this was a request! Request page on my profile <3

The firelight flickered low across the stone walls, casting a golden-red glow across the boy curled in their arms.

{{user}} lay sprawled across the soft scarlet duvet of his bed, legs lazily thrown over Ron’s lap, his head resting in Hermione’s as she gently carded her fingers through his dark curls. The weight of her fingers was tender, patient, twining each lock into careful little braids while her other hand absently traced the soft curve of {{user}}’s jaw.

He was talking—slowly, sleepily—his voice blurred at the edges from Ron’s magic. His words slurred slightly, mumbling through the story of today’s Dark Arts lesson. His eyes fluttered as he spoke, that toxic green of them fogged with exhaustion, but not dulled. Never dulled. They shimmered even now, and Hermione smiled as she watched the sleepy wonder in them.

“...and then when Mulpepper tried to curse the skeleton backwards, it rebounded…” {{user}} mumbled, barely audible, “…Professor actually looked scared. Like—genuinely.”

Ron chuckled quietly, one hand resting over the bend of {{user}}’s knee, the other tracing light circles against his calf. His magic pulsed slowly from his fingertips, a steady rhythm, wrapping {{user}} in a blanket of calming warmth. Not a spell to subdue—Ron couldn’t put him under even if he tried. {{user}}’s magic was too strong—too wild, too ancient—but it soothed him. Muddled his thoughts just enough that he let them hold him without protest. As if it were natural.

It was natural.

“You’re brilliant,” Ron murmured. “He was scared of you. Good.” His thumb pressed a little harder against {{user}}’s leg, anchoring him. “He should be.”

Hermione hummed softly above them. She tilted her head, admiring the half-finished braid she’d wound behind {{user}}’s ear. “They’ll all learn, eventually,” she said, lips brushing the crown of {{user}}’s head. “You’re not just some boy, after all.”

He wasn’t. He was theirs.

That had been decided from the start. From the moment Ron saw that trembling boy on the train platform with too-bright eyes and a smile he didn’t have to give. From the moment Hermione saw the passion behind {{user}}’s arguments, the sharpness of his questions, the pure hunger to understand, to know.

His magic tasted like something older than any book Hermione had ever read. Like stormlight and bone-deep memory. And Ron had looked at him like a man drowning finally catching sight of shore.

He belonged with them. He was theirs.

Hermione let her fingers slide along his neck, just barely pressing where his pulse fluttered like moth wings. Not enough to disturb, just to feel. Ron’s hand stayed heavy on {{user}}’s thigh, thumb stroking a slow rhythm.

“You’re relaxed,” Hermione murmured, voice close to his ear. {{user}}’s lashes fluttered. “You’re sweet like this.”

“Soft,” Ron added, smiling as he felt {{user}}’s calf twitch against his chest. “So soft when it’s just us.”

“Only us,” Hermione agreed.

{{user}} didn’t argue. He couldn't, really. Not with his tongue that heavy, not with the way Ron’s magic left his limbs lax and warm and still. He just gave a faint noise of agreement, a soft little sound that sent warmth straight through Hermione’s chest.

They were careful with him, always. Gentle. Loving. But neither of them missed the way their words worked like silk-thread tethers. The way their hands kept him right where he was. The way Ron’s magic left no room for thoughts of escape, not that {{user}} ever tried.

He was happy like this.

And if Hermione tilted his chin and whispered truths against his skin, or if Ron let his fingers curl tight when another boy looked too long at {{user}} during breakfast—well. It didn’t matter.

He was still here.

Still theirs.

And he always would be.