The Three of Us

The Three of Us

Hermione shifts quietly next to me as I sit up in the bed. She's eight months along now, and really starting to feel the burden of carrying twins. It's a nightmare to sleep with her at times, the way she tosses and turns to find a comfortable position. That and she's always waking up in the night, wanting something crazy like a pickle dipped in whipped cream. I think the twins have different tastes. Then again, perhaps that's to be expected.

Hermione did not wake me tonight, though. She's still sleeping, though fitfully, which means I was awakened by someone else—probably the someone who's moving around very quietly in the study. Taking care not to wake Hermione, I roll off the bed, shove my feet into some slippers, and tiptoe out of the room.

A glance into the study confirms my expectations. A fire is burning merrily in the hearth, and I can see someone sitting on the couch, an open book in his lap. I clear my throat quietly, and he glances up at me, emerald-green eyes partially obscured by the light reflected in his glasses. He frowns, then says, "Did I wake Hermione, too?"

I shake my head and step further into the room, asking, "What's wrong, Harry?"

He shakes his head, looking down at the book. "It's OK," he replies, "just a nightmare. Go back to sleep."

He should know better than that by know. Then again, Harry has always been extremely tentative about taking any of our time. He almost let himself get put in St. Mungo's rather than live here and "come between" myself and Hermione. As if his presence could do anything but make our relationship stronger.

"You know you're not getting away with that," I counter, crossing the room to stand in front of him. He looks so small, still; his growth spurt didn't do much for him, and he never got heavier either. I wouldn't exactly call him frail—he'd never be able to play Quidditch professionally if he was—but he's delicate: all graceful curves and smooth planes. He's got nothing like the muscles I've gained from my Auror duties. Not that he needed muscles to topple Voldemort, but I've found them useful on occasion.

Harry closes his book in resignation and I scoop him into my arms, shifting him around so that his head is resting on my shoulder and his legs are wrapped around my waist. He lets me carry him—he wants me to do it, for one thing, and I'm strong enough that it's not really his decision anyway. I turn towards the fireplace, but our ever-helpful elf Dobby (Hermione has forbidden us to call him a "house-elf", as she considers the term demeaning) is already putting out the flames. I smile at him in thanks, and he bows, nearly tripping himself on his patchwork cloak. I heft Harry and then carry him out of the room, saying, "All right, let's get you back in bed."

Harry has his own bedroom, a comfortable suite just past the one Hermione and I share. He starts most nights in there—our only concession to his baseless fears. Hermione and I would be delighted if he spent every night in our room, though I admit there are decided advantages to his not doing so. I couldn't feel comfortable having sex with Hermione if he were in there with us, and none of us are really interested in a threesome.

That's not to say that Hermione and I aren't attracted to Harry, or that we don't have sex with him. We are; we do. But for all of us, sex is more about the emotions shared between two people than the physical pleasure. Harry feels this most strongly—sex for him is powerfully cathartic, an affirmation of his worthiness of love, something that thanks to his awful family he's always doubted, and despite our best efforts, probably always will. To my knowledge, he's never once come without weeping. It's incredibly rewarding, really, but also very draining.

Harry won't be in his bedroom tonight. I sit him on the edge of the bed Hermione and I usually share, removing his glasses and placing them on the nightstand. He doesn't fight as I pick him up again and lay him down next to Hermione. I notice as I do so that her eyes are open. It's regrettable that she's awake, to an extent, but on the other hand it's also probably a good thing. As I climb into the bed and pull the covers up, she asks, "Did you have a nightmare, Harry?"

He nods, whispering, "Sorry, I..."

Hermione cuts him off by kissing him gently on the lips. As he relaxes back into the pillow, she says, "You're never a burden to us, Harry." That's not strictly true; Harry's plight weighs on both of us, just as our emotional baggage weighs on him. But what trouble Harry brings into our lives is much easier to bear than the guilt we would feel if we lost him. We almost did two years ago, when he was still living on his own and the nightmares became too much for him to bear. He tried to end them by slicing his wrists open; it was sheer dumb luck that I found him before he bled to death. Hermione and I both vowed never to let things get that close to ruin again.

"Was it Cedric again?" Hermione asks, and I see Harry give just the barest of nods. Cedric Diggory's death in the graveyard is an experience Harry frequently relives in his dreams; one of many harrowing events in his life I wouldn't wish on anyone, let alone somebody as sweet and kind as Harry. Voldemort is lucky Harry killed him—if I had my way I'd still be torturing the bastard.

Hermione gently takes Harry's hand and places it over her protruding belly. "Cedric's alive," she says, "You can feel him if you concentrate." We've already decided their names: Harry's son will be Cedric, mine will be Albus. Twin boys with two fathers—Hermione dreamed up a special charm just so she could do it. Their names are a memorial to those who fell in the war, just as their lives will serve as a reminder of why those sacrifices were worthwhile.

Harry's eyes slide closed, and I can tell that he really is feeling out with his mind to brush the life inside of Hermione, the life he helped create. His lips twitch upward in a slight smile, and I'm momentarily hopeful that his happiness at being a father will brush away the nightmare. I know it's not fated to be however, and I'm proved right when a tear trickles out of from under Harry's eyelid.

Now it's my turn. Things usually go this way—Hermione helps Harry confront his nightmares, and I help him deal with the pain afterwards. It's simple, but it works: the dark dreams that used to be a nightly occurrence now only come once or twice a week. I don't mind taking this role; in fact, I feel it suits me rather well. I'm never at my best in an acute crisis, but I have the endurance and determination to deal with chronic problems. Harry and Hermione are the ones to take on Dark Lords and nightmares, but Harry would wear down to nothing chasing after the last of Voldemort's minions, and Hermione can't soak up the anguish of Harry's sad, broken childhood. Not so for me—I'm too stubborn to get discouraged by unending challenges.

I wrap my arms around Harry, pulling him closer to me as a choked sob bursts out of his lungs. He quiets down after that, crying silently into my chest as I soothingly run my hands up and down his back. Hermione also shifts nearer to me, placing her warm weight behind Harry and running her fingers through his messy hair. It's very intimate—not in a sexual way, but in an emotional one, which is all that matters, after all. Our love surrounds Harry, engulfs every inch of him in warmth and security while his unbearable anguish fades into more manageable grief.

After a while, Harry's shoulders stop shaking and he starts taking more regular breaths. I loosen my grip on him slightly, and he leans back a little, his body limp. His eyes are still closed, and the slack expression on his face indicates that he's truly on the verge of sleep. "Love you, Ron," he murmurs, and I lean down to give him a quick kiss.

"Love you too," I reply as Harry languidly rolls over to give Hermione her goodnight kiss. He doesn't seem to have the energy to roll back, so I spoon up behind him, wrapping one arm around his chest as his hand again finds its way to Hermione's belly.

This is the way our lives should be, I think as I start drifting off to sleep myself. We've probably been fated for this since the night we fought that troll together. Each of us brings something to a relationship that the other two need, something they can't do without. Harry is wrong to worry that he's pushing Hermione and I apart—we'd probably never have lasted this long if he hadn't moved in. No two of us can be complete. It has to be all three, together, always.

And, as our identical gold rings state, forever.