Hermione is the first to wake. She usually is. Harry is a light sleeper and wakes soon after. However careful Hermione is, either the motion or the coldness at his back wakes him. The dark haze of dreams lingers even as morning light floods his vision. Harry sleepily lifts his face from Ron's back, and accepts a sweet kiss from Hermione.
Ron grunts. As Hermione slips from the room, Ron rolls over and traps Harry in his strong arms. He's always a furnace in his sleep, and Harry snuggles deeper into his sweaty, warm chest. Once settled, Ron snores loudly, which rumbles in Harry's ear and disrupts his hair. Harry sniggers into Ron's skin and, for a time, he drifts in that hazy plane between dreams and reality.
There's no going back to sleep once awake, but this between state is just as nice. He daydreams of waking Ron with his mouth, though real-Ron would be grumpy. Nothing, not even blowjobs, are worth losing sleep over. Or, maybe, giving Hermione his mouth while they try not to wake Ron. That could be fun.
Sex, and cuddles, and flying, and laughter. His favorite fantasies skip ahead and blur together, half-finished. He feels the minutes tick by, and though he has plans, he has little motivation to leave. Not when there is joy in his mind, and safety in Ron's arms. Harry can't be blamed for soaking up as much of the cozy, lazy morning as he can. He stays as long as he dares, but time ticks by faster and louder. With regret, he kisses Ron's chest and squirms out of his arms. As Harry slips away, Ron grabs Harry's pillow to cuddle instead. Harry smiles fondly at the scene. Pale sunlight in the window catches Ron's hair like a flame. His warm skin exposed to cool air; constellations of freckles and scars exposed to Harry's eyes.
Plans. Right, those.
Right on schedule he treks to the kitchen. The shower runs nearby, which means Hermione is back from her morning walk. He prepares her tea first, two sugars added, and leaves it on the table with the morning Prophet. Then he rummages through the cupboards and icebox with thoughts of breakfast. What do they have on hand…? Egg and bacon sandwiches will be quick and easy. Though they should probably stop by Carkitt Market before the end of the day.
Neatly stuck to the icebox is a calendar. All of Ron's commitments are in orange ink, Harry's in indigo, Hermione's in violet. Green ink for group nights. Red for love; and love is on Saturdays. Today is Harry and Hermione's day out, and Ron's day to himself. Next weekend will be Ron and Hermione, the next Ron and Harry, then a day for all three. It's Hermione's idea of prioritizing and strengthening their relationship.
It's worked pretty well these past few years.
"Mmm! Perfect," Hermione says when she finds her tea. Harry looks over his shoulder and grins at her. She sinks into her seat and props her feet into Harry's chair. He catches only a glimpse of her towel-wrapped hair, as she lounges back and sticks her face into the newspaper. Harry's grin broadens, and he hums a happy tune as he turns to check on the eggs and bacon. He likes the company when he cooks, even if she is absorbed in reading.
As he butters the toast, Ron joins him, with arms around Harry's waist and his face in Harry's neck. Ron mumbles sleepily and moves with Harry as Harry continues to cook. He's become quite adept at working with one or both partners attached to him. A bit like dancing, maybe. Or flying. How they shuffle together, and how excellent reflexes are sometimes needed. As he plates the food, Ron snores in his ear, and Harry laughs and nearly drops the eggs. Ron laughs, too, and holds Harry steady as Harry builds the sandwiches. Extra bacon on Ron's, extra cheese for Harry, extra tomatoes and bell peppers for Hermione. Each gets a side of apple slices and grapes. Ron grabs Harry's wrist to eat a grape from his fingers, and Harry pinches his lip in gentle reprimand.
"He's mine today," Hermione scolds. It's an ongoing squabble, half joke and half comfort. They replay the script time and again, a familiar game.
"You're neglecting him!" Ron accuses. He stacks all three plates on one arm and both Harry and Hermione watch warily as he carries them to the table.
"Showoff," Harry says.
"This isn't showing off," Ron says. "This is showing off." He whips his wand from his pajama bottoms and flicks it at the dirty dishes. The pots and pans rush forward and crash loudly in the sink. Hermione jumps and Harry ducks. Ron grimaces.
"Ronald!" snaps Hermione.
"What?" Ron's voice is defensive and his face burns red. He casts two hasty charms to fill the sink with soapy water, and sets the sponges to scrub them.
Harry's heart still gallops in his chest, but he steps between his partners to say, "Don't argue. Eat."
"But!" says Ron, and Hermione has one finger set to wag. Harry catches her finger and kisses it.
"You two can argue on your Date Day," Harry tells them.
"But," says Hermione.
Harry cuts her off, "Aren't you supposed to woo me today?"
Ron chortles. Hermione's mouth twists as she valiantly fights against a smile. Harry hides his own smile with a kiss to her head, then he scoops her feet up to sit in his chair, and sets them down on his leg.
"So, what's the news today?" Ron asks.
"You can read it yourself," Hermione promptly says, just as she always does. And just as she always does, she proceeds to rattle off a summary of events. Nothing too interesting, so they're spared Hermione's rants and she can eat before her food gets cold.
Their life is a bit hectic, even on weekends. Harry likes it all the same. He'd be bored otherwise.
As Ron scarfs down his sandwich, and Hermione sips her tea, Harry sits in his warmth and considers his luck. It hits him often, when Ron laughs, or when Hermione lays her head on his shoulder. When Hermione's distracted by her crossword, or when Ron grumbles at his chessboard. When they're cuddled on the couch, or spooning in bed. Even when he comes home to Ron and Hermione bickering.
How could life be better than this? How could he be happier?
After breakfast, Ron levitates their dishes to the sink. It's not the best idea. Ron's household charms are weak. There's already soapy water on the floor from the sponges' vigorous scrubbing and splashing. But Ron's pride is still sore, so Harry leaves him to it and flees upstairs.
Date days are fairly casual, but for Hermione this means a more dressy casual. "It's a date, after all," Hermione once said. So Harry grabs the denims he reserves for Hermione, his only pair not ripped or holey or grass stained. He has a few plain collared shirts. And, because he's pretty sure she's wearing green or blue, he grabs his blue shirt and hopes he chose right. If he's wrong, it won't matter, but if he's right, it will please her.
A little effort goes a long way. It might not make sense to him, but it matters to her, and so matters to Harry.
There's little to be done about his hair, and he refuses to use Sleekeazy's. He combs it with little hope, then grabs his money bag and his wand and rushes downstairs, two steps at a time.
"— If you're not going to do it right, then don't do it at all!" Hermione fusses. Harry steps into the kitchen, then immediately steps back. The kitchen is flooded.
"But they're clean!" Ron argues. "And I can clean this!"
"That's not the point!"
"Uh…"
Hermione turns to him. Ron grimaces apologetically over her head. The bottom of his pajama bottoms are soaked. Hermione is barefoot in the water, her blue flats in her hand. Harry is pleased to see he was right; her dress is green and blue striped, with a blue shrug overtop. Hermione beams at him.
"Harry!" she coos and skips through the water to kiss his cheek.
Ron grins even as he wags his wand at Harry. "You're sucking up to her."
Harry shrugs. "Happy girlfriend, happy weekend?"
"Oh hush," says Hermione. She links one arm through Harry's and hands him her shoes then draws her wand. With a few well aimed spells, the water gathers from the floor and flings itself out the back door. The water in the sink drains and the dishes hop neatly into the drying rack.
"Showoff," says Ron.
Hermione trades her wand for her shoes and puts them on one-handed as Ron splashes over to them. Hermione hugs Ron's neck with one arm and rises tiptoe to kiss him. "Enjoy your lazy day."
"I'm not gonna be that lazy," Ron says. Harry hands Hermione her wand back so that he can reach up to ruffle Ron's hair, then uses it to pull him down into a kiss.
"Don't be too lonely without us," Harry adds.
"Pfff," says Ron. "I'm looking forward to some peace and quiet."
Chances are he'll end up at a Muggle arcade or playing chess at the park, but neither Harry nor Hermione point this out. Competition might be Ron's idea of fun, but it's no one's idea of peace.
It's been seven years since Hermione approached him and Ron, pink-faced and well-read on the subject of polyamory, and gave a full presentation of what a "closed triad" could look like. Harry and Ron had turned rather pink-cheeked themselves when they realized. It hadn't occurred to either of them that it was an option. Hogsmeade trips had been strange and awkward at the start. It took time to make sense of it, to make it work.
It's been five years now, since the war ended, and three since Hermione developed their date days.
Today is like any other. They Floo to the Leaky Cauldron, and Hermione tugs him along down Diagon Alley. As per every date day, Hermione presents him with their itinerary, and Harry teases her that they could see where the day leads them. These days, Hermione pinkens and smiles, but plunges ahead with her plans. Fondness floods Harry's middle. Some things never change, and Harry wouldn't change her preparedness for anything. He has Ron for his aimless days.
They begin the day, as always, at Quality Quidditch Supplies for Harry. Hermione patiently follows him around as he visits his favorite sections, and pauses for far too long to chat with the shopkeep about upcoming broom releases. He takes a pamphlet to bring home to Ron, and muses aloud at how different broomcraft must be from wandmaking, and if a career switch might be feasible. Hermione sighs and pats his hand. It doesn't hurt to think of his options! Ah well, he'd rather fly brooms than make them, wouldn't he?
Next, as always, they go to Flourish and Blotts for Hermione. It's not so natural for him to be patient, and to not huff and puff with boredom, but he makes do. He charms a Quidditch magazine to follow him around and flip pages while he carries Hermione's books for her. The charm kindly pauses when he steals peeks of Hermione overtop the magazine, when she traces reverent fingers over spines, and greedy eyes over pages.
By the end, she has more books than she can buy, and when she frets over which to choose, Harry offers ignorant input to help her narrow down her options. Once their purchases are made, Harry carries the bag and Hermione loops her arm through his and kisses his cheek.
The rest of the day changes each time. Hermione always checks for upcoming events and new shop openings for their dates. "It's good to be in the know," Hermione likes to say, "and involved."
They have an early lunch at a new diner on Horizont Alley, and they catch a show at the theater. It's an adaptation of a Muggle musical, Hermione explains as they wait, and after she gushes about how the implementation of real magic affected the performance. It is pretty cool, Harry admits. And he really liked the songs, even if he doesn't understand the extra bits Hermione does.
Hermione brushes this off when he says so. "Musicals are meant to be enjoyed. Analysis and critique are fun for me, but it's perfectly valid to appreciate the story itself."
"And the songs," Harry grins.
"Especially the songs," Hermione giggles.
It's another day, more of the same, with the girl he loves. Ice cream at Fortescue's, and chit chat with George at Wheezes, and a perusal of goods on Carkitt Market.
Another day like any other, until it isn't.
A flash of dark fabric and pale skin. The world tilts on its axis. Every line skews, every color blurs. An alarm rings in his ears and drowns out the voices around him. His heart thuds in his chest, and warmth pricks along his skin.
Only Hermione can bring him back to earth.
"Is that — ?" She grasps his arm and slows to a stop, and they're shuffled nearer Eeylop's Owl Emporium by irritable passersby.
Harry stares at her, and Hermione stares back, just as wide-eyed. Present though he may be now, he still doesn't know…anything, really. Hermione starts them forward again, and walks stiffly ahead, eyes trained on Obscurus Books.
They're going to move on and forget that — They can't just forget, they can't leave — He has to see, he has to know, except he can't, he — Hermione guiltily slows and sticks her face in Obscurus Books' window and Harry, impulsive and stupid as ever, finds himself through the front door in the blink of an eye, unleashed as he is from Hermione's hand.
"Oh," breathes Hermione as she joins him. "It is." Then, she slaps his arm and shoves him deeper into the store. "Don't look!" she whispers.
"You don't look!" he whispers back.
Hermione situates them at the end of a nearby aisle, and she casually pulls a book from the shelf. Harry stuffs his hands into his pockets and casts his eyes around the shop. He's just another customer with his girlfriend while she shops, just another bloke bored out of his wits and —
Just another bloke whose eyes drift towards Severus Snape time and again.
He's not changed much, has he? Those same high-collared, swishy-hemmed robes. The same solid black boots. Just as hook-nosed and sharp-eyed. The grip on his wand is unchanged, too, just as sure and graceful as ever.
Hermione nudges him and Harry drags his eyes away. "What?"
"You're staring," Hermione accuses.
"So are you!"
"Yes, but I'm being discreet."
"Are you?" drawls Snape.
Hermione shrieks and drops her book. Through the gap in books, on the other side of the shelf, Snape peers at them. Harry wouldn't have needed the voice. The quirk of his brow alone would have ousted him. Or his eyes, dark and deep as they are.
Quick as ever, is Snape, either on foot or with spells. Stupid, really, to think they could spy on the spy.
"Sir!" squeaks Hermione.
"You're back in England," Harry says calmly.
Five years since the war ended, and five years since he last saw Snape. He'd fled before the trials began. It made Harry's defense of him a bit hard, but he'd managed. Snape had been exonerated, and awarded the Order of Merlin in absentia. Harry hadn't heard one word of him in all this time. Where has he been? What has he been doing? And why is he back? Why now?
The last Harry had seen of him had been in St. Mungo's. Snape had been unconscious then, still bleeding from the throat. He'd fled without being properly discharged.
Harry could hex him to bits. Not a word in all this time. As if everything hadn't changed after the memories, after the trial. As if Harry hadn't worried, as if he'd never — (never what?)
"How astute," says Snape. In two steps he rounds the bookshelf to tower over them. He's a blast to the past, back to cold dungeons and hot rage.
Harry had forgotten how tall he was.
"I remember now why I left," Snape continues.
"Well, the trials have been over for a few years now," Harry points out. Snape's spine goes rigid, and his dark eyes flare with —
Hermione shoves her books hard into Harry's chest, and it knocks the wind out of him. She smiles placidly at Snape. "Sorry, sir, we were just — "
"And you can't outrun the past," Harry adds. In spite of Hermione's rather painful hint, he can't help but want to stoke those black flames a bit.
Snape's nostrils flare. "Indeed. Nor can one hide from it, not behind white picket fences. Not even with two lovers in one's greedy bed."
Hermione's jaw drops, and she steps between Harry and Snape, and rises to her full height. Which is perhaps not much, physically, but her hair and force of will add plenty. Harry shrinks back. "I'll thank you not to make commentary on our lives," Hermione says frostily. "We've heard it plenty enough over the years, and we don't need more from the likes of you."
Snape opens his mouth to speak, but Hermione charges ahead, "Furthermore, while it was inappropriate for us to stare, and we do apologize, youapproached us with the same nasty attitude you've always had. Which Harry and I have also heard plenty of over the years, so if you'll excuse us."
Hermione reaches back to grab Harry's hand, and she tugs him along to the door. Harry nearly forgets the books in his arm, and when the thievery charms blare, he hastily tosses them back through the door.
It's a split second, really, that his and Snape's eyes meet. Hermione hastily marches away and drags Harry along with her. Harry can't quite blink away the vision of those eyes, dark and inscrutable as ever.
"I can't believe him. He's not changed a wit!" Hermione rants.
"Yeah, I know," Harry agrees vehemently, though he's lost the thread of it. It's about Snape, he knows. He's pretty sure, at least.
"And you!" Hermione snaps. "There was no need to be so rude!"
"Hey! He started it!"
"Harry! You. Are. An. Adult!"
They squabble all the way back to the Leaky Cauldron. Harry isn't Ron. He doesn't get off on the squabbling, not like this. He'd've soothed things over on any other day.
But today, he's warm, and his heart drums in his chest, and he doesn't want to think about why this isn't any other day.