Harry's seventeenth birthdy was much like the last five had been. The Dursleys ignored him, though it seemed to him that they started the morning especially sullen. Dudley got toast and eggs and thick rashers of bacon at breakfast while Harry got a burnt crust, a special birthday mockery. Harry didn't mind, though; he knew there would be owls for him by nightfall, bearing a cake and a present or two and a reminder that this wasn't really his world.
He spent most of the day taking a long walk—they didn't want him around, so they could hardly object to that—and when he let himself in that evening, the owls were waiting.
Mrs. Weasley had sent another misshapen jumper. The twins, some little pellets they assured him would explode if a Muggle looked at them crosswise. There was a wee sealed flagon of pumpkin juice, and a cake, as usual. Harry ate a third of it happily.
Pigwidgeon waited patiently for Harry to unwrap the scroll he carried.
Harry, Happy Birthday! The writing was Hermione's. We've got something brilliant for you. It's taken ages to figure out how to get our hands on ######## juice, but we did it! Touch your tongue to the circle on the bottom of the page before you go to sleep; you'll 'dream' of us tonight. There was a scrawl from Ron on the bottom of the page: Scratched out the potion name—should keep us out of trouble if this gets intercepted!
Harry looked at the note, feeling a little cheated. He'd known they'd see each other over the summer, but it smarted that they were together on his birthday while he was in enforced solitude. He couldn't quite make out the potion name; it looked like it started with an "a," and had an "i" in it, but he couldn't be sure. Regardless, he couldn't see what was so special about giving him a dream. He dreamed of Hermione and Ron most nights, honestly, in one way or another. Usually he dreamed about them hand-in-hand, acting the couple more than they did in real life—they said they didn't like being soppy in public, though Harry had always suspected they just didn't want to make him feel like a third wheel. He still did, but that wasn't their fault.
He preferred not to think about the dreams from which he woke up hard, or, worse, with sticky sheets he had to wash in secret while the Dursleys were sleeping. If Ron and Hermione ever knew...
Well, at least they'd sent a note. And they were thinking of him. That must count for something. Mustn't it?
Feeling a bit depressed, Harry ate a last bite of cake and then slid into bed. Just before he took off his glasses, he grabbed Hermione and Ron's scroll from the bedside table and touched his tongue to the circle she'd drawn. It didn't taste like anything. Maybe it had evaporated.
Well, one more birthday done: the last he'd have to spend in Little Whinging. He could be glad of that, at least.
Harry was in an unfamiliar room: a table, three chairs, a plush green couch, a single bed alongside one wall. The windows were curtained in deep blue. It smelt faintly of pumpkin juice.
"Harry!" Ron appeared at the door, and Harry couldn't help grinning. They hugged, a little awkwardly, but Harry felt happy all the same.
Probably reading the note from Hermione and Ron before bed had planted the seed of the dream in his head. A lucid dream would do him good. Since he knew he was dreaming, he could steer it away from Dementors, or Sirius' silent and reproachful spirit, or Cedric's lifeless body: that was a luxury. Good dreams always relieved the slow wretchedness of the summer, at least temporarily.
"Shove over," Hermione said, and elbowed Ron out of the way to hug Harry herself. "Happy birthday!"
"It isn't, anymore; I expect it's after midnight."
"Doesn't matter." She was beaming. "It worked!"
Harry wasn't sure what the big deal was, but refrained from saying so. No need to pick a quarrel with an imaginary Hermione.
"Good to see you," Ron added.
"You've lost weight! They're not feeding you." Hermione, indignant.
Harry laughed. It felt good to be fussed-over, even in a dream.
There was a pause before Hermione spoke again. "So what do you want to do? We've got all night."
Ron snickered. Hermione rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Ron—"
What the hell; it was a dream. He could have whatever he wanted. It was his birthday, after all, or close enough.
Harry hesitated, then plunged forward. "I want to go to bed with both of you."
Silence.
Ron gaped at him. Hermione's mouth was open just enough to let her tongue out, moistening her lips, which was surprisingly...captivating.
"Are you serious?" Ron's voice squeaked. "You mean, sex?" Harry almost laughed, but Hermione was staring at him now in a new way, like she could see further inside him than he was entirely comfortable with.
"Harry, how—how long have you wanted to--?"
Because this was a dream, it was easy to answer. "Ages. Since before you two got together." He shrugged, as if it didn't matter.
He saw Hermione catch Ron's eye; she stared at him pointedly, then turned back to Harry. Her expression softened. She looked like she was caught between smiling and crying. And then she put her arms around him and kissed him.
Kissing Hermione was amazing. Her breasts pressed against him, her arms held him close, and her mouth was sweet. Daring, he slid his tongue inside her mouth, and she sighed.
"Oi." Ron's voice beside his ear. He sounded angry.
Harry's heart sank; couldn't he have what he wanted even in a dream? He opened his eyes.
"What do you think you're doing, snogging my girlfriend before you kiss me? What kind of best friend are you, anyway?"
Relief washed through Harry and left him shaking. Ron was grinning again. "You git," he managed, before Ron tugged Hermione away and wrapped Harry in his own arms.
Kissing Ron was amazing, too, and entirely different. Ron was taller than he, and where Hermione had been soft and yielding, Ron's body was harder, and so was the kiss. For that matter, so was Harry.
Harry heard a swish of cloth. Hermione was undressing behind them, Ron was biting at Harry's lower lip, and Harry wasn't sure he could get more excited than he was.
Until Hermione urged them apart, pulled Harry's jumper over his head, and then guided him onto the enormous bed which had replaced the single bed against the wall. She must have cast engorgio on it; he'd been so focussed on rubbing against Ron that he hadn't noticed. The thought would have made him laugh, if he hadn't been so desperate for more.
Ron stripped while Hermione knelt on top of Harry, kissing him; then she slid down his body, pausing to lick a nipple thoughtfully, and settled between his legs. Harry sprawled on his back, savouring the sensation of Hermione breathing gently on the crotch of his trousers. He bit back a moan. He could feel her mouth through the dampening cloth.
She pulled back far enough to tug his clothes off, then returned to her task, this time licking gently along his prick. Harry gasped, and Ron leaned in to kiss him. Ron's mouth here, Hermione's mouth there: he had died and gone to heaven.
Ron pulled back. "Hey, let me have a go."
Hermione wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes laughing. "You don't know how."
"I know this," Ron said, settling himself against the pile of pillows at the headboard. "Here, Harry, come sit."
And then Harry was sitting in the vee of Ron's spread legs, leaning back against Ron's chest, and Ron's big freckled hand reached down to stroke him. Harry sighed, resisting the urge to thrust into the clasp of Ron's fingers, not wanting it to end too fast.
But then Hermione inched, on her belly, up between his thighs and put her mouth on the tip of his prick. Ron obligingly moved his hands down, working his balls.
Harry let his head fall back on Ron's shoulder, gasping. Ron bit the side of his neck and sucked. And all too soon, Harry was convulsing, shaking, coming—and Ron's arms held him tight, Hermione's mouth stayed there until the aftershocks passed, and then she climbed up his body and kissed him again.
After a while the kiss broke and Hermione tilted her head to kiss Ron over Harry's shoulder. They slid back into the pile of pillows, Ron's body plastered along Harry's backside, Hermione rubbing against his front. If Harry could have got hard again so soon, he would have. His whole body seemed to tingle. Ron's prick was nudging the back of Harry's thigh, Hermione was wet against him.
Feeling bold, Harry reached between them and slid a finger along the thatch of her pubic hair. She gasped and squirmed, parting her legs further. Harry wanted to gasp along with her, hardly believing she was letting him do this, hardly believing it was happening. A little voice reminded him that it wasn't, really, but he shoved the voice away and concentrated on how hot and lush Hermione felt around his fingers.
Ron was mouthing Harry's neck, thrusting against his hip. They were all three breathing hard, their struggle becoming frantic.
"I wanted," Harry managed, "to suck you, too" and Ron groaned and shuddered, his come splashing the back of Harry's legs. Hermione worked herself against Harry's fingers, her face and shoulders flushed, making needy little sounds that were almost whimpers. Harry felt like he was on fire.
"That's it," Ron murmured over Harry's shoulder, reaching around to rub Hermione's nipples. "Come for us." Hermione stiffened as Harry's thumb brushed her clit, and she collapsed, her body suddenly limp and lax.
They lay that way for a long while, just holding each other and breathing, their hands idly stroking hips and backs and arms.
Harry felt himself drifting towards sleep. The bed shifted: Ron and Hermione were disentangling themselves, moving away.
"Hey," Harry said, sitting up. He was aware suddenly that his hair was probably standing on end, that all three of them were red with bite-marks and sticky with come. He felt a pang of sorrow that the dream was ending. This had been loads better than any of the others: usually the sex dreams were furtive, him watching them in bed and touching himself under the invisibility cloak. He'd never outright asked for it before. This one had been so good...
"We'll let you sleep," Hermione said. "You'll Apparate back automatically when you hit REM."
Apparate? A wave of worry swept through him. What if he got home to a Citation for Apparating without a license? He might be seventeen now, but he'd have to wait until term started to make the trip to the Ministry....
But he was being ridiculous. There wouldn't be any Citation, because none of this was real. Even if it were possible to Apparate in one's sleep, there was no way the events of the last few hours had actually happened. This was a dream, he told himself for the hundredth time, so he might as well enjoy the end of it. Harry tried to focus on the tenderness in Hermione's voice and in her expression. She jerked her head towards Ron. "We've got a lot to talk about."
They laughed. This was probably just what it would be like if it really happened, Harry thought, and the sorrow intensified until it was almost physical pain.
"Was it a good birthday present?" Ron asked, sounding like he was trying to be nonchalant.
"The best," Harry said. Oddly, even though none of this was real, even though his heart was aching, he meant it.
"I'm sorry we can't see you again until school," Hermione said. "But as soon as we get back, we'll figure something out! There must be places we can —"
"Yeah, no way are we trying this in a dormitory bed," Ron interrupted.
"We could Transfigure one, I'm positive I could —"
Despite himself, Harry yawned.
"Sorry, mate." Ron looked vaguely embarrassed. "We'll let you sleep. See you in a few weeks."
"And I'll owl you in the morning!" Hermione's voice already sounded farther away. They were receding.
"Bye," Harry murmured, and closed his eyes again.
When he woke it was late morning, by the looks of the light. Pigwidgeon was sitting on the windowsill, trying to interest Hedwig in owlish conversation.
"Hey, Pig," Harry said softly. "I thought I sent you home last night...?"
The owl chirruped softly and extended a foot, on which another scroll was tied.
Hermione had said she'd owl in the morning...
A shiver ran up Harry's spine.
He picked up the small mirror in his trunk. His hair was rumpled, his eyes squinty from sleep...
...and on his neck, clear as day, were red bite-marks. Where Ron's mouth had sucked, bringing blood to the skin.
Harry sat down on the bed, feeling lighter than air, and laughed.
The End