It’s been like this since the war ended. Hands-on ankles, shoulders, wrists always in sight, always close enough to touch. Harry can’t breathe, sometimes, when Hermione has classes they don’t share, when Ron leaves in the evenings to take showers. He thinks it’s the same for them, sees the strain around Hermione’s eyes disappear when he enters a room, Ron’s shoulders dropping, one centimetre at a time when Harry tucks himself into the space next to him on the couch, like their shoulders pressed together, like Harry’s feet tucked under Ron’s thigh is the only thing, sometimes, that reminds him Harry’s alive. Sometimes it’s the only thing that convinces Harry he isn’t still dead.

 They sleep too often curled up on the couch together, hands and legs and arms entangled. Necks stiff upon waking. It’s a better prospect than leaving them. Drawing the curtains around his bed and not knowing, not feeling. He doesn’t like when he can’t hear their breaths, heartbeats. Doesn’t like being alone, has never liked it maybe, but can no longer tolerate it. 

Tonight they do exactly that. It’s not late enough for everyone to have gone to bed yet, and many linger in the common room, voices quiet, murmuring, not loud enough for Harry to hear what they’re saying, just quiet enough for it to be a pleasant hum of company that surrounds the three of them. 

He’s heard professors muttering about co-dependance and worrying attachment. He hears Hermione huff out words like trauma and reasonable and PTSD while she slides closer to him on the bench. He finds that he trusts her judgment more than he trusts the adults. Usually allows his arm to slouch over her shoulders, dangling close enough to brush fingers along Ron’s arms. 

Hermione shifts next to him, draws closer, even as she lifts her head to lay on Ron’s shin, wraps a dry hand around Harry’s ankle. They have abandoned the couch in favour of blankets and cushions in front of the fire. He hears Ginny’s laugh, Luna’s rich voice. He’s content to stay where he is. They don’t speak in these moments, no longer require words for intimacy, let touch be their primary manner of communication. Ron’s arm is heavy around his shoulder, and he breathes a sigh, let his head fall back to the pillow he had stolen from the couch. 

This contentment is so like happiness. The warmth no less than what he thinks of as home. He watches firelight dance across the gilded ceiling, scarlet walls. Focuses on Hermione’s inhales, pressing against his legs, the way Ron’s fingers beat rhythmic, tum tum tum, on the wall behind him.  

Hermione shifts again, sits up just enough to see them. 

“Harry?” she asks. She looks tentative, and this is an emotion Harry has rarely seen on her. Fierce, bright, determined, inquisitive. Never hesitant. 

“Do you think, and I know you said you didn’t want to go back to Grimmauld, but we were thinking, if Ron and I came with you. If all three of us moved in and cleaned it up, that it could be really nice.”

Harry can’t think of anything better,  he smiles at her, and she smiles back, wide and pleased, warm, loving. She doesn’t say it’s so they can all stay together, he thinks he understands her perfectly anyways.