, and his mouth is smaller and his hands are colder. His touches wake Harry's body the same way Ron's do, but Ron's are almost careful, where Draco's are automatic, routine.
He's not quite ready when Draco pushes inside him, but he welcomes the slight burn and stretch, loves the sudden fullness. It's a sharp contrast from the usual numbness, from the empty feeling that has been swallowing him whole since the first attack on Hogsmeade.
Draco fucks him with long, slow thrusts, with his tongue in Harry's mouth and his hand around Harry's cock. It's too much sensation after so much nothing, and Harry comes quickly, arching up into Draco and spilling over his fingers. Draco thrusts through it, his free hand digging into Harry's hip, gasping softly as Harry's body clenches around him and drags him over the edge.
A long silences follows, which Draco fills with by fiddling with his clothes and casting a series of cleaning spells. Harry watches him quietly, and he doesn't move until Draco hands him his trousers. He stands up long enough to pull them on, then curls up on the bed.
"You staying here, then?" Draco asks.
Harry shrugs.
Draco tosses him a pillow, and casts a sharp Nox.
III. Draco
Draco became the only Slytherin prefect the night Pansy left to fight Voldemort's war.
There was talk of redistributing her rounds between the other prefects, but Draco had refused. He now walks Pansy's rounds as well as his own, not out of duty or a sense of Slytherin loyalty, but because it gives him something to do.
He's going mad, trapped inside the castle.
He can't remember the last time he was outside. Hogsmeade weekends were the first to be canceled, then Quidditch. Care of Magical Creatures is now held in a classroom on the third floor, and they learn about unicorns and thestrals from textbooks and the illegible notes Hagrid writes on the board. Every day, the sun rises and sets, and Draco never sees it, save through the fogged glass of the castle windows.
Tonight, Draco's rounds are on the first floor, on the other side of the castle from Slytherin. He's glad to be walking a different area, glad he can look at something besides the same corridors around the dungeons he sees every day.
It doesn't really matter; he's still inside Hogwarts, still breathing the same, stale air from yesterday, last week, last month. Sometimes he thinks Zabini might have the right idea, thinks maybe he should just go to sleep until it is all over, and spend his few waking hours pretending nothing has changed.
But he can't, and he knows that. He knows if he does that tonight, it would be too easy to do it every night.
He turns the corner, and finds Weasley loitering at the foot of the steps to Gryffindor Tower. Several weeks ago, he would have jumped at the chance to give Weasley detention for the rest of his natural life. Now, he's tempted to turn around and pretend he didn't see anything, because if he does, he won't have to talk to Weasley.
Talking to Weasley will only put him in the mood for a fight, and fighting with Weasley lost it's spark the day he realized Weasley's father was no better or worse a person than his own.
Draco decides to leave Weasley alone, but just as he starts to turn, Weasley notices him. Weasley frowns, his lips set in a thin line, and his face darkens. He studies Draco for a long moment, opening and closing his mouth like he's arguing with himself.
"Weasley," Draco says finally.
"Malfoy," Weasley says. He hesitates, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Have you seen Harry?"
"Why would I have seen Potter?"
Weasley gives him a flat look, a look so impatient and withering he could have stolen it off of Granger's face. It says Weasley knows, knows exactly where Harry sleeps when Harry isn't sleeping with him, and Draco is not sure he likes that. Draco feels a sharp reply coming, but he looks at Weasley's face again and swallows it, because underneath it all, he can see that Weasley is genuinely concerned.
"Not since this morning," Draco admits. "He was still asleep when I left for Arithmancy."
"And you just left him?" Weasley growls.
"Of course I did," Draco says. "He looked like he hadn't slept in a week."
"He hasn't been to any classes all day."
"That's not my problem," Draco snaps. "Potter is not my problem."
"The Hell he's not." Ron replies, stepping towards him.
"Potter is only my problem when you are too busy with Granger to make him your problem."
Weasley's eyes go wide at that, and Draco smiles.
"I've always wondered, how does Granger feel about that? Or have you not told her?"
"I don't know why he bothers with you," Ron says quietly.
"I don't know why he bothers with you, other than you're convenient."
Weasley growls again, and his arm flies out. Draco braces himself, but Weasley doesn't hit him, he grabs a handful of Draco's sleeve and yanks him forward. Weasley's tongue is in Draco's mouth before he can shout or push him away, and he's hard when Weasley shoves a hand between them to cup his cock through his trousers.
Draco doesn't want this, not from Weasley, because he hates Weasley, because he wants Potter and Weasley has Potter. Ron's tongue is hot and slick as it traces his lips and teeth, and when it slides against his own, Draco wonders if he's tasting Weasley, or Potter. That thought is enough to make him jerk away, but Weasley doesn't let him, Weasley tightens his grip Draco's shirt and moves a broad hand around to wrench Draco closer by the arse.
He doesn't feel Weasley turn them around, but suddenly there is a wall behind him, cold stone as hard as the cock digging into his thigh. Weasley starts to move, rocking and thrusting against him, his mouth blazing a wet trail over Draco's jaw and down his neck, and despite himself, despite everything, Draco starts to move as well. He tilts his head back to give Weasley's lips and tongue better access, and grinds his cock into Weasley's hip.
It's a strange rush when Weasley shudders against him, knowing that he's making Weasley come, and he wonders what Weasley looks like when Potter makes him come, if he makes the same noise, the same face, if he shudders the same way. But Weasley's teeth sink into the soft spot at the curve of his neck, and all thoughts of Potter flee, chased away by the rush of heat flooding through his body.
And when he comes, gasping and shaking, he's not thinking of Potter, and he thinks Weasley knows it.
IV. Hermione
All things considered, she's not surprised.
It almost makes sense, in a way. Things have a habit of coming full circle, and as she looks at them, at Ron's mouth on Harry's neck and Harry's hand on Malfoy's cock and Malfoy's fingers tangled in Ron's hair, that's exactly what she sees: a circle.
She should be upset, because Ron's only supposed to be with her, but she's not. What Ron and Harry do is only a secret in the loosest sense of the word; they never talk about it, but it's there to see for anyone who looks. It's visible in the way they sit a bit too close together, the way Ron's hand will linger on Harry's arm or back when they are walking to class, the way Harry will sometimes fall asleep in his own bed and wake up in Ron's.
It was always there, and Hermione had always seen it. She had known long before she'd ever given Ron a date.
Harry and Malfoy had been harder to figure out. They didn't talk about it, and neither did anyone else, but eventually, Hermione had caught on. Over time, she'd noticed that Malfoy's sharp remarks had lost their true rancor, and that Harry's reactions had grown automatic and forced.
She can't help but stare as Malfoy's tongue slides into Ron's mouth, because that's certainly new. She wouldn't believe it, if it wasn't for Harry, but Harry's there between them, and together, they make a circle.
Harry is why she's not upset, why she understands. She knows they all belong to Harry, even Malfoy, even her.
They are beautiful together, all smooth skin and long legs and reaching arms. And they are so different, red and black and blond, yet complementary, Ron tanned and freckled, Malfoy pale and white, and Harry somewhere in-between.
The acoustics in the Room of Requirement are strange; they didn't hear her come in, but she can hear every sound they make. She can hear all of Malfoy's gasps and all of Harry's hitched breaths, she can hear every filthy thing Ron whispers in Harry's ear.
Of course, the Room of Requirement is accommodating, it always has been. It anticipated their needs with the overlarge bed in the center of the room the same way it aided her sneaking and spying with silence and a heavy shadow by the door. And it knew she would be curious, which is why the light grew a bit brighter when she walked in, why it's now handing her every whimper and hiss and moan.
She knows she should go, she knows she should leave them to have their private moment without prying eyes, but she can't seem to make herself move. She can't stop watching Ron's hands and Harry's mouth and Malfoy's arse, and she tells herself she's staying because they will hear her leave, not because of the sudden rush of heat between her legs.
Malfoy leans in, kissing Ron over Harry's shoulder, and Ron's hands come up, one reaching across Harry to rest on Malfoy's waist, the other snagging in his hair. Harry arches back against Ron, his head dropping back on Ron's shoulder, his eyes sliding closed. The slight shift of Malfoy's arm says he's stroking Harry's cock, and she can picture it, Malfoy's pale fingers curling around it and pulling slowly.
She swallows the moan building in her throat, fisting the material of her skirt between her fingers to keep them from straying. She wants to so badly, she knows just a few light touches would have her shuddering against her own hand, but she can't risk it, she knows they would hear her, no matter what she begged the room to do.
Malfoy drops to his knees, a smooth, fluid motion, and she gets a brief glimpse of Harry's cock before it disappears into Malfoy's mouth. Ron turns Harry's face towards him and kisses him, his tongue pushing into Harry's mouth with a soft, wet noise. He's rocking against Harry's body slowly, steadily, and Hermione can picture it, Ron's cock trapped between them, hard and aching, pushing against Harry's arse for friction, release.
She can't help it; she moans then, choked and broken, trapped in the back of her throat. It's soft, quiet, but the room betrays her, amplifying it until it bounces off the walls. They jerk apart, Harry's cock slipping out of Malfoy's mouth as he turns, Ron's lips leaving Harry's as he looks up. Harry's eyes fly open, wide and wild, and they follow Hermione warily as she walks towards them.
The sudden silence is deafening, unnerving, and as she draws near, she can see the frantic, desperate reaching of their thoughts. She can see Malfoy looking for a reason and Ron looking for an excuse, she can see Harry looking for a means of escape. She knows they are waiting for her to say something, but she doesn't trust herself to speak, so she answers the questions in their eyes by drawing down her zip and letting her skirt fall to the floor.
They have her naked and on the bed before she can blink, without exchanging a single word. And then they are everywhere, a tongue in her mouth and hands on her breasts and fingers sliding inside her. It's too much to think about, too much all at once, and when she comes, shuddering underneath them, she can't remember how to breathe.
The bed dips, creaks, and then she hears the soft sounds of kissing, wet and slick, and the rasp of skin against skin. She opens her eyes when she feels hands on her waist, and it's Ron, lifting her, turning her back to Harry and sliding her down on his cock.
She almost can't wrap her head around that, around Harry, her best friend, her boyfriend's best friend, hard and thick inside her. His mouth is on her neck, licking and sucking, and she wants to move, but his hands are at her waist, holding her still.
Malfoy moves towards her, crawling across the bed on his hands and knees, and then he's kissing her, and she wonders why she never thought of kissing Malfoy before. His mouth his hot and wet and perfect, and he nips and sucks at her lower lip like he's been watching Ron kiss her in the halls.
She hears a murmured spell, and Malfoy jerks against her, his lips leaving her abruptly. She looks over Malfoy's shoulder, her breath catching as Ron's fingers disappear inside him. He sags forward, his soft gasps playing across her neck as Ron's works his fingers in and out, and she watches, her mouth hanging open, a new wave of heat and arousal washing over her.
The noise Malfoy makes when Ron's cock pushes inside him rushes straight between her legs, hot and dangerous. Then Harry starts to move, lifting her up and thrusting into her, filling her, and she tangles her hands in Malfoy's hair to keep herself grounded, to keep herself from flying off the bed.
But Malfoy won't stay still, his mouth is everywhere, over her neck and shoulders and down her chest. He toys with nipples, teasing one with his fingers, circling the other with his tongue before wrapping his lips around it. Then he laves a wet trail down her belly, before bracing himself on his elbows and pulling her open with his fingers.
His tongue flicks over her clit and she screams, arching back against Harry, her fingers tightening in Malfoy's hair. Harry thrusts into her hard, his hands moving to her breasts, his fingers playing over her nipples.
She can't stop watching Ron, watching the way his cock moves in and out of Malfoy's arse. He matches his rhythm to Harry's; pushing into Malfoy when Harry rocks up into her, and each of their thrusts pushes her harder against Malfoy's mouth.
Malfoy's tongue circles and teases her clit until she's so close she can almost touch it, then he dips down, tasting Harry's cock as it disappears inside her. She whines, yanking on Malfoy's hair, and when he moves back up he wraps his lips around her clit and sucks.
She comes violently, gasping and shaking, pleasure crashing over her in sharp waves. Her body ripples around Harry, clutching and pulling, and Harry stills, coming inside her in a white, hot rush.
Ron pulls Malfoy back, thrusting hard as he reaches around to fist Malfoy's cock. They come within moments of each other, Ron's head falling onto Malfoy's shoulder just as Malfoy spurts hot and thick over his hand.
Silence comes as soon as she can breathe again, this time uncomfortable. Ron is worrying his lower lip between his teeth and Malfoy is casting furtive glances all around. She glances at Harry as she crawls off of him, and she catches him doing his best not to look at her and Ron and Malfoy.
"Tomorrow," She says firmly, reaching for a pillow. "We can talk about it tomorrow."
Ron nods to himself, then moves towards her, stretching out behind her and curling around her. He smooths his hands over her body, each brush of his fingers an apology.
"It'll be fine," She says, twisting her head to kiss him. "Everything will be fine."
Behind them, she can hear Harry and Malfoy kissing.
"Yeah," Ron says, against her neck. "Maybe it will."
FIN
J
Pairing: Harry/Ron/Draco (and permutations), Harry/Ron/Draco/Hermione, implied Ron/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Words: 4140
Warnings: Threesome. Foursome. Voyuerism. General shady behavior.
A/N: Much love to
thysanotus, happiestwhen and darkasphodel. Also, apologies to darkasphodel for the Ron/Draco.::
I. Ron
Ron hates that Harry cannot sleep. He hates that Harry is afraid to sleep, hates that there isn't anything he can do about it.
He can hear Harry on the other side of the room, hear the sharp rustle of bed linens as Harry tosses and turns. He can hear Harry's desperate sounds, half-moans half-cries, the sounds of someone trapped inside a nightmare.
He wishes he could wake Harry, but he knows he can't. There's no rousing Harry when these things take him. Ron will just have to wait it out, let every noise Harry makes cut through him like a knife because there is nothing he can do.
Suddenly, Harry quiets, stills. Ron sighs with relief, and waits.
Harry pulls back Ron's bed curtains with a soft splash of moonlight. Ron can barely make him out, but he already knows what Harry looks like. He knows Harry has wild eyes and a tightly set jaw, knows Harry's hair is sweaty and plastered to his forehead.
Ron moves over and tosses back the covers. Harry climbs in without a word.
"Nightmare?" Ron asks.
Harry nods, and makes a small noise of agreement. He doesn't explain, and Ron is glad. He knows if Harry tells him he will only have nightmares of his own.
His back is pressed along Ron's side, Ron can feel him shaking, shaking with the soft, silent sobs of someone who has no more tears left. Ron strokes a hand through Harry's hair, but he's silent, wordless. He has run out of words in the same way Harry's run of out tears. They might be there, somewhere, deep down inside, but they are hidden, and Ron no longer has the energy to look.
It's probably better he doesn't speak, because things like it was only a dream and it will get better are nothing but lies, and Harry doesn't need anymore lies.
He shifts, turning until he is stretched out against Harry, his arm curled around Harry's waist. He buries his face in the curve of Harry's neck, smelling sleep and sweat and boy, and lets his hand slip under Harry's shirt to wander his chest and stomach.
Ron smoothes Harry's skin until Harry relaxes, until Harry's body stops shaking and his breathing evens out. His lips move over Harry neck and shoulder, and Harry melts against him, and when Ron's fingertips trace one of Harry's nipples, Harry makes a small, contented noise.
"You don't have to do this," Harry mumbles, when Ron tugs at the waistband of his pajamas.
"No, I don't."
He doesn't, and he shouldn't. But he wants to, because it's Harry.
He pushes Harry back against the pillows and kisses him, nudging Harry's mouth open with the tip of his tongue. His thoughts drift briefly to Hermione, and for a moment, Harry tastes like guilt. But he shoves it away, ignores the dull ache in his chest, because he knows Hermione would understand.
Harry's hands are sweaty, warm. They shake slightly as they move over Ron's body, over his chest and back and sides. He arches off the bed when Ron's fingers curl around his cock, and he half-moans half-cries into Ron's mouth, different from the sounds he made during his nightmare, but just barely.
He strokes Harry hard and fast, an erratic rhythm that Harry rocks his hips to meet. Harry pulls Ron closer with one hand, his fingernails digging sharp and sweet, and he finds Ron's cock with the other, matching Ron's pace. Then there is nothing but the two of them, nothing but the rough slide of skin against skin and the heavy tug of release.
Ron comes quietly, his hitched breaths hidden inside Harry's mouth and along the line of Harry's jaw. He twists his wrist, sliding his hand up the length of Harry's cock and Harry gasps, his body going tense and his eyes fluttering closed.
He pulls back and watches, watches Harry's face as he comes warm and thick between their bodies, and he wonders who Harry is thinking about, wonders if Harry is thinking about Malfoy.
Ron can't figure out Harry and Malfoy, but he knows there is no point in trying. It's just something Harry does sometimes, and Ron knows Harry doesn't understand why he does it anymore than he does.
II. Harry
After dinner, he tells Ron and Hermione he is going for a walk. They murmur in agreement, ostensibly wrapped up in their game of chess, but he can feel their eyes on him as he slips through the portrait hole.
The castle is practically empty, but Harry feels naked, exposed, and he wishes he'd taken his cloak. He doesn't need it; it's well before curfew and he's not breaking any rules, but the cloak lends a sense of security he only feels when he's in Dumbledore's office or curled up in Ron's bed.
He wanders, down stairs and through corridors, with no mind to where he is going. He only stops because he's come to a dead end, and when he finally looks around, he's only half-surprised that his feet have brought him to Slytherin.
The blank section of stone is the door to the Slytherin common room, and Harry knocks by kicking it. The sound of his foot hitting the stone echoes through the hallway, as dull and damp as the wall itself.
He waits. He hears shuffling on the other side of the wall, distant and muted behind the heavy stone. The door slides opens slowly, like the ancient thing it is, with the grating scrape of stone against stone.
He's greeted by a third-year Slytherin girl whose name he can't remember. She gives him a flat look, but gestures him inside, and she returns to the schoolwork she has spread all across one of the couches as soon as the door creaks shut. She's studying with a friend, a girl Harry thinks is in Ravenclaw, and neither of them watch him as he heads towards the dorms.
He's down here often enough that it no longer causes comment, and there are more important things to worry about, anyway. Hogwarts has changed since the war started; students have disappeared and students have died. People have stopped thinking their friends have to be from their house. The Slytherins especially, since there are so few of them left.
Harry opens the door to Draco's dorm without knocking. Draco is sitting on his bed with a textbook in his lap, and there is a Zabini-shaped lump in the bed along the far wall. Draco looks up when Harry walks in, favoring him with a flat look, but he turns his attention back to his textbook without speaking. Harry sits on the edge of the bed, watching Draco's eyes move back and forth as he reads.
He doesn't look around the dorm, because he doesn't want to see the emptiness. Crabbe, Goyle and Nott disappeared right after the war started. No one mentions it, but there is little question as to where they went or what they are doing. Zabini remained, but he is different now. He's confused and disconnected during classes, and he spends most of his free time sleeping.
Harry often wonders why Draco stayed, but he's never asked, and Draco has never offered. All he knows is that it was Draco's choice, not his father's, and he only knows this much because Draco received a Howler the morning after the others left.
"You weren't at dinner," Draco says finally, his eyes still on his book.
"I wasn't hungry," Harry replies.
Draco sniffs, and gives Harry a long, appraising look before shutting his book with a snap.
"You're not sleeping," Draco observes.
"I am," Harry insists, but it's weak. He knows the dark circles under his eyes tell a different story.
Draco sighs heavily, and opens his mouth, but Harry kisses him before he has the chance to start talking. Harry doesn't want words; he hasn't wanted words for quite some time. Words will not fix anything, and they will not change anything.
The book falls to the floor when Draco pulls him closer. It's a heavy, leaden sound, but Zabini doesn't wake, and they don't bother to close the curtains or cast a silencing charm, because he won't. They learned weeks ago that Zabini sleeps like the dead.
Harry sometimes thinks Zabini is dead. He thinks maybe they all are, and they've just been too busy living in fear to notice.
Draco is different that Ron, different in many ways. He's paler and thinner, and his mouth is smaller and his hands are colder. His touches wake Harry's body the same way Ron's do, but Ron's are almost careful, where Draco's are automatic, routine.
He's not quite ready when Draco pushes inside him, but he welcomes the slight burn and stretch, loves the sudden fullness. It's a sharp contrast from the usual numbness, from the empty feeling that has been swallowing him whole since the first attack on Hogsmeade.
Draco fucks him with long, slow thrusts, with his tongue in Harry's mouth and his hand around Harry's cock. It's too much sensation after so much nothing, and Harry comes quickly, arching up into Draco and spilling over his fingers. Draco thrusts through it, his free hand digging into Harry's hip, gasping softly as Harry's body clenches around him and drags him over the edge.
A long silences follows, which Draco fills with by fiddling with his clothes and casting a series of cleaning spells. Harry watches him quietly, and he doesn't move until Draco hands him his trousers. He stands up long enough to pull them on, then curls up on the bed.
"You staying here, then?" Draco asks.
Harry shrugs.
Draco tosses him a pillow, and casts a sharp Nox.
III. Draco
Draco became the only Slytherin prefect the night Pansy left to fight Voldemort's war.
There was talk of redistributing her rounds between the other prefects, but Draco had refused. He now walks Pansy's rounds as well as his own, not out of duty or a sense of Slytherin loyalty, but because it gives him something to do.
He's going mad, trapped inside the castle.
He can't remember the last time he was outside. Hogsmeade weekends were the first to be canceled, then Quidditch. Care of Magical Creatures is now held in a classroom on the third floor, and they learn about unicorns and thestrals from textbooks and the illegible notes Hagrid writes on the board. Every day, the sun rises and sets, and Draco never sees it, save through the fogged glass of the castle windows.
Tonight, Draco's rounds are on the first floor, on the other side of the castle from Slytherin. He's glad to be walking a different area, glad he can look at something besides the same corridors around the dungeons he sees every day.
It doesn't really matter; he's still inside Hogwarts, still breathing the same, stale air from yesterday, last week, last month. Sometimes he thinks Zabini might have the right idea, thinks maybe he should just go to sleep until it is all over, and spend his few waking hours pretending nothing has changed.
But he can't, and he knows that. He knows if he does that tonight, it would be too easy to do it every night.
He turns the corner, and finds Weasley loitering at the foot of the steps to Gryffindor Tower. Several weeks ago, he would have jumped at the chance to give Weasley detention for the rest of his natural life. Now, he's tempted to turn around and pretend he didn't see anything, because if he does, he won't have to talk to Weasley.
Talking to Weasley will only put him in the mood for a fight, and fighting with Weasley lost it's spark the day he realized Weasley's father was no better or worse a person than his own.
Draco decides to leave Weasley alone, but just as he starts to turn, Weasley notices him. Weasley frowns, his lips set in a thin line, and his face darkens. He studies Draco for a long moment, opening and closing his mouth like he's arguing with himself.
"Weasley," Draco says finally.
"Malfoy," Weasley says. He hesitates, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Have you seen Harry?"
"Why would I have seen Potter?"
Weasley gives him a flat look, a look so impatient and withering he could have stolen it off of Granger's face. It says Weasley knows, knows exactly where Harry sleeps when Harry isn't sleeping with him, and Draco is not sure he likes that. Draco feels a sharp reply coming, but he looks at Weasley's face again and swallows it, because underneath it all, he can see that Weasley is genuinely concerned.
"Not since this morning," Draco admits. "He was still asleep when I left for Arithmancy."
"And you just left him?" Weasley growls.
"Of course I did," Draco says. "He looked like he hadn't slept in a week."
"He hasn't been to any classes all day."
"That's not my problem," Draco snaps. "Potter is not my problem."
"The Hell he's not." Ron replies, stepping towards him.
"Potter is only my problem when you are too busy with Granger to make him your problem."
Weasley's eyes go wide at that, and Draco smiles.
"I've always wondered, how does Granger feel about that? Or have you not told her?"
"I don't know why he bothers with you," Ron says quietly.
"I don't know why he bothers with you, other than you're convenient."
Weasley growls again, and his arm flies out. Draco braces himself, but Weasley doesn't hit him, he grabs a handful of Draco's sleeve and yanks him forward. Weasley's tongue is in Draco's mouth before he can shout or push him away, and he's hard when Weasley shoves a hand between them to cup his cock through his trousers.
Draco doesn't want this, not from Weasley, because he hates Weasley, because he wants Potter and Weasley has Potter. Ron's tongue is hot and slick as it traces his lips and teeth, and when it slides against his own, Draco wonders if he's tasting Weasley, or Potter. That thought is enough to make him jerk away, but Weasley doesn't let him, Weasley tightens his grip Draco's shirt and moves a broad hand around to wrench Draco closer by the arse.
He doesn't feel Weasley turn them around, but suddenly there is a wall behind him, cold stone as hard as the cock digging into his thigh. Weasley starts to move, rocking and thrusting against him, his mouth blazing a wet trail over Draco's jaw and down his neck, and despite himself, despite everything, Draco starts to move as well. He tilts his head back to give Weasley's lips and tongue better access, and grinds his cock into Weasley's hip.
It's a strange rush when Weasley shudders against him, knowing that he's making Weasley come, and he wonders what Weasley looks like when Potter makes him come, if he makes the same noise, the same face, if he shudders the same way. But Weasley's teeth sink into the soft spot at the curve of his neck, and all thoughts of Potter flee, chased away by the rush of heat flooding through his body.
And when he comes, gasping and shaking, he's not thinking of Potter, and he thinks Weasley knows it.
IV. Hermione
All things considered, she's not surprised.
It almost makes sense, in a way. Things have a habit of coming full circle, and as she looks at them, at Ron's mouth on Harry's neck and Harry's hand on Malfoy's cock and Malfoy's fingers tangled in Ron's hair, that's exactly what she sees: a circle.
She should be upset, because Ron's only supposed to be with her, but she's not. What Ron and Harry do is only a secret in the loosest sense of the word; they never talk about it, but it's there to see for anyone who looks. It's visible in the way they sit a bit too close together, the way Ron's hand will linger on Harry's arm or back when they are walking to class, the way Harry will sometimes fall asleep in his own bed and wake up in Ron's.
It was always there, and Hermione had always seen it. She had known long before she'd ever given Ron a date.
Harry and Malfoy had been harder to figure out. They didn't talk about it, and neither did anyone else, but eventually, Hermione had caught on. Over time, she'd noticed that Malfoy's sharp remarks had lost their true rancor, and that Harry's reactions had grown automatic and forced.
She can't help but stare as Malfoy's tongue slides into Ron's mouth, because that's certainly new. She wouldn't believe it, if it wasn't for Harry, but Harry's there between them, and together, they make a circle.
Harry is why she's not upset, why she understands. She knows they all belong to Harry, even Malfoy, even her.
They are beautiful together, all smooth skin and long legs and reaching arms. And they are so different, red and black and blond, yet complementary, Ron tanned and freckled, Malfoy pale and white, and Harry somewhere in-between.
The acoustics in the Room of Requirement are strange; they didn't hear her come in, but she can hear every sound they make. She can hear all of Malfoy's gasps and all of Harry's hitched breaths, she can hear every filthy thing Ron whispers in Harry's ear.
Of course, the Room of Requirement is accommodating, it always has been. It anticipated their needs with the overlarge bed in the center of the room the same way it aided her sneaking and spying with silence and a heavy shadow by the door. And it knew she would be curious, which is why the light grew a bit brighter when she walked in, why it's now handing her every whimper and hiss and moan.
She knows she should go, she knows she should leave them to have their private moment without prying eyes, but she can't seem to make herself move. She can't stop watching Ron's hands and Harry's mouth and Malfoy's arse, and she tells herself she's staying because they will hear her leave, not because of the sudden rush of heat between her legs.
Malfoy leans in, kissing Ron over Harry's shoulder, and Ron's hands come up, one reaching across Harry to rest on Malfoy's waist, the other snagging in his hair. Harry arches back against Ron, his head dropping back on Ron's shoulder, his eyes sliding closed. The slight shift of Malfoy's arm says he's stroking Harry's cock, and she can picture it, Malfoy's pale fingers curling around it and pulling slowly.
She swallows the moan building in her throat, fisting the material of her skirt between her fingers to keep them from straying. She wants to so badly, she knows just a few light touches would have her shuddering against her own hand, but she can't risk it, she knows they would hear her, no matter what she begged the room to do.
Malfoy drops to his knees, a smooth, fluid motion, and she gets a brief glimpse of Harry's cock before it disappears into Malfoy's mouth. Ron turns Harry's face towards him and kisses him, his tongue pushing into Harry's mouth with a soft, wet noise. He's rocking against Harry's body slowly, steadily, and Hermione can picture it, Ron's cock trapped between them, hard and aching, pushing against Harry's arse for friction, release.
She can't help it; she moans then, choked and broken, trapped in the back of her throat. It's soft, quiet, but the room betrays her, amplifying it until it bounces off the walls. They jerk apart, Harry's cock slipping out of Malfoy's mouth as he turns, Ron's lips leaving Harry's as he looks up. Harry's eyes fly open, wide and wild, and they follow Hermione warily as she walks towards them.
The sudden silence is deafening, unnerving, and as she draws near, she can see the frantic, desperate reaching of their thoughts. She can see Malfoy looking for a reason and Ron looking for an excuse, she can see Harry looking for a means of escape. She knows they are waiting for her to say something, but she doesn't trust herself to speak, so she answers the questions in their eyes by drawing down her zip and letting her skirt fall to the floor.
They have her naked and on the bed before she can blink, without exchanging a single word. And then they are everywhere, a tongue in her mouth and hands on her breasts and fingers sliding inside her. It's too much to think about, too much all at once, and when she comes, shuddering underneath them, she can't remember how to breathe.
The bed dips, creaks, and then she hears the soft sounds of kissing, wet and slick, and the rasp of skin against skin. She opens her eyes when she feels hands on her waist, and it's Ron, lifting her, turning her back to Harry and sliding her down on his cock.
She almost can't wrap her head around that, around Harry, her best friend, her boyfriend's best friend, hard and thick inside her. His mouth is on her neck, licking and sucking, and she wants to move, but his hands are at her waist, holding her still.
Malfoy moves towards her, crawling across the bed on his hands and knees, and then he's kissing her, and she wonders why she never thought of kissing Malfoy before. His mouth his hot and wet and perfect, and he nips and sucks at her lower lip like he's been watching Ron kiss her in the halls.
She hears a murmured spell, and Malfoy jerks against her, his lips leaving her abruptly. She looks over Malfoy's shoulder, her breath catching as Ron's fingers disappear inside him. He sags forward, his soft gasps playing across her neck as Ron's works his fingers in and out, and she watches, her mouth hanging open, a new wave of heat and arousal washing over her.
The noise Malfoy makes when Ron's cock pushes inside him rushes straight between her legs, hot and dangerous. Then Harry starts to move, lifting her up and thrusting into her, filling her, and she tangles her hands in Malfoy's hair to keep herself grounded, to keep herself from flying off the bed.
But Malfoy won't stay still, his mouth is everywhere, over her neck and shoulders and down her chest. He toys with nipples, teasing one with his fingers, circling the other with his tongue before wrapping his lips around it. Then he laves a wet trail down her belly, before bracing himself on his elbows and pulling her open with his fingers.
His tongue flicks over her clit and she screams, arching back against Harry, her fingers tightening in Malfoy's hair. Harry thrusts into her hard, his hands moving to her breasts, his fingers playing over her nipples.
She can't stop watching Ron, watching the way his cock moves in and out of Malfoy's arse. He matches his rhythm to Harry's; pushing into Malfoy when Harry rocks up into her, and each of their thrusts pushes her harder against Malfoy's mouth.
Malfoy's tongue circles and teases her clit until she's so close she can almost touch it, then he dips down, tasting Harry's cock as it disappears inside her. She whines, yanking on Malfoy's hair, and when he moves back up he wraps his lips around her clit and sucks.
She comes violently, gasping and shaking, pleasure crashing over her in sharp waves. Her body ripples around Harry, clutching and pulling, and Harry stills, coming inside her in a white, hot rush.
Ron pulls Malfoy back, thrusting hard as he reaches around to fist Malfoy's cock. They come within moments of each other, Ron's head falling onto Malfoy's shoulder just as Malfoy spurts hot and thick over his hand.
Silence comes as soon as she can breathe again, this time uncomfortable. Ron is worrying his lower lip between his teeth and Malfoy is casting furtive glances all around. She glances at Harry as she crawls off of him, and she catches him doing his best not to look at her and Ron and Malfoy.
"Tomorrow," She says firmly, reaching for a pillow. "We can talk about it tomorrow."
Ron nods to himself, then moves towards her, stretching out behind her and curling around her. He smooths his hands over her body, each brush of his fingers an apology.
"It'll be fine," She says, twisting her head to kiss him. "Everything will be fine."
Behind them, she can hear Harry and Malfoy kissing.
"Yeah," Ron says, against her neck. "Maybe it will."
J