London, 8:00 AM
She was in Hell.
Don't be silly, you're not in Hell, she thought, sensibly, as she rose mechanically, brushed her teeth, looked at her ugly, haggard face in the mirror. Too ugly for Ron to want me, she thought. Or Harry, for that matter. Too ugly for anyone to want me. She stared at her swollen-eyed, pillow-creased reflection with vindictive hate. How could you ever have thought anyone could ever be attracted to you? Disgusting, frizzy hair, pale ugly skin—
She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself out of the downward spiral. Resolutely, she splashed cold water on her face and avoided looking in the mirror. I will not let this get the better of me, she thought firmly. I will NOT. Ron and Harry are homosexual, that's all there is to it. You're a girl, therefore you're out. It's a law of nature, so stop being silly. You might as well ask the earth to stop turning, or… She twisted her hair up fiercely into a knot so tight it pulled at the corners of her eyes, and turned away from the mirror. Ignoring the ache of loneliness, of betrayal, she shrugged into her robes, calculating that she had another fifteen minutes to get to the cross-Channel Apparation point. Her once-in-a-lifetime scholarship with the Wizarding branch of the Sorbonne was too good to ruin, and if she went on moping about like this, she would just have to see someone and have them prescribe something.
Paris, 6:00 PM
"Mademoiselle Granger!"
Hermione ground to a halt as the voice of her favourite professor, Amelie Boniface, stopped her at the entrance to the immense University Floo. Turning away from the two-metre-tall stone fireplace with its leaping green flames, she squared her slumped shoulders and turned to face her.
The professor, a short witch with straight mousy hair and intelligent dark eyes, fixed Hermione with a Look. "You are not yourself," she said in French.
"Everything's fine, Professor," Hermione answered haltingly in the same language. Speaking French was getting to be too much of an effort after a full day of classes. Her head buzzed.
"No, but truly, Mademoiselle Granger…"
"Am I in trouble?" Hermione asked, more sharply than she'd intended to. "I'd understand if you want to punish me for my inattention earlier…"
"Punish you?" The Frenchwoman seemed surprised. "No, of course not. I merely wanted to ask you if you were all right…"
"I'm fine," she sighed.
"If it is about Monsieur Weasley…"
Her head snapped up. "What?" she barked, in English.
Blessedly, Amelie switched to English too. "It is known, of course, that last week he announced that he now loves Harry Potter, but it is said that he was affianced to you before…"
"How dare anyone gossip about us?" She was on the verge of snapping, her voice wild, and wondered vaguely how she was getting through this conversation without being expelled.
"I am sorry, but it is popular knowledge. The newspapers speak of it every day," the professor responded calmly, her voice so soothing that Hermione wondered just how desperate she must look. "I wished to offer you a few days' vacation," she continued. "Perhaps a week would help you to regain yourself."
"No—thank you," Hermione amended, trying to give the older witch an apologetic smile, only it came out as a grimace instead. "I'm sorry," she said. "But the best thing for me now is to keep at it." At the Frenchwoman's puzzled glance, she amended, "Keep working."
The professor nodded, slowly. "It is still possible to agree," she said. "I will give you the time until you recover from your…" Her English failed her. "Chagrin d'amour."
Hermione laughed, though it was tinged with hysteria, and all but toppled forward into the Floo.
London
, 6:15 PMShe sighed as she tumbled out of the Floo into her living room, dark now with the early sunset. Picking herself up and shaking her hair out of its painful knot, she murmured "Lumos Dissendium" – hell of a lot cheaper than feeding the meter, she'd give it that, not to mention more convenient – put the kettle on and headed for her desk, marveling that she still had a class for which to do homework after all but snapping Professor Amelie's head off. One thing about having French teachers, though, she smiled – they found chagrin d'amour a perfectly reasonable justification for poor academic performance, not unlike the flu. She hoped she'd refused the offer of a few days off with at least an appearance of dignity. It was bad enough that the romance of the Boy-Who-Lived was the talk of the Wizarding world, without her walking around looking like the jilted girlfriend. She did have her pride, after all.
And, she thought as she spooned the tea into the pot, it wasn't as though she'd ever actually been the jilted girlfriend, really. Ron didn't owe her anything; he and Hermione had never actually gone through the motions of pairing off. She'd sort of assumed – she'd thought he'd sort of assumed – that the three of them would always be together, that they would be a family of sorts. They were the ones she'd chosen. She could have sworn she was the one they'd chosen. Yes, she'd thought about being Ron's girlfriend, but it was more than that. She had never dreamed that the three of them could be separated. Till death, and all that.
The kettle whistled and she took the charm off. Well, forget your childish dreams, Hermione. We can't stay Best Friends Forever. The adult world is all about coupledom, couplehood, whatever the hell you called it. "The animals marched in two by two, hurrah, hurrah," she found herself humming bitterly as she poured herself the tea. "Deal with it, Granger." Two people always paired off, leaving the third one out in the cold. The odd man out.
But she found herself stopping short at that statement, and only noticed that she'd frozen when the liquid she was pouring started spilling over the sides of her mug and overflowing onto the floor. She bent to mop up the mess, following the thought to its conclusion. She and Ron would never have left Harry alone. Never. Even when she'd daydreamed about being married to Ron, allowed herself to imagine what that would be like, there'd always been the vague but unequivocal notion that Harry would stay close by, the half-formed idea of the three of them living in the same house, lounging together on a sofa watching television or reading, the even hazier notion of tucking each other into bed. Even after Harry's schoolboy fling with Ginny had run its course, she had never quite imagined him getting involved with another woman – "or another man, for that matter," she found herself saying aloud; in her mind, he would always be there with her and Ron, where he belonged. She had never, ever imagined letting Harry go; she had been certain that Ron would never, ever cast Harry aside.
And never, but never, in her wildest dreams had she imagined that she would be the one cast aside.
"The animals marched in two by two, hurrah, hurrah," she sang loudly to snap herself out of it, her voice echoing loudly in the empty bedsit. She would get through this. Determinedly, she ferreted some chocolate-covered digestive biscuits out of the fridge, piled them onto a plate with the steaming mug, and carried the lot over to her desk, plunking it down, "The animals marched in two by two, the elephant and the kangaroo," she shifted a pile of old newspapers off the desk, "and they all went mar…ching…" she trailed off as a wayward Prophet slid out of the stack and she caught sight of the familiar photograph on the front page.
For a moment she could do nothing but stare mesmerized, again, at the week-old photo, though she had looked at it so often that the paper was worn at the edges now. BOY-WHO-VANQUISHED DARK LORD FINDS LOVE, the headline screamed. But nothing could be more eloquent than the image below the black letters: Harry and Ron, standing a little closer together than usual, the air of intimacy about them blindingly clear as they shuffled about like the schoolboys they had been till very recently, blushing and looking at the floor and smiling sheepishly. Nothing remarkable about that, right? But every few seconds, their eyes would rise and their gazes lock, and when they did, their faces were suffused with a light of love that was so true and genuine that Hermione wondered how she had missed it, wondered what kind of an idiot she was, and even more, wondered if she was a bad person for not being able to be happy for them.
They'd told her, of course, before coming out to the rest of the world. She remembered how it had been that Friday night, sitting together on the packing crates in the boys' just-rented charming little Chelsea two-bedroom, well and truly drunk on Firewhisky and basking in the glow of their friendship, of just plain being alive and well and together. They'd dropped the bomb after a lot of hemming and hawing and looked to her, almost anxiously, for approval, and of course, she'd given her blessing. Who wouldn't? God knew they all deserved whatever happiness they could get, and it wasn't as though she hadn't known it on some subconscious level, on Harry's part anyway, ever since the Second Task. "Of course we'll always be friends no matter what," she'd said cheerfully, and maybe, drunk and chipper, she'd believed it then. Believed it even when she saw that shining look of love on Ron's face, the one that used to be reserved for her, directed at Harry, even when she saw Harry's gentle face suffused with the strength and resolve that used to be reserved for battle, directed at anyone or anything that might stand in the way of his newfound love.
And then she'd Apparated back to her bedsit, and fallen asleep. But the next day, in the cold light of dawn, she'd really thought about it, about what it entailed. No more special, weak-in-the-knees sunshine-smile from Ron, for her, ever. No more tender, gentle hugs from Harry – she wouldn't initiate them, so as not to give the wrong impression, and she wasn't at all sure that Harry wouldn't give them up if Ron told him to. No more Flooing her friends at all hours – they might be involved in an… intimate moment. No more talking about everything – some things were private, not for her ears. No more dropping in unannounced – they might not want to be disturbed. The very notion that she was now a disturbance broke something inside her, just a little. Suddenly she was interference, she was superfluous… She'd dragged out the thesaurus that night and looked up all the synonyms for 'superfluous': "Redundant," she'd read aloud, nursing a drink of her own. "Surplus to requirements." At some point she'd begun weeping aloud as she'd read on: "Fifth wheel, unnecessary, inessential, extra, unneeded…"
She hadn't Flooed them all weekend, and on Sunday night she'd got an owl from them – strange how they'd moved from being Harry-and-Ron, her boys, part of that formerly-immutable us, to Harry-and-Ron the couple, divorced from her – asking her to come to the Burrow, where they were going to 'face the music' and come out in front of the Weasley clan. She never went; she couldn't face more public humiliation. Logically, she knew there really wasn't anything humiliating about it; the fact that she'd expected to become Ron's girlfriend had gone no further than the inside of her own head, and nobody knew that she'd expected Ron's and Harry's love for one another to make them One Big Happy Family instead of cutting her out – but she still felt like the one left behind. And it hurt with a pain that was beyond imagining. And knowing that everyone would know that she'd been left out…
It was just like being back at school again, just starting, friendless. Only it was worse, because her friends had abandoned her. She looked at the paper again, saw the love palpably glowing between her two friends, and knew that she would never share in it. With a cry she slipped out of her chair to curl up onto her side on the floor. "Nox," she whispered before starting to weep, a keening sound that was wrenched out of her. Before, when she had cried, Ron had always, with endearing awkwardness, tried to comfort her. Harry was even worse, but he cared, and if he'd been here, she wouldn't have felt so alone. She bit the knuckle of her forefinger to stop the sobbing and tried to pull herself together. You're not friendless, Hermione, she chided herself. Of course, there was always Ginny, but she doubted that an owl saying, "Your brother and ex-boyfriend are shacked up. Leave Neville to his own devices and come over here at once so I can cry on your shoulder" would be a welcome arrival during the honeymoon. She giggled hysterically and moaned in grief, unrelenting. They were warm and together and they loved each other and she… she was out in the cold. Because she deserved to be, she supposed. Sooner or later they would have found out how unlovable she was and left her to her own devices. Better it should happen now while she could still pick up the pieces. Better she should be quickly disabused of the notion that anyone could ever love her, the presumption of thinking that her best friends would always want her around, would never realize how unwanted and unwantable and useless she really was…
Her hands crawled up to her face, feeling it as though for the first time. "useless," she whimpered, "useless." Slowly, then more harshly, she squeezed and kneaded the unlovable flesh, wanting to gouge out her eyes, her cheeks, her lips, her ugly, ugly self… her sobbing became moaning, and little by little she allowed herself to fall apart. Clenching her teeth, she swept the papers from her desk and sobbed until, no longer able to remain upright, she tumbled off the chair and curled up on the floor. Her nose was clogged from weeping and she fumbled around for a tissue, and finding none, blew her nose noisily on the hem of her robe. No wonder no-one could love her, disgusting as she was, swollen and snotty and bloated and weak and vulnerable and pathetic… "They'll never love me," she gasped out through her tears, knowing she was wallowing but unable to help it, "never, never, never, never, never…"
"Hermione?"
She scrambled up at the voices coming out of the darkness, shocked. But there was already wandlight, and before she had a chance to work out whether she was angry or shocked or relieved, they were there, on either side of her, holding her, her Harry and her Ron, crooning to her – "It's all right, it's all right, there, there, don't cry" – no, not her Harry and her Ron, never again, and at this betrayal she gasped out another shuddering sob, and yet was too pathetically weak to push them away, or even to protest the invasion of her privacy, too weak to do anything but throw herself into their embrace and weep, feeling as though she were heaving out chunks of her soul in some kind of bizarre emotional vomitus.
She didn't know how long she stayed that way before Ron spat, "We are such gits! We should be hung drawn and quartered!"
"You can't be serious, Ron," Harry's voice came out of the gloom.
"Of course I am, mate! Just look at her!"
The sense of being discussed permeated the fog of Hermione's emotions. With an effort of will, she disengaged herself from their embrace and sat up properly. "Just look at who?"
The guilty silence led her to think she had come to the right conclusion. "Are you talking about me?" She did have some pride left, after all. "I'm perfectly all right."
Ron snorted. "Yeah, you weren't just crying your guts out because you thought we'd abandoned you."
Hermione jumped to her feet, eyes blazing. "How dare you, Ronald Weasley! Get out!"
She didn't really expect him to leave, and he didn't disappoint. "I don't see you denying it." He rose, looking at her face in the dim wandlight; he must have seen something there, because he nodded grimly. "It's true, innit, and we're gits." He sighed, and even in the gloaming she could see his expression softening. "How can we ever make it up to you, love?"
Love? The word sent her mind reeling so that she couldn't think. Was he toying with her emotions? Or just making free with the terms of endearment, not realizing that they cut into her like knives? "I…" She shook her head, trying to find words that would salvage her pride, trying to understand why he was playing with her like this. "Why…" She broke off and tried again. "What…" no use. "I… I think you'd better leave," she said finally.
"Hear us out first, Hermione." Harry's quiet voice cut through the darkness, surprising her.
She wanted to say What could you possibly have to say to me, the fifth wheel? But instead, she said nothing, and waited, her heart pounding uncomfortably now.
"When we…" he took a breath, and his words came tumbling out. "We never meant to hurt you. I want you to know that, whatever you decide. And we'll always love you, and…"
"Way to get ahead of yourself, mate."
"Look," she said, feeling the need to get control of the situation, "I don't need anyone to feel sorry for me, I…"
"It's not about that at all! Just give us a second, would you, Hermione!" Ron snapped. "Neither of us is very good at this…"
"That's just it, isn't it?" Harry said quietly. "That's the mistake we made in the first place."
"What are you two talking about?" Slowly, she felt her innate curiosity spill over, getting the better of her hurt feelings and even her heartbreak. "What's going on?"
"Can we get some light and maybe put the kettle on?" asked Ron. "This might take a while."
She turned up the lights before thinking to put on a glamour, and the sympathy in their eyes when they saw her clawed and swollen face was almost more than she could bear. "Who did this to you?" Harry whispered, rising to stand close.
"Nobody," she said shortly, turning to the kettle.
"Hermione," said Ron, "we want to…"
"Help?" she snapped, busying herself with water and teabags. "I'm fine."
"If somebody hurt you, Hermione," Harry began, "we're Aurors, we can investig…"
"Oh, all right," she snapped, knowing they would give her no peace. "I did. I did it myself. I was having a pity party, as you can very well see, so why don't you finish whatever it was you wanted to say and go back to your couplehood and leave me in peace!"
"Couplehood?" Ron asked, bemusedly.
"Couplehood, coupleness, coupledom, whatever the hell you call it. Holy matrimony. Or not-so-holy. The state of being in a couple." Her voice was taking on a waspish OED quality, she could hear it in her tone, but she was at the end of her patience.
"We don't want to," said Harry in a small voice.
She made a small, interrogative sound, though inside she was stunned. What? Trouble in paradise already? Was that what this was about? And they expected her to referee? How dared they?
"Mm," Ron grunted in uncomfortable agreement. "'S a long story, really."
And as she turned slightly and looked into the concerned, troubled faces of the two people who meant more to her than anything in the world, she realized the question wasn't how could she referee; it was 'how could she not?' How could she ever turn them away when they were in need?
She squared her shoulders, turning back to the kitchenette and mentally braced herself. You'll have to move on, sooner or later. And they'll always be your friends, even if it breaks your heart. What am I talking about? My heart won't break; I won't let it! I'm not one of those silly girls who… She gave herself a mental shake. "Go on. I'm listening."
The kettle whistled and she poured the tea. Taking a cup each, they sat around the tiny kitchen table. Rising, Hermione retrieved her bottle of Firewhisky from the cabinet and poured a healthy tot into each steaming mug. Pausing to inhale the aroma, she raised it to her lips and took a swallow. Feeling much more herself, she faced the two of them. With an effort, she could almost feel like old times again. She reached for her bossy tone, found it. "Talk."
"I've been thinking about this a lot," Ron began hesitantly.
"That'd be a change, wouldn't it?" she quipped. "Sorry. Go on."
He blushed scarlet, looked down at the table. "We need you, Hermione."
"So I'd gathered," she replied. "The question is, in what capacity? Marriage counselor? Friend? What?"
"Marriage counselor!" Ron repeated, clapping a hand to his forehead. Then he raised his eyes to meet hers, and the concern in them sent a cold chill coursing through her body. "Is that what you think we came here for?" he shook his head. "What you think we want you for?"
Harry shook his head in frustration. "What he means is… we need you. We can't live without you."
She stared. "I'm not abandoning you, Ron."
Harry raised his head. "That's just it. There isn't a 'we' without you in there."
Hermione shook her head. Why was he speaking in riddles? "You've lost me."
Ron looked woebegone. "Yes, we have."
Hermione sat back in her chair. As usual, it was up to her to make some sense out of this mess. "Slowly. One at a time. What is going on?"
Harry took a deep breath. "Let me try, Ron. Remember, Hermione, when we met at our flat and told you? You know, about us?"
She nodded.
"Well…" He appeared to be searching for words. "We were so flush with finding out the one thing we hadn't known – that Ron and I loved each other – that we just plain forgot to notice what we had known, always have known." He paused, taking a sip of his tea, visibly gaining strength as the hot Firewhisky slid down his throat. "That Ron and I love you. Always have."
She shook her head. "Well, of course you do. I've always known that…"
"We can't be a couple without you, Hermione," Ron said flatly.
Her hands on the mug stilled, the implication of what he was saying sinking in. But there was too much at stake here; she had to make sure she got it right. "You can't be a couple with me either," she said, trying for lightness. "that's a trio."
"A trio then," Ron continued unfazed. "A ménage a trois, whatever you want to call it. It's like Harry said. There's no us without you, Hermione."
She stared, a frown furrowing her brow. She had to get this absolutely right, had to make sure…
"That first week," Harry broke in, "we were so happy to have found out that we loved one another, we were – it was all so new, being able to hold Ron and kiss him and make love to him – and it was something we'd never, ever thought of doing, never thought we could do, we were flush with the excitement of it all…"
"And then," Ron added, "when we'd got the randiness out of our systems and could think clearly, we found out we were missing a piece. You."
"A 'piece'?" Hermione said coldly.
"Oh Hermione, you know what I mean," Ron said. "Don't tell me you haven't felt it, that the three of us are like pieces of a puzzle that go together like – like – like eggs and ham."
"You're mixing your metaphors," Hermione admonished, but a smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth, and the joy that was building in her was such that she was afraid to give it free rein, afraid to believe it was true lest it turn out not to be and kill her with disappointment. She lifted her cup, drained it, felt the jolt of strength. "Go on."
"It's always been us," Ron said. "Always ever only us. The three of us. And we were idiots not to see that."
"It's not the same without you," Harry volunteered. "When we do things, when we talk, even – even just sitting together, it's not the same. Never the same. There's always something missing, always. Without you, life's just – just…"
"Empty."
"Yeah."
"We didn't realize it because we'd never been without you before."
"But we found out in a hurry."
There was a pause, during which Hermione felt it was her duty to clarify matters, as well as salvage what was left of her dignity in case she turned out to be wrong. "So you miss me now that you're a couple? Is that it? That's what you came here to tell me?"
"Hell, no, Hermione," Ron said firmly. "We came here to ask you to marry us."
The room became very still. A brittle silence descended over them, both boys looking at Hermione, waiting.
"You know what you're asking, don't you?" she said.
Two heads nodded as one.
"And how do you know it would work?" She warmed to her subject with the experience of years of playing devil's advocate. "We've never tried it before, these marriages always dissolve in jealousy and resentment and—"
The way he always had shut her up in her fantasies, Ron leaned forward and kissed her, slowly, giving her plenty of time to back out if she wanted to. She leaned into his touch with shameless eagerness. This felt like home, his hands tightly clasping both her shoulders, his hand lightly stroking the swollen scratches on her face—
—what? Since when did Ron have three hands?
She opened her eyes, seeing Harry had risen to place his hands on her face, in her hair, and kneeling before her, he touched his cheek to Ron's, and raised his mouth to hers, and her arms went around both of them, and they embraced her, and she was whole.
"I thought I'd been rejected," Hermione blurted as they pulled away. "Oh shit, I shouldn't have said that."
Harry let out a breath and Ron cursed softly. Rising, he took her hand, and pulled her over to him, sitting with her in his lap, and Harry knelt beside them, his arms around both their waists. "Hermione, we could never reject you," Harry said gently. "You're part of us. You're our friend, you're… you're us."
"Not to mention the sexiest arse on the planet," Ron added, squeezing the object of conversation. Arousal burst through the top of Hermione's head, literally blinding her for a split-second. At her shuddery intake of breath, Ron hitched her slightly backwards so that her bottom dangled in mid-air above his thigh, leaving her soft flesh free to be touched and squeezed. Just as she thought she would explode from the unbearable throb in her loins, it was augmented by the addition of Harry's hand, squeezing her other cheek, less firmly but with a feathery, delicate touch that made her break out in goosebumps and her heart pound.
With a squeak, she fell into the dizzying vortex, for a moment allowing herself to be lost in the thrill of their combined caresses, squeezing herself against Ron's conveniently placed firm thigh, wondering if it were possible to achieve orgasm from this touch alone, before sternly coming to herself. Hermione forced her eyes open, her mind to concentrate. This isn't the time. She slipped out of her haze of arousal just in time to hear Harry saying lightly, "Sexiest arse? What about mine?" He patted and felt some more. "We'll have to conduct comparison trials." There was relish in his voice, and Hermione's heart fluttered, both at his touch and at the tone, but she had to be on the lookout for potential pitfalls. That was her job. That was what they wanted her for; that was what she did, be the sensible one…
"Sexiest female arse," Ron answered with a smile. "Harry's got the sexiest male arse, Hermione, wanna cop a feel?"
It had become entirely too hot in the room. She was having palpitations, but forced herself to be sensible. "See? What about jealousy?" Hermione asked sensibly. She hoped she sounded sensible, but the gasping of her fevered breath made her sound a little less sensible than she would have liked, all things considered.
" Jealousy?" Ron paused, still stroking her buttock. " Dunno," he said, mock-meditative. "I think I might be jealous if you shagged another bloke, other than me and Harry, that is."
"Oh, you!" She gave him a little punch on the arm. "I mean of each other!"
"Come on, love," Ron remonstrated. "Since when have we been jealous of each other?"
Hermione and Harry both looked at him pointedly. "I seem to recall…" Harry began.
"Hey! Whose side are you on, anyway?"
"So," Hermione, losing patience, decided to answer her own question, "we deal with jealousy as it comes and hope for the best?"
"Yeah," Ron sighed in relief, "that's about the shape of it, yeah."
"On the premise that it hasn't split us up yet, and won't now?"
"Sort of," mumbled Harry.
"Isn't that a bit optimistic?"
"Well, of course it is," Ron replied. "That's our job. Your job is to point out all the dire consequences."
She was glowing inside now, and it shone in her voice as she snapped the requisite "I like that!"
"Excuse me," Harry cut in, "but aren't we supposed to be having some sort of scandalous three-way sex right now, being an unconventional liaison and all?"
"Yeah, you still haven't felt Harry's arse. I'm telling you, Hermione…"
"That's if I say yes," Hermione said pointedly. "I still haven't, you know."
Ron looked positively horrified at the thought that she might still say no. "But you kissed us!" he yelled.
She shrugged, smiling, relishing her power. "So what? I also kissed Viktor, McLaggen, Tonks…"
"I don't want to know who you've kissed!" He did a double-take. "Tonks?"
"Well, it was New Year's Eve, and we were all drunk…" She blushed. It must be a combination of the alcohol and the warmth of them, the way she felt lit up like a lamp. How easy it all was, the fun, the banter, the… "I can't lose you again," she said very seriously. "I couldn't cope."
"Oh, love…" Ron pulled her close, kissing the scratches on her face, her eyes, her brow, as Harry turned her hand over and kissed the palm, and each finger in turn, lovingly, reverently. "You could never lose us. You never did. We were idiots and we never meant to hurt you, never…"
"Never," Harry echoed. "And there really isn't an 'us' to lose without you, anyway."
"I thought I was unlovable." Damn the Firewhisky, anyway.
For answer, Ron pulled her closer. "Says the brightest, most desirable witch on the planet," Harry said gently. "Remind us how many proposals you've had in the last six months, anyway?"
It had been a game, to count them, but once Harry and Ron had got together she'd stopped finding it funny. "I lost count after twenty-five," she admitted, and began to grin like a fool. "But I didn't want them," she blurted. "I wanted you. Both of you," she hastened to add.
"For which I'm eternally grateful," Harry said, "and I'm sure Ron is too, because we don't deserve you."
"Let us make it up to you," Ron said.
"Yes. Let us."
Hermione looked from one to the other, and tried to shake the feeling that she was in heaven. The effort turned out to be more than she could handle, and unproductive, anyway. It came out in a silly question. "So do I say "I do, I do" or just "I do?"
"That's your job," said Ron. "You're the one who gets to research how we make this legal."
"Just for a punishment, I might make you two do it." A thought struck her and all the happiness drained out of her. "That isn't why you…"
"Why we what?"
Their embrace felt oppressive and she wriggled out of it, rising. "Is it that you just need me to – to plan things and do research?"
The stunned, stricken expressions that looked back at her told her all she needed to know even before they started babbling. Harry was saying to Ron "Oh nice going, mate! Now look what you put into her head!" and Ron apologizing – "I'll do all the research myself! I don't even want you to look at a book if you don't want to!"
"Hermione, we don't want you for anything! We just love you…um, for, for everything you are, everything you do. The way you chew your lip when you're thinking. The way you play with your hair. The way you love reading. The way you give us orders," Ron started, and Harry took up the speech.
"The way you boss us around. The way you try to be serious and we have to talk you out of it. Your laughter. Your—your crying. And most of all, because you're part of us. You and me look after Ron. You and Ron look after me. Me and Ron, if you'd let us—we'd look after you."
"Now and always," Ron added.
She looked from one to the other, love filling her with inexpressible joy. The way they sat there was just so sweet—wanting to get up and touch her, but scared to, though whether they thought she would belt them or shatter at their touch she didn't know. With sudden certainty, she knew they'd be sitting there forever if she didn't go to them. Really, what would they do without her? The thought made her laugh out loud.
They were still watching her anxiously, and the fear on their faces chased the last of her doubts away, gave her a feeling of power which wasn't generous or magnanimous; but having them completely in the palm of her hand, if only for a moment, was the only thing that could have completely washed away her chagrin d'amour.
"So what do you say, Hermione?" Ron asked anxiously, giving voice to the thought she could see mirrored in Harry's wide eyes.
There was only one thing to say, really, and she said it as she went to them.
"Let's have a feel of Harry's arse then. Oh—I do. And by the way, don't worry about the license. There are lots of forms of Wizarding unions that are magically and legally binding. You know, during the Goblin Wars…"
THE END
Epilogue
Paris, 7:35 PM
Dr. Amelie Boniface subdued a prick of conscience as she concentrated, staring into her crystal ball. This was an inexcusable use of her Gift, not to mention an unpardonable invasion of privacy, but she was seriously worried about the young Mademoiselle Granger. Her tight, brittle control, her haunted eyes, her hysterical laughter as she had toppled into the Floo… She had seen jeunes demoiselles like that doing themselves an injury, even, Heaven forfend, taking their own lives in the throes of a failed amour, and the more controlled the person, the more she feared a complete breakdown. She would just take a very quick look at her young student, the merest glance, just to make sure she was all right, and slip back out.
The world fell away as her vision tunneled down and she reached for her affection for the bright young Anglaise. Her eagerness to respond in class, her wild hair, her tight, wounded expression as she had left…
The haze in the crystal cleared and she heard a moan, saw a blurred movement. Oh, non! That sounded like a cry of distress. She focused harder, tightening her grip on her wand. There would be no time to Apparate if what she feared was true, but one Patronus and she could alert emergency lifesaving services to…
She blinked as the view cleared, the image for a moment indecipherable in its unexpectedness. A hand kneaded a curve of flesh, a gravelly voice saying in English, "That's it, just how he likes it. Now stick your finger in, there's a girl…"
"Ooh, does he always wriggle like that?"
"You're using my weaknesses against me!"
"'Course we are, old son!"
Was she in the wrong vision? Arms and legs blurred, bafflingly. She pulled back—
--and froze. Harry Potter, face-down on a bed, moaned and bucked as Mademoiselle Granger's finger found a sensitive spot dans son cul. Ronald Weasley nodded encouragement, kneeling face-to-face with her student above Harry Potter on the bed with one hand underneath him and the other fondling Mademoiselle Granger's breasts. Her other hand was reaching for Ronald Weasley's erection, a veritable pillar of healthy, young flesh that made Amelie clench her knees—
WHAT was she doing? She flung herself out of the vision, heart beating furiously. For a moment she just sat there, then started to laugh.
Ménage a trois might be an unconventional cure for chagrin d'amour, but it seemed to be working just fine.
Now where was that husband of hers when she needed him…?
THE END (really!)