They Were Three

They Were Three

I thought they would always be three.

All through their school days, there were three of them together. People called them the Golden Trio, and in many ways they were. Sometimes they would fight amongst themselves, slight squabbles or huge wracking silences that stretched on for months. But whenever an outsider attacked one of them, they would turn as one to annihilate the intruder, coming together into a solid wall of protection and - togetherness, I suppose.

I was never one of them; never could be one of them. They were as close as friends, as siblings, as lovers. And yet I found myself watching them almost hungrily, longing to be part of a three of my own, wanting with all the heart I possessed to have such companions. But my fate has always been to be the only child, always alone.

We all thought Hermione would choose one of the boys when they grew up. I think opinions were divided about equally whether it would be Ron ("obvious sexual attraction; just look at them arguing") or Harry ("the hero always gets the girl"). The other girls, although admiring of the two boys, held back from making any move until Hermione had indicated her choice. None of us ever expected that she would choose both of them.

And yet, when I thought about, after everyone had recovered, Hermione's choice made sense. How could she have chosen between two parts of herself? Of course there would be three of them. They were always three.

In the final battle against Voldemort, Harry faced his greatest enemy with his greatest friends on either side of him. They stood as one, wands outstretched, shoulders touching. When Harry spoke the final Killing Curse, it was the loving bonds between them that truly defeated the dark wizard, as he found himself surrounded by a force that nothing he possessed could ever stop.

I watched them afterwards, in all the hectic relief of the never-ending parties to celebrate the end of the war. The people around them were shouting and laughing, drinking and singing, the noise levels growing in inverse proportion to the levels of alcohol left in the bottles. But they sat, a quiet island in the middle of a turbulent sea, simply smiling at each other in silent triumph.

They moved in together after graduating, to a small flat near Diagon Alley. Harry was playing as Seeker with the Montrose Magpies while Ron worked at the Ministry of Magic, and Hermione spent her days - and sometimes nights - researching for her job as Wizengamot Consultant (Trainee). Yet somehow, they managed to manipulate timetables and juggle commitments so that they were never too busy to take time for the other two.

Almost every week, I would see them on the social page of the Daily Prophet. Sometimes they would be eating at a restaurant, sometimes simply walking around London; several times they were even seen at dressy evening functions. But they always came to any benefit events held for war victims. I never kept the pictures of them, but the images burned themselves onto my brain. Always the Trio together, never a solo picture. They were always three.

She had never been completely well, since the final battle, but threw herself into life with ever-increasing vigour. The strain became evident on Harry and Ron's faces, as they accompanied her to more and more Healers, and a long stay in hospital marked the first silver threads appearing in Harry's black crop. But Hermione was ever more resolutely cheerful, never admitting to illness or pain. She threw herself further into her work, ignoring pleas from her boys to rest, ignoring even her own body's limitations.

Later, I would wonder if she had seen a short life ahead of her, and been determined to accomplish everything in the time she was given. She had never inclined towards Divination, but in the ever-fewer numbers of pictures that appeared, I could see her own knowledge written plain in her eyes.

I sat in the back row at her funeral, too few years later. Harry and Ron gave a joint eulogy, each voice in turn speaking out strongly before breaking with emotion. The coffin was white, with many-coloured flowers arranged on its lid, a gift from the Hogwarts greenhouses, cut by an old schoolmate. In accordance with her expressed wishes, as they told us, her boys were not wearing black, but red. For courage, she had said. Grieve for my passing, but be brave for the sake of those who remain.

The two stood by her graveside, shoulders touching. It would have been a perfect picture of the bereaved lovers, but no photographer came near them. I believe they felt, as I did, that compositionally perfect though the picture would have been, there was an element missing. And it would always be missing, now. There would always be a silent ghost in pictures taken afterwards of Harry and Ron, an empty space to one side, as if waiting for her to come back. They should have been three.

I thought they would always be three.

But I was wrong.