shove over
Harry's ten-thousandth attempt to catch some fuckin' z's
Not for the first time in his life, Harry can't fucking sleep.
Honestly, after defeating Voldemort a handful of times, saving the world, and oh- I dunno- dying, Harry should be able to get a good night's sleep, right? Wrong. He's just as- if not more- restless than he was before the war was over, which is just his rotten luck. And ever since the start of eighth year, Madam Pomfrey's being stingy about her melatonin reserves, so there's that, too.
His sheets are too hot. Kick 'em off, he thinks, foolishly believing that alleviating his external temperature will fix his insomniac tendencies. He does, leaving his very harry, boxer-briefed legs to the open-air of his dorm room. Harry huffs an exhale, believing his troubles to be over, and closes his eyes, praying for slumber. For a total of forty-five seconds, Harry is the perfect temperature.
And then, after the forty-sixth second, he's cold.
Pull the sheets back, he thinks, frustratedly sighing as he scrambles for the edges of his comforter, eventually tugging it back over his legs. The relief is immediate, but so is the heat. So, as all rational-thinking eighteen-year-olds would do, Harry spends the next twenty minutes kicking off and pulling back his sheets, desperately searching for a decent degree.
"Stupid sheets," Harry grumbles to himself, kicking them off for probably the hundredth time. Now, he's pissy and awake, which is going to be just peachy-keen for tomorrow's potions class with the Slytherins, where he'll inevitably fuck up his elixir, and everyone except Draco Malfoy will laugh at him- because he's acting like a saint now, or some shit. "Stupid Malfoy."
"Oi, Harry," A voice hisses nearby, coming from Ron's bed. Probably Ron, then. "How's about shutting the fuck up?"
"Can't sleep," Harry hisses back, turning over to face Ron, who's glaring at him through a crack in the canopy. Peering through the darkness like some sort of bat-thing. "Are you awake?"
"I'm damn-well talking to you, aren't I?"
"Don't be pissy, Ron- I'm trying to be pissy."
"'Bout what?"
It's a good question, with a lot of answers. Having to come back to school, even after all they've been through. Having to leave, after the year is over. Potions class, because he sucks at it. Draco Malfoy, because Harry just can't seem to figure him out, even after seven years, a war, and some months.
And not being able to sleep, of course.
"I'm just tired," Harry sighs, rubbing at his eyes. "I've been sleeping right shite since leaving the Burrow."
"Really?" Ron asks, pushing aside his drapes so he can see Harry better. "Me too. Haven't got a good wink outside of History, I reckon."
"Binns is so boring," Harry grins, propping up his head with his elbow. "Thank Merlin for Hermione Granger, or we'd be toast."
"Seconded," Ron yawns, choking a bit on the exhale. "Oh no."
"Ron?" Harry sits up, feeling a bit alarmed at the blatant panic on his friend's face, blurry as it may be. "Are you okay?"
"M'fine," Ron rasps, clutching at his chest like he's been stabbed. "Awh, shite. It's the lemonade I reckon. Ginny told me to skip it- said some shit about 'why are you, as a man, drinking lemonade?' and I did it anyway."
"What?" Harry snorts, slapping a hand to his face as Ron pummels his chest, whacking at it with full-force fists. "Ron- what the fuck am I watching?"
"Acid reflux," Ron gags, still drumming at his torso. Harry has to physically restrain himself against the sheets in an attempt to keep his laughter under control. Giggles tear at his lungs, and Harry shoves his face into a pillow to spare their other roommates from a surely-nasty fit. He can already picture the unbridled rage on Neville's face, and would really rather not poke the bear while he's ahead. "I think I'm dyin', 'arry. Tell my mum I love her."
"Oh, finally, can we make jokes about dying again?" Harry raises an eyebrow, still grinning. "Because I've had some real good ones lined up for the past few months, but didn't know when it would be...too soon, y'know?"
"I hear, I hear," Ron shrugs, putting his hands above his head, still coughing from the reflux. "Honestly, I think it's appropriate, mate. It's what Freddie woulda' wanted."
"Oh gods, Ron- I wasn't talking about Fred dying," Harry hisses, tossing a pillow at Ron's head. "I was talking about me dying."
"Oh, right," Ron rolls his eyes. "Forgot about that."
"You're shitting me. There's no way you forgot I died, Ron."
"Piss off! It's not like you bring it up all the time, or anything!"
"Because I thought it was too soon!"
"It was your death, mate!"
Nearby, Dean murmurs something in his sleep that sounds alarmingly similar to "whassat?", and both boys freeze in place. Harry's gaze slides from Dean, now asleep again, to Seamus, to Neville, before finally returning to Ron. When it does, Ron is wearing a smile so big, it glows in the dark. Both boys fold over with laughter, clutching at their stomachs with the kind of chuckles you only get late at night, when you're supposed to be quiet.
"I forgot Dean sleep-talks!" Harry whisper-yells, tears forming in his eyes.
"It's not that funny," Ron wheezes, covering his mouth with both hands in an attempt to muffle himself. "Shh- quit it! You laughing is making me laugh!"
"Stop laughing like a hog, then!"
"Stop whisper-yelling at me!"
"You can't hear it when I normal whisper, you're too far away!"
"Well come over, then!"
"Geez, Ron, if you wanted me in your bed, you could've asked sooner."
"Harry, you better stop flirting with me before I have to makeout with you."
"Don't threaten me with a good time."
And before Harry knows it, he's darting across the two-foot space between their beds, and throwing open Ron's drapes. Harry slides onto Ron’s mattress with a pillow trailing behind him, giggles slipping past his lips as he draws the curtains close behind him. He giddily sits facing Ron on the bed, their knees bumping as he casts a well-thought muffilato charm so they don’t have to worry about being loud anymore.
The childishness of it reminds Harry of late nights at the Burrow when they were twelve, talking and laughing in their bunks until the sunrise painted the walls orange. They’re not as small, and not as innocent, and not as happy as they were then- but they’re still together, and that’s all that ever really mattered, anyway.
Harry and Ron spend the next two hours talking about anything, everything, and whatever sits between. They talk about boring Binns and spirit Snape, and how they both despise potions, and history. They talk about Quidditch tryouts, and how it's absolute rubbish McGonagall wont let them play for Gryffindor anymore. They talk about their favorite tarts, and colors, and people. They talk about the odd living arrangements for eighth years, and how weird it is to know that there's a group of Slytherins next door.
They don't talk about the war, because the war has taken enough time from them already.
They talk until Harry's tongue grows heavy, and Ron's head dips every now and again. Eventually, after a series of well-articulated yawns, Harry finds his muscles aching with an exhaustion he hasn't felt in months. After a particularly large yawn from Ron, Harry leans forward, and very seriously, asks an age-old question.
“D’you reckon you could fit your entire fist in your mouth if you opened up wide enough?”
“I dunno,” Ron says, his gaze slowly sliding to his hand in his lap, which is quietly curling into a fist. “I’ve never tried, but I bet I could though. I can fit a lot of mashed potatoes in my mouth, you’ve seen.”
“I have,” Harry nods, staring down at his own clenched fist. “And I watched you house that whole chicken-pot-pie, once. That was impressive.”
“Some of my best work,” Ron nods, very proudly. “I doubt anybody else has eaten so much crust in one sitting before.”
“I was so proud,” Harry says. “And a little frightened, honestly. I thought you were going to choke on the filling, or something.”
“Nah, I got it down okay. But the point still stands, it was a lot more food in my mouth than a fist.”
“Agreed- but that was like…soft food. Your fist has bones in it. Can’t get around those.”
“You’re not wrong, but I still think I could,” Ron says, thoughtfully. “Add that to our list of things to try. I can’t see that one going wrong, or anything.”
“Famous last words,” Harry yawns, springing tired tears to his eyes. “But I’ll jot it down.”
“Good that,” Ron nods, yawning too. “Say…I’m right knackered, actually. Is it late?”
“Two or three,” Harry shrugs. “But I am, too. Maybe talking for so long just…took the wind out of us, or something.”
“It’s the turning my brain off,” Ron hums, tapping at his head with a half-smile. “Nothing to think about when I’m talking to you, ya’ know? Don’t need to think about what I’m saying until it’s already said.”
And Harry nods, because he knows the exact feeling. When talking to Ginny, he has to make sure he’s not going to make a fool of himself. When talking to Hermione, he has to make sure it’s not something so dumb that she won’t let him hear the end of it. When talking to Malfoy, he has to make sure he’s saying something witty and banterable.
But when talking to Ron, Harry doesn’t have to think at all. He doesn’t have to be worried about saying the wrong thing, or talking too much, or talking too little. They’re used to each other, after being friends for so long. You’d think that after seven years, they’d get sick of one another, or run out of things to talk about- but they never do.
If they’re not talking, they’re listening, and if they’re not listening, they’re understanding. They sometimes fight, and bicker, but never for long enough to drift apart seriously. It’s always about dumb, stupid things that spiral- like most arguments with your best friend are.
With Ron, everything is effortless. Simple. Straightforward. Painless, and blissfully so.
Sometimes, talking to Ron is as easy as breathing air.
“I get the feeling,” Harry half-smiles, unfurling his legs and sliding toward the edge of the mattress. He turns back to Ron, reaching to tap his knee a few times before standing. “Hey, uh, thanks for talking with me tonight. Sorry I woke you up earlier with my tossing and turning.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ron replies, his voice soft. “I was already up anyways, and I was kinda glad I didn’t catch you wanking or something.”
“Without you? Ron, I would never .”
“Gross,” Ron snickers, slapping at Harry’s shoulder. “Go suck a dick and get out of my bed.”
“You don’t wanna watch?” Harry jokes, pushing to his feet fully.
“No- I wanna sleep at night for the first time since August,” Ron yawns, waving a hand at Harry. “Now, go.”
“Alright, alright,” Harry smiles, relenting as he crosses the floor back to his own bed. Before he can get under the covers, though, Ron clears his throat- drawing Harry’s attention back to his best friend.
“Hey, Harry,” Ron blinks blearily, his eyes glossy with sleep. “Say, same time tomorrow? If we both can’t sleep, that is.”
Harry feels his smile growing, and he nods twice, just in case the first one was lost to the darkness of their dorm room.
“Yeah, man,” Harry whispers. “I can do tomorrow.”
“Great,” Ron yawns, pulling his covers around his shoulders and burrowing into his pillows. “G’night then, Harry.”
“Night, Ron,” Harry whispers, throwing back his own covers and climbing in.
For the first time in ages, Harry is welcomed by blissfully-cold sheets. He can’t help but sigh as he buries himself in layers of abandoned cotton and freezing silk, his heartbeat slowing to match his breathing.
Harry sleeps through the rest of the night without any qualms, and dreams no dreams.
When Harry wakes, he feels more refreshed than he has all year, which is a miracle, considering he only got around five hours of uninterrupted sleep. After rolling out of bed, he and Ron groggily make their way down to the common room, still in their pajamas (which are a matching snitch and quaffle pattern, by the way), and find Hermione waiting for them beside the fireplace.
She looks up from her novel at the haunted shuffle of their approach, and smiles when Ron places a kiss atop her head. Harry flops down beside her feet, grumbling as he puts his back to the fire, and soaks in as much heat as possible.
“You two look…” Hermione shrugs to herself, looking the pair of them up and down. “Better than usual, actually. Sleep okay last night?”
“Yeah, surprisingly,” Harry relents, stretching his arms above his head and arching his back in the hopes that it’ll crack. He groans when it does, and opens his eyes to see Malfoy watching him from across the common room, his jaw half-open. Harry lowers his arms, eyes narrowing as he gestures to himself. “See something interesting, Malfoy?”
As if snapped out of a temporary daze, Malfoy tosses up a middle finger, his sneer evident. At least now he's acting normal.
“Put some goddamn clothes on, Potter,” Malfoy hisses, stalking by with his chin held high, refusing to look at Harry again. He watches from the ground as Malfoy spins the wheel to the circular door, tripping slightly on his way out. He snickers at the sight, taking that as Malfoy’s retribution for the day.
“Don’t antagonize him, Harry,” Hermione sighs, leaning into Ron as he cards through her endless curls. “He’s got it rough enough, as is.”
“Rough how?” Ron mutters, still more groggy than anything. “It’s Malfoy. ”
“Yeah!” Harry agrees, leaning back on his hands. “Malfoy has like- the smoothest skin ever, let me tell ya’. Not a speck on him. If there’s a rough patch somewhere, I’ve certainly never seen it.”
Hermione blinks at Harry once. Ron blinks at him twice, his lips screwing into a disgusted frown. It suddenly occurs to Harry that they were not talking about the flawlessness of Malfoy’s skin, or the texture of his skin at all.
“You’re lucky I’m still morning-slow, Harry, or I’d knock you upside the head for that,” Ron says, fake-gagging. “I’m revolted.”
“Don’t be jealous, Ron,” Harry says, just deciding to roll with it. “You have nice skin too, mate. On my honor.”
“You really think so?”
“I know so.”
“Aw, Harry, ” Ron fake-coos, putting a hand over his heart.
“Ron,” Harry grins back, copying Ron’s motion.
“Boys, ” Hermione clears her throat, glancing amusedly between them. “If I must say- it’s way too early in the morning for your bullshit, and I haven’t enough food in my stomach to listen to you fake-couple in the common room.”
“You’re just worried Harry’s gonna come and sweep me off my feet,” Ron says, planting a kiss on her cheek before reaching to help Harry off the ground. “He’s a decent-sized threat, being a world-savior and all.”
“Better watch out, ‘Mione,” Harry gloats, showing Hermione he and Ron’s connected palms. “I’ve already got him wrapped around my finger.”
“Okay, Casanovas,” Hermione rolls her eyes, slipping between them to take one of their hands each. “You can snog all you want later, but right now, I’m starving.”
“Put it on your itinerary, Ron,” Harry nods, lacing he and Hermione’s fingers together as they walk out of the common room. “Makeout session, my bed, four O’clock.”
“Done,” Ron nods, very seriously. “Looking forward to it.”
“Joke all you want now, but if I start snogging Ginny, I better hear no complaints,” Hermione teases, swinging their arms as they head down the nearest staircase.
“No fair!” Ron pouts. “Harry’s my best mate, ‘Mione.”
“Best mate,” Harry repeats, squeezing Hermione’s hand while she laughs at Ron’s puppy eyes. “Number one since first year, I reckon.”
"And haven't budged since," Ron says shamelessly.
"Glad to know how much you appreciate me, Ronald," Hermione sighs, looking to Harry. "I'll always be second to pouty-faced Potter, huh?"
"Only in the ways that matter," Harry consoles her, leading the trio onto the landing. "Ron's my best mate, but you'll always be my best girl."
"Yeah- girlfriend and best mate are at very similar levels of importance," Ron notes. "There's a system."
"Is there, now?" Hermione grins, laughter in the air as they wander their way to the great hall. "So you'll put in the work to create a system of friend-to-girlfriend importance, but I can't get you to do your transfiguration homework on time?"
"One is a labor of love," Ron says, nodding to Ginny at Gryffindor table as they pass by. "The other is a pain in the arse."
"Isn't that the story of my life," Hermione rolls her eyes, dropping down onto a stool at the eighth year table. Like the common room, and dorms, this new addition to Hogwarts' school is multi-house-applicable, which means the Gryffindors are sitting among the Slytherins, and the Hufflepuffs, and the Ravenclaws. All together, their robes clash like an inkwell of color, boiling in a meltingpot of McGonagall's making.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry jokes, nudging her in the side as he sits on her left, and Ron takes her right. Harry's not quite sure when they started flanking Hermione at meals, but it happened sometime after the war. Just out of a greater need to protect her, he supposes. "Am I the labor of love? Or the pain?"
"I'm obviously the love," Ron says, already hounding down a plateful of scrambled eggs. It's truly astonishing. "And you're the pain."
"How come you get to be the love?"
"Because I'm the one snoggin' her."
"Ew- don't say gross stuff like that."
"Why is that gross?"
"Because Hermione's like my sister!"
"You dated Ginny for four months!"
"That was different!"
"HOW?"
"In this hypothetical, you're both a pain," Hermione answers, reaching for a spare piece of toast on Harry's plate. He lets her take it, and grabs another one for himself. "The labor of love is my transfiguration homework."
"Checks out," Ron shrugs, returning to his eggs.
"Yeah, makes sense," Harry takes a bite off his toast. His eyes wander down the table, and for the second time that morning, Harry finds Draco Malfoy staring at him. This time, however, he doesn't call him out on it.
This time, he just stares back.
The two of them stay immobilized in each other's gaze, surrounded by the commotion of early-rising eighth years, yet completely silent themselves. Harry takes a bite of his toast. Draco takes a sip of his coffee.
Harry watches as Pansy strikes up a conversation with Draco, and for the first time in at least two minutes, their eye contact is broken. Harry immediately looks down at his empty plate, watching the crumbs disappear by some half-hand house elf magic. Subtly, a hand taps Harry on the back of the neck.
Over Hermione's head, Ron is watching him with a quizzical look on his face. Harry shrugs, his mouth screwing into a fine line. He doesn't know what just happened with Malfoy either, but it's definitely something they can debrief later.
And so begins the late-night talking.
From then on, at around Twelve AM, Harry and Ron meet atop one bed or another, and discuss the day's events. They philosphize life's greatest questions, such as- why is Hermione's hair so soft, and what the fuck is going on with Pansy Parkinson and Ginevra Weasley. They ponder Slytherin and Ravenclaw, and what exactly is a Hufflepuff- other than particularly-good finders.
All-in-all, eighth year is a whole lot less confusing with Harry and Ron's late night talks.
Or- that's what it started out as.
As the holidays approach, and tensions rise in the dorm room, things might get a little more complicated than Harry and Ron are equipped to handle- but hey, it can't be worse than fighting a war can it?
Two insomniac idiots, one confused Slytherin, and a blunt rotation from hell- but at least they have each other, which is all that really matters, in the end.
Just two best mates, and the world crashing around them.