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They were probably the best sandwiches he’d ever had in his life. That’s what Harry decides as he sits on the couch in the common room, staring at crumbs on the empty plate and wishing there was one more sandwich, just one more. He thinks of asking Kreacher for another, but Kreacher was there in the battle too and he doesn’t need to be making sandwiches all day. Do house elves make sandwiches from scratch? Harry wonders, or is there a sandwich charm? Sandwichus Makus? Accio Delicious? He laughs at himself, feeling distinctly light-headed.
“Tell yourself a knock-knock joke?” Ron asks dryly. He too had been looking mournfully at the empty platter, even after Hermione had sighed and given him half of her second sandwich, which he’d promptly devoured.
“I was just wondering if there’s a sandwich charm,” Harry says, his eyes feeling heavy, his hands seeming like they’re entirely too far away from his body. “And if there is, why didn’t we learn it in Charms?” Ron looks at him like he’s mad, then slants his eyes towards Hermione, who’s curled up next to him with her knees angled across his lap.
“Do you want to tell him about Gamp’s law, or should I?” he asks her, and she smiles.
“Right, right,” Harry says, waving his hand broadly and accidentally whacking Ron’s shoulder. “But that’s for food. Sandwiches aren’t just food, they’re sandwiches. That’s, like…more than just food. Sandwiches are in their own category. Sandwiches, sandwiches,” he says, the word starting to sound foreign and ridiculous. “Did I just make that word up?” He sees Ron and Hermione exchange amused glances.
“All right, let’s get you to bed before you go completely round the twist,” Ron says, getting to his feet and heaving Harry out of the soft couch with a firm yank. Hermione stands stiffly, rubbing the back of her neck as Ron stretches his limbs with many pops and cracks. They move towards the stairs. The activity clears his head a little and Harry thinks of his old four-poster bed upstairs. It seems anticlimactic. You win a war and then you nip off to bed. Hermione hesitates at the bottom of the stairs to the girls’ dorm.
“Hermione?” Ron asks when she doesn’t move.
“I just spent months stuck in a tent with you two,” she says with a rueful laugh. She lifts her eyes, looks at them sadly. “You'd think I’d be sick of you.”
“Hermione,” Harry starts. He glances over at Ron, but he sees that Ron’s already extended his hand palm-up towards her. A look of relief washes over Hermione’s face and she reaches out and takes it, allows him to tug her close to his side.
“All right, enough dawdling,” Ron says, the ring of authority in his voice. He prods Harry’s shoulder with his free hand. “Up to bed with you, then.” Harry raises his eyebrows, makes an amused face at Hermione, who giggles. It’s a sound none of them have heard for a while and it seems to loosen something within him. He can almost forget everything it cost for them to be here at this moment.
“Yes, sir,” he says smartly, and allows himself to be herded up the stairs, Ron and Hermione behind him.
They’d be too tired to change into pajamas even if they had any. Ron gives Harry a push and he topples into his bed like a felled tree. He lies there, arms flung out, eyes half-closed.
“It’s too far,” he hears Hermione say. “Help me move it.” Scraping sounds suddenly fill the room, followed by a thump and Ron swearing. Harry rolls his head bonelessly to the side and sees the two of them wrestling Ron’s bed closer.
“Why don’t we just use magic?” Ron grunts as he gives it a heave. Harry’s mattress jostles as the heavy frames collide at one corner. He’d been wondering the same thing.
“Because,” Hermione answers. There’s something in her voice, something determined and satisfied, and Harry thinks he understands the appeal of doing it the old-fashioned way right this moment. “Come around here and help me push this end closer.” Ron moves past Harry’s field of vision – which is getting narrower by the moment as his eyelids grow heavier – and then another jolt rocks the mattress as the beds are finally pushed flush together.
“There,” Hermione says with satisfaction, brushing her hands together as she moves to the side of the bed and clambers on. Harry watches her crawl towards his feet with barely open eyes. Her hands are warm on his ankles as she levers off first one shoe, then the other, letting them fall to the floor with twin thumps. Answering thuds on the other side of the bed tell him that Ron’s doing the same with his own. It occurs to Harry that his feet probably smell terrible. Hermione doesn’t seem to notice, though, as she wrenches the covers out from under his prone form and tucks his feet in one at a time.
“All set,” she says, giving his blanket-covered feet a pat. She loses her balance a bit as Ron jumps enthusiastically on to the mattress, his weight making it dip away from Harry. Harry catches her hand in his, steadies her. She starts to pull away, but he holds fast, suddenly needing to make sure she knows how grateful he is to have her, to have them both.
“Hermione,” he says. He tries to say more, but there’s a lump in his throat that just won’t budge. Her eyes soften as she looks at him. Ron’s curled on his side behind her like a question mark, one arm around her waist, his hand resting lightly on her hip. He watches Harry carefully, a bit of a frown beetling his forehead.
“Thanks,” Harry finally manages, his voice sounding froggy and broken. “Both of you. For everything.” Hermione’s eyes well up and she leans forward on her knees to lay her hand on his cheek. Her palm is warm; her fingers brush aside his hair to rest gently on his scar. An almost painful sense of belonging surges through him and he finds his own vision swimming as he turns his face and presses his lips to her palm. She starts crying then in earnest. His cheek feels cold when she pulls away, brushing at her eyes hastily before groping blindly for Ron’s hand. Harry wouldn’t be surprised to see Ron wince, she clutches it so tightly. But Ron doesn’t seem to mind. He just presses his forehead to Hermione’s shoulder.
“Get some sleep, Harry,” he says.
“You’ll both be here when I wake up?” Harry asks sleepily, urgently. His eyes feel like lead; he can barely keep them open.
“Always, mate,” Ron answers.
“Always?” Even as tired as he is, he can’t help laughing. “Don’t let’s get carried away. Unless you’re trying to propose? Because-”
“Not bloody likely,” Ron scoffed. “You snore. And Hermione’s got better-” He makes a grabbing gesture in front of his chest, only to be cut short by Hermione’s sharp Ron!. He exchanges a furtive grin with Harry.
“That’s it,” she says. “Bed. All of us. Now.”
“Racy,” Ron enthuses with a comical leer.
“Now,” she repeats firmly.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, pushing his feet under the covers and tenting them up with his arm for Hermione to slide in next to him. As Harry’s eyes finally fall shut, he feels Hermione’s hand wrap around his wrist. He falls asleep to the reassuring sound of them bickering in whispers over whose arm goes where and which one of them has greater claim to the pillow. When he dreams, it’s of his future, of the future they’ll all have together.
title from a woody allen quote: There are two types of people in this world, good and bad. The good sleep better, but the bad seem to enjoy the waking hours much more.