It was more of an unspoken agreement between the three of them, more of an unconscious pact – not like when Ron said: "If you tell me how many meanings Saturnus hanging low has, I'll tell you how to see the Snitch when Harry's flying." Not like when Harry was flying, and she didn't see the Snitch because all she could see was him, all flow and smooth on his broom, and he caught her eye and she said: "If you win, I'll save you a butterbeer." Not like when Ron was draining his goblet, warm fingers curled around a table cloth corner, eyes reaching down madam Rosmerta's dress and Harry said smiling: "If you fall asleep like this, I won't put you to bed." It was never like that, it just was; she in the middle, Harry a cold tangle of arms and legs on her right, barely breathing, Ron warm and throwing his arms out in his dreams on her left. Sometimes they had no room, no dingy hotel with a lumpy bed and they slept on the rocks, Harry's hand inching up Hermione's sleeve as he slept, Ron talking nonsense about spiders and rats into her ear. In the mornings she wasn't sure if her sleep had been a dream, or if she had dreamed she was awake, or if she really had been. In the mornings one side of her was bruised, lying on her side on the rough English soil, and the other half was warm with Ron's breath. Ron hugged her in his sleep, she hugged Harry and Harry hugged himself. They were like on of those Russian matroesjka's and with every layer that fell away, she felt weakened. Ron never fell away, though. Neither did Harry – not in those nights, at least. His days were what took him away. Voldemort eluded them and sometimes in those crazy hours before dawn Hermione wasn't sure if she'd dreamed the existence of the sun and she wondered whether Voldemort was their sleep or simply in it. When the light returned, her half-dreams pulled away but their feeling remained. They always slept like that – unspoken, unsaid, not like when they said to each other: "If you love me, I'll do the same." When they found a room in a motel where no one knew their names, they took one bed. If there was more than one, they pretended not to know. Harry's hand on her elbow, Ron's forehead between her shoulder blades and when someone fell out of bed, they moved and placed the mattress on the floor. They didn't expect to live. Somehow she was afraid they might, just before sunrise when the horizon is a pale green, and she cursed herself for not wanting life, but she was so afraid that when panic fell away, they'd discover it was all they'd had all along.
One night Harry said: "If you sleep now, I might do the same." Ron shifted behind her, hand coming to rest on her hip and Harry's – they always were attached at the hip – and she said: "We need to stop making pacts." But she knew it was the only way they could live, like this, folded in on themselves, a knot of limbs and skin. Harry kissed her then, once, softly, slowly. Ron trailed his fingers down Harry's side, sighed a warm stream of air over Hermione's cheek. "I was born a pact," Harry said, "I don't know any other way." A three-way kiss then, sort of, even though she didn't know how Ron was able to get there but she was oh so glad he did, and her mouth was full of Ron's hair and Harry's stubble.
"If we live," she told them, breathing heavily, "promise me we'll remember different things than this." They touched, all three of them, and she knew it was all she'd ever remember.