InsaneJournal

Merry Smutmas, teaspoon!

To: teaspoon From: t_quibbler

Title: A Return to Three
Rating: Hard R
Pairing: Trio
Disclaimer: I have no legal rights to characters of the Harry Potter series, obviously. Also, all characters depicted are intended to be over the age of 18.
Summary: Ron's return to Harry and Hermione marks a shift in the balance between them

Harry watched him, watched how he was now that he'd returned, for a sign that he was unhappy with the way things were going, with the progress they were making, but one didn't come. It felt good to have destroyed a Horcrux, seemed to make Ron almost elated, as though stabbing the locket had rid him from the heavy burden of the fears it had strengthened in him.

They had been there before, Harry knew, they were something the fragment of soul had learned about and latched onto, different only from Ginny's experiences in that Ron had not been fully possessed by Voldemort. The locket had exploited what was already in Ron's heart; fears of being unwanted, unloved, unappreciated. Harry couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt, feel somehow responsible for the terrible things Ron had seen before he'd made his choice and lunged forward, piercing the scarlet glinting eyes behind the glass. He didn't know how to tell Ron that he wasn't any of those things; that they had been utterly miserable without him all those nights when Harry had had to listen to Hermione crying in her bed beneath him and stare over at the empty bunk opposite his own, wishing desperately to see Ron's larger, stronger frame. Ron was his protector, his friend.

The locket had been worse torture for Ron, there was no doubting that, but Harry had felt his own fears bubble up at the words coming from his grossly distorted lips, from the Riddle-Hermione's. He had feared Ron thought these things; that he still felt as though somehow he should be standing behind Harry, in his meager shadow, when all Harry wanted was the two of them, beside him. With him. A part of him. He'd feared Ron suspected as much, had grown aware of his affections for Hermione even if he never properly cottoned on to the affections Harry felt toward him.

He'd wanted to say it then, to tell Ron that he loved him, them, better than anyone else. He'd wanted to speak proper words of comfort, to hold him, but it wasn't what they did. They didn't tell each other they were beloved, he especially never told Ron. Ron who loved Hermione, Ron who was his best mate. He couldn't disrupt the delicate unspoken balance between them and so he had lied.

I love her like a sister and I reckon she feels the same way about me.

Well, he didn't reckon. He wasn't sure of himself either, wasn't confident that her minding over him was a sign of more than her need to feel in control of something, that the tender way she touched him was indicative of anything beyond platonic, sisterly love. He knew Hermione was in a heightened state of being now that Ron was back. She was angrier, more hostile, but also perceptively happier and their nights so far had been blessedly free of the muffled sound of sobs wetting Hermione's pillow.

There were other familiar sounds, however. Ones Harry hardly realized he had missed until he'd heard them again and been unable to stop himself responding. The sound of surreptitious masturbation is something distinct; it's a persistent rhythmic rustling that at first you're not sure you're actually hearing, and then you aren't sure you want to admit you've deduced the source. There are changes in breathing patterns, occasionally the quietest of unstoppable grunts or gasps. At Hogwarts these sounds had been muffled by five sets of heavy velvet hangings, working in tandem to keep the sounds of their occupants in and those of the others out. But the tent had no such luxuries and Ron never seemed to think a charm was necessary.

Harry was sure Hermione heard him too. In fact, he was fairly certain they all heard each other, as he had stopped bothering trying to keep it a secret as well, before Ron left. In his absence the nights had always been void of the sporadic squeak of a bedspring, Harry didn't know if Hermione had gone back to Muffliato as he had done or if she'd stopped touching herself now that they were down to two.

It hadn't happened that first night, or the one following it, or even the one following that. Harry had begun to wonder if Ron was still doing it. He was. He was still watching the broad-shouldered silhouette parallel to his when he cast a Silencing Charm on himself and Cushioning Charms on the bunk. The blackthorn wand wasn't suited to doing his bidding but Harry couldn't think of any other solutions as he was unwilling to be the first to resume their unspoken ritual and unable to stop himself from performing it in silence. He couldn't stop himself from imagining that it was Ron's hand rather than his own, that someday the calloused fingers would be the ones to make him cry out, truly out loud, while Hermione's soft slender ones pushed the hair from his face and his glasses back up his nose.

The fourth night, however, was something new.

Harry hadn't started anything yet, was too preoccupied with the list he was repeating in his head in hopes that some elusive connection would appear. The diary… the ring… the locket… the cup… the snake… something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's… The diary… the ring… the locket… the cup… the snake… something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's… A little rustle to his left made Harry jump. It happened again. And again.

And again.

Without any pretense of hiding his excitement, Harry turned his head to look into the darkness. He could make it out, yes, he could see the way Ron's shape was moving beneath his blankets. Almost immediately Harry began to stiffen, his own hands dropping below the covers to yank his boxer shorts down to his knees. This was what he had been waiting for, this was the reunion that had yet been absent, the true rejoining of them as the three. He waited for some sign that Hermione was going to participate, that she wouldn't stiffly turn her back and disregard them in favour of the tent wall.

Finally, it came, a miniscule little whimper in a decidedly feminine tone. Harry nearly shouted in surprise when it was followed by a low "Fuck, Hermione!" They'd never talked, never acknowledged that this was an act they all wanted to be a part of, however depraved it would be considered. He heard her gasp his name in shock, felt sure that it should be followed by "Language!" and he couldn't help but give a little laugh.

"Think this is funny, Harry?" Ron mumbled with a snort, and suddenly there was a thud and before he knew it Harry was staring at the pattern of freckles on Ron's shoulder as he looked down upon him. Ron's face was impassive, almost unreadable, and then with a little flicker of fear, a hand jerked out to hold Harry by the hair, and a set of long sought lips were pressed against his own.

Dimly, Harry heard Hermione's voice saying something as his entire body froze, hand still on his demanding prick as Ron kissed him. His mind was screaming, crying, shouting his shock and delight and awe as the mouth pressed his open, as a tongue slid against his own. Harry was pressing back now, letting the fist entwined with his unkempt hair guide him so that his body slid from his own bunk. Feet now on the floor, Harry grabbed at Ron's neck as his head was tilted back and his pants pushed to the floor. There was pale spangled skin pressed against him, the hand dropping from his hair to wrap snugly around his waist. Unable to keep a little whine from his throat as his hand hit Ron's and something smooth brushed his stomach, Harry pulled back, gasping for air as he looked down between them.

Ron was holding them together, keeping Harry's hips firmly in place a few inches below his own. There were both of their hands holding themselves, pausing momentarily as each made observation of the other, of the contrast that feathery ginger hair made with raven in the dim grey night.

Tentatively, Harry released himself, moving his hand instead to Ron, who gave a grunt, quickly agreeing to the swap by closing his fist to nearly hide Harry's cock from view. God those hands turned him on, startlingly gentle with their long fingered grasp as they tugged. He pushed forward against the palm, Ron doing the same to Harry's hand, each smearing the beginning wetness over the other with what felt almost like a practiced ease. Now Harry was grateful for all the times he had listened, for all the things his imagination had conjured and his senses memorized. He'd never touched another man but from the familiarity of the sounds Ron was making, the pace on which they were starting to build; Harry felt an odd sense of confidence. He could do this; he could make his best friend come and knew Ron could do the same.

They kissed again, briefly, noses bumping and lips colliding as they learned each other. Ron was breathing faster now, his eyes half shut as he stared blankly over Harry's shoulder. Determined to make this last as long as he could, Harry focused on not giving in, not simply rutting without abandon against Ron's solid frame. Even banishing this desire from his mind, he knew the moment was already starting to spin out of control, could feel Ron's breath panting before he brought his mouth to Harry's shoulder and gave a little bite, a little suck.

He heard a cry that was not his own, that did not come from Ron either, but the next stroke he felt the wet warmth of something splash up onto his torso. Ron was trembling against him, and Harry nudged him slightly to better see his face.

Clear blue eyes were misted with a hazy look, Ron's mouth open and brow furrowed slightly from the force of the orgasm washing over him. Harry thought this was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, would ever want to see, and when the hand enveloping him began to move again in earnest, Harry too felt his legs grow weak beneath him. Ron's arm was strong around him though, keeping him upright as he tightened, unable to prolong the moment any further. With a hoarse little shout, Harry came.

It was over as quickly as it had begun, Ron's fingers stroking the skin of Harry's back as he relaxed into the embrace. "Turn around," Ron whispered, urging him with a little tug on his elbow and Harry obliged.

There was Hermione, legs splayed and hands delving between them, restricting the view but giving an image that Harry vowed to hold in his memory forever. She had pushed her nightgown up all the way, small pert breasts barely visible beneath the hem and as they watched her, Ron's arm still draped lazily around Harry's chest, she too joined the new balance of their love.

Small camp bunks were not built to support three, but this did not keep them from crowding together, sweaty, sticky, but sated, into Hermione's tiny bed.

"Love you," a voice said.

"I love you too," came another.

"Me three," the third.