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“Big hands,” Draco says, and blushes, and Ron laughs out loud at that.
“Shut up, Malfoy,” he replies, but he pushes Draco back against the pillows and kisses him hard, quickly, a bit too rough. Harry is close enough that he can hear the skate of stubble, see Draco’s throat work on a swallow when Ron moves his mouth away.
It’s still so new.
“You told me it was his freckles,” Harry says quietly, though he thinks it probably was Ron’s hands, at least a bit; the capable span of them around a pint, his lazily assured casting, that time during a friendly that he’d knocked Draco into a spin and then casually reached out for him and caught him before he came off his broom.
Harry likes Ron’s hands too, but then he likes everything about Ron. Draco doesn’t.
“The freckles are alright,” Draco says crossly, looking at Harry, but when Ron shrugs and moves off him, sits back onto his knees, Draco’s eyes follow him almost unwillingly. And just because he can, and because they’re both acting like shits, Harry reaches out and presses a finger to Ron’s chest, maps the spray of freckles along his collarbone, over the curve of his shoulder, down one bicep. He can feel the faintest tremble of muscle under his touch. Draco is very still beside him.
“Your turn, Ron,” Harry says, and they both turn to look at him again. The bed’s too small for them all, really, but Harry doesn’t mind. He can feel Draco’s leg against his under the blanket, Ron’s weight making the bed dip as he leans back to look at Draco properly.
He’s going to say Draco’s mouth, Harry thinks. It makes sense; it might even be the same thing Harry would pick—that mouth he knows so well, and that Ron is still learning the taste and feel of. Harry knows that Ron loves getting to make Draco be quiet under him.
“Probably…” Ron looks speculative, and Draco looks worried, and Harry just hopes Ron will be gentle about it. But then he says, “Getting to see you. The way you are now. Like this. Sort of… soft. Different to how you are at work.”
And Draco goes still, his thigh pressing against Harry’s, and Harry hears—they all hear—Draco’s shaky inbreath. Ron smiles, though it’s not a very nice smile, like he’s got one up on both of them, and he spreads his hands slowly, shrugs.
“It is what it is,” he says. “Don’t read too much into it.”
In all of this, Harry thinks, Ron has been the biggest surprise. Draco wanting Harry wasn’t all that much of a shock, once they untangled everything else between them; it had been easy, really, once they realised what it was they wanted from each other.
And Draco wanting Ron wasn’t much of a stretch either, especially not now Harry knows Draco so well. Draco is fascinated by power, even though he hates that about himself, and he wasn’t ever going to be able to resist Ron once they started working together. Ron pushes Draco around in work, because that’s how he operates. They both like it like that, and everyone in the Auror department knows it. They’re partners and they’re brilliant at what they do, and Draco is happy to shut up and let Ron take charge of strategy, because when it comes down to it, Draco is razor sharp, and competitive, and he’s willing to do things Ron’s way if it means being the best. He puts up with shit from Ron that Harry would have walked out on, and he does all of that—the boring paperwork, the endless coffee runs—because he’s happy for Ron to use him to get them where they want to be. He trusts Ron to get things right. And Harry knows how complicated those sorts of feelings can get, once they’re all messed up with attraction, and when it comes down to it, Ron is just Draco’s type, in lots of ways. It just took him a while to notice.
But Ron wanting Draco is the weirdest part of it all, and it’s still the part that feels a bit shaky sometimes, the unsteady base in this strange little triangle. Ron doesn’t often want people other than Harry, not since Hermione anyway, and Ron also doesn’t really believe in mixing business with pleasure. He barely even goes to the pub nights, because he doesn’t like the trainees seeing him relaxed. Work is one of the only things Ron takes seriously. But when it comes to Draco, Ron seems to have decided to break his own rules. Harry had seen it coming; had seen how Ron watched Draco with the same cool curiosity that he kept for the toughest, goriest cases. Ron has never come across a puzzle that he didn’t want to crack. Plus, he really likes getting to make Draco shut up.
And now Harry has them both right where he likes them.
Draco moves towards Ron, though he’s slow and careful about it. He tangles his fingers in Ron’s hair and pulls him in demandingly, but his eyes slide to Harry before he does anything else, holding Ron over him, both of them breathing in sync and flushed where their skin would like to touch.
“Can we…” Draco says, and Ron turns his head so their noses brush as he looks at Harry too with that same bright, collusive, blue-glaze gaze that he’s always had.
“Yeah mate, do you mind if…?”
Harry rolls his eyes and turns on his side so he can watch, and he waves a hand at them—go on! And then they kiss properly, Ron dropping onto Draco as though he’s finally getting used to this, and Draco is still looking at Harry when his eyes flutter shut and his body arches up, cleanly and uninhibitedly.
Neither of them had asked Harry what he likes best about them, but Harry watches them and feels the sick curl of excitement low in his belly, like something lost and gained all at once, and he wonders what he’d say if they did ask; would it be mouth or hands or arse, the gleam of clean hair or the hidden scent of a freshly-revealed patch of skin, blue eyes or grey? He doesn’t think he’d tell them what he really loves the most, and that’s the fact that both of them have been his for such a long time, in one way or another, and he loves that he gets to keep them.
It’s a long week, and on Friday Harry starts his early shift just as Ron and Draco are finishing their late. On Harry’s first patrol he sees the two of them—they’re exhausted, pale from paperwork and too much coffee, sitting muffled up on a bench at the wrong end of Diagon, eating bacon sandwiches from Accio Snackio.
Draco sits on the back of the bench, spine straight and tense because he never can come off the alert straight after work; Ron has his legs stretched out in front of him, eyes closed, face uptilted to the winter sun. He’s relaxed, Harry realises, and as he watches from across the street, Draco swipes the last packet of ketchup, so very pleased with himself, and then he pauses, hesitant, before he very carefully pets the blazing stream of Ron’s hair. Once, twice, and then he leaves his hand there tentatively. Both of them are still for a moment, just sitting there out in the open where anyone could see them, and the trainee Harry’s partnering stares at the ground, face red, clearly not knowing what to say about it, because everyone knows Malfoy is Harry’s out of work, just as they know that he’s Ron’s in work. For a minute, Harry hates them both for their small casual thoughtlessness.
He doesn’t stop to talk, just continues on the patrol with a sharp, dangerous look at his trainee which he hopes will ensure that not a hint of a rumour goes around the Auror department, ever. And he has a shitty day and gets home in a shitty mood to find Ron in his kitchen and Draco reading on his couch, and because he isn’t quite finished being cross with them, he goes for a long angry shower.
When he comes out they’re sitting on the bed, not touching, and both of them are so obviously waiting for him that he feels a little bit better all of a sudden.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Draco asks, and then looks annoyed when Ron and Harry both roll their eyes. “Fine, just continue with your little temper tantrum then.”
“Give it a rest, Malfoy. He’s just tired.” Ron sounds tired himself. “He’s had a long day.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” Draco says sharply, and Harry shushes them both irritably and then Ron says, “Well I suppose you’re the expert then, Malfoy,” and actually storms out of the room.
“He’s just worried about you,” Draco says, “after you saw us this morning,” and Harry realises they had seen him watching, and he definitely doesn’t want to talk about that.
“Did you fuck before I got home?”
“We didn’t,” Draco says, and pulls Harry down onto the bed with him. “But I can tell you we did, if that’s what you want to hear.”
“I’ve known you both since I was eleven,” Harry says, suddenly frustrated. “This is supposed to be easy.”
“This—” Draco waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the bed “—this was never going to be easy. Especially with him involved. But you can’t expect me to tell you that I don’t care about him. You don’t always get to be the focus of this, you know.”
“I’m the one he’s in love with,” Harry says meanly, and Draco laughs, a short humourless thing, and sits up.
“You’re the one we’re both in love with,” he says. “But you’re still being a prick.”
He moves off the bed to the door, and the arc of light from the hall dazzles Harry, leaves an imprint of Draco’s silhouette against the inside of his eyes.
“I think dinner’s ready.”
He leaves the door open, and Harry keeps his eyes closed and breathes in the heady complicated smell of whatever they’ve been cooking, and thinks about how he wants to taste it.
“Does he like this?” Ron asks Draco quietly.
Ron’s not looking at Harry (though Draco is), but he is touching Harry (though Draco isn’t). Harry is lying on the bed, and he feels vulnerable and on display with Ron kneeling between his legs and Draco looking down at him from over Ron’s shoulder. Draco presses himself tighter against Ron’s back, and Harry wriggles restlessly in Ron’s grasp. He’s breathless, and jittery with a sort of spiteful need for all of Ron’s attention. Every time he moves, Ron’s hand tightens absent-mindedly, and it’s almost, but not quite, enough. Harry whimpers, his whole body hot with impatience and a frustrated sort of desire that comes entirely from watching Draco hold Ron so close as he whispers into Ron’s ear too quietly for Harry to hear.
“Come on,” Harry says, and Ron leans over him and presses a finger to his mouth, and Harry isn’t sure if it’s chastisement or a caress, and he’s not sure he cares.
“I want to get it right, Harry,” Ron says, and Draco—the bastard—laughs at the wild look on Harry’s face before hooking his chin over Ron’s shoulder so he can see Harry better, and when he starts talking again, his voice is louder, so Harry can hear. He sounds cool and amused and dreadfully posh, and Harry knows that’s for Ron’s benefit, to piss him off or drive him crazy, or both.
“He likes it,” Draco tells Ron, and Ron looks down his own body, a furrow of concentration between his brows as he moves forward, strokes the back of Harry’s knee nervously. He’s blushing. It’s nice to know he can still get like that.
“He likes how big you are,” Draco says, and Harry nods, and Ron finally looks up at him and smiles, the huge beautiful grin that shows he’s really pleased about something, and Draco slides a hand around him, presses against his stomach, murmurs, “I like how big you are too,” and then he drops his hand to guide Ron against Harry.
“Go on,” Draco says, “I told you, he likes it,” and Ron pushes forward, hips pressing Harry down into the bed, and he mutters, “Yeah, I got that, thanks” but then he’s nudging into Harry slowly and they all go quiet, like the air has been sucked out of the room leaving nothing but this feeling of the too much- and just right-ness of the three of them together this time.
And it doesn’t always work for Harry, when they’re all together like this, but now they’re both watching him and he likes it so much, and then Draco drops a kiss on the back of Ron’s neck and shifts around him to lie down next to Harry, and that’s even better, because then he feels compressed between them, all his uncertainties wiped clean by their twin forcefulnesses.
“Now he’s happy,” Draco says to Ron, and Harry doesn’t even protest, because he is. Ron moves faster, the force of his breaths heaving through Harry to where he’s anchored by Draco’s arm across his body, as he teeters on the brink of mindlessness, held there on the edge by the distracting purposeful touch of Draco’s hand against his chest, scooping the curve of his ribcage, centring him.
“This is good,” Harry says, first to Draco, then louder so Ron can hear, “This is so good.” And Draco strokes at his hair, gathering the curls into his fist, tugging Harry into a kiss, and Harry thinks of Draco’s touch to Ron’s head, the complicated, hopeful, public tenderness of it. Then Ron kisses Harry's ankle where it rests on Ron’s shoulder, and Draco is still kissing Harry's mouth, just a lazy dip and touch of tongue, and Harry comes between them both, shivering.
Much later, Harry curls away from the middle of the bed towards Draco. Ron is taking up half the mattress, and he’s slack with sleep, not quite snoring, but Draco still doesn’t sleep well and Harry knows he’s half awake, alert for Harry’s breathing. Their legs tangle, and Draco hauls him in close so that they can whisper into each other’s skin.
“Sometimes,” Harry tells him, “I miss it being just us. Or maybe...” He doesn't finish, because he doesn't want to make Draco sad, but then again, Draco knows that Ron was something for Harry long before Draco was.
Maybe it isn’t fair to say it, with Ron beside them, because Harry knows that Draco would never have touched Ron in the first place if he hadn’t wanted to make Harry happy.
Draco probably feels the same, because he sighs. Even in the dark, Harry can sense him frowning, but he doesn’t stop stroking along Harry’s ribs, because he’s kind these days, especially late at night when things seem bigger than they are.
“You couldn’t be without him,” Draco answers, which is true, though in the dark Harry can hear the sharp edge of hurt in his voice. “And I could, but I don’t think I want to be. Not anymore.”
“I couldn’t be without you either, though,” Harry says, moving closer so Draco can kiss his hair and his closed eyelids. Behind them Ron stirs.
“Yes, yes.” He sounds cross and his voice is all muddied up with sleep. “We all simply can’t be without each other. Now can you two shut up and go to sleep, please?” Harry feels Draco’s breath of laughter in his hair, and Ron moves closer so Harry can feel him when he slips back into sleep, and Harry thinks he might be tired after all.
Meals at the Burrow are always awful when Draco is there. Most of the Weasleys still hate him, and Draco thinks they’re right to, and it sets Harry’s teeth on edge to see him talking too much and too politely, trying to keep things nice, knowing everyone is just trying to get things over with. Molly invites him every week anyway, and has since he started partnering Ron, but he hardly ever comes along.
Molly still doesn’t understand why Ron doesn’t request a new partner. She still doesn’t understand what Harry sees in Draco, even all these years later. And she definitely still doesn’t understand what’s going on with Harry and Ron, and she’s never asked. She always looks a bit worried when the three of them turn up together, but today is quiet and less hostile, with no George and no Bill, just Percy and his small, mewling new baby, and Ginny who can be counted on not to start an argument at least.
After lunch, Draco insists on helping Molly clear the table, and Harry listens to their uncomfortable polite conversation and feels really miserable, but then Ron squeezes his thigh under the table and winks at him, and they grab some of Molly’s lemon drizzle cake and go out into the garden out of earshot. They sit on damp deckchairs and eat cake with their fingers until Harry feels better.
Draco eventually emerges, looking tired and relieved and a bit queasy, and he comes straight over and shoves another deckchair into the middle so that he’s wedged in between Harry and Ron, his elbows knocking theirs. He leans back in the chair and closes his eyes.
“I don’t suppose you saved me some cake? Brutes.”
Ron hands him a slice, and by the time they notice Ginny waving at them from her broom down the other end of the garden, the sun is out.
“I know we have another Cleansweep in here somewhere,” Ron mutters, and the glow of his Lumos casts jumping shadows around the shed. The brooms are old but well-kept and Harry doesn’t think there’ll be too much between them if it comes to a race, though Ginny has undoubtedly already nabbed the 11 and left the 5s for them.
Ron is already mounted and about to kick off when Draco stops him, and Harry thinks he’s going to argue over the broom, because when it comes to Quidditch Draco is still the most competitive. But then Draco leans over the bristles of the tail, wand out, and Harry sees Ron going a little pale as he twists to watch, and when Draco pulls back carefully he’s wielding a little Stasis bubble that contains an extremely large spider.
Harry and Ron watch as he backs away from Ron’s broom and carefully Leviosas the spider into the long grass under the hedge.
“What was that about? Why did you do that?” Ron asks roughly, and Draco doesn’t answer, just sniffs a bit and leans to pick up his own broom, and then says loudly, “I know you don’t like them, that’s all.” And Ron lets his own broom clatter to the path and spreads his hands helplessly, before he strides off, grabbing Draco by the wrist as he goes.
“Come on, Harry,” Ron calls back, and then they’re all on the patio outside the living room, and Harry can distantly hear the baby crying jaggedly and Molly and Percy chatting over the noise, but then Ron turns and takes Draco into his arms right there in front of the French doors, and he kisses him.
Draco stays very still at first, arms by his sides, but then Harry sees his spine loosen and arch, and he goes up on his toes so he can get his hands into Ron’s hair, and he kisses Ron back. It’s not even a long kiss, just them moving against each other for one heated moment, then Ron pulls back and smiles, but Molly and Percy stop talking.
Harry stands uselessly to one side, watching Ron and Draco, and feels a small hot curl of shame at how much he likes seeing them like that, from a distance, like he’s not part of any of it, but then Ron puts his hand out to him and says, “Come on,” like Harry’s being silly. Harry takes it and allows himself to be pulled in, right into the middle, with Draco’s arms around his waist and Ron’s thumb rubbing circles at his wrist.
“This has been a lovely lunch,” Draco says, and Harry can feel Ron shaking with silent laughter.
"I love you," Harry thinks, and "I love you", and he’s fairly sure that’s enough love to go around for all three of them.