Have you ever felt part of something? I mean, really part of something? Not like a choir or a class or a team - well, I suppose a bit like a team. But a small team - one where you can’t sit in the back and let the others pick up the slack. Not the sort of team where you can rely on someone else to catch the Quaffle if you drop it, or you can sing as quietly as you like, because there are so many voices that yours will hardly be missed.
Instead, you are integral - bound to a single unit. And if you are quiet or diverted or idle or, worst of all, absent, then the systems crash and the mechanics fail and the unit just doesn’t function anymore. Because a chair doesn’t stand if you take one of its legs away and a remote control is rendered useless if you remove one of the batteries - because all of them, the little parts, they are a team together and they need each other to become something. Something that works and functions and thrives.
I had never been part of something until I came to Hogwarts. I was just one - alone. And, at the time, I think I liked it better that way, because I didn’t know any different. And I was very much in my own head and I made for quite good company. I would see the other children at my school and how some of them were part of a group or a team or a clique - but I didn’t envy them, not too much. Maybe the companionship; only a little. But not each other - because there was no one I particularly wanted on my team.
But then I received the letter that changed my life and suddenly it all made sense and I remember thinking: ‘Finally, maybe now I’ll be part of something.’ Only, I wasn’t willing to change myself to become one of the pieces. I stayed solely as myself - intractable, unbending and, frankly, rather annoying. Because that’s how I always had been and my old group - my group of one - didn’t mind that too much. And I felt even sadder then, because it was supposed to be part of something new and different and I was, in a way, but it was not enough. It was never enough.
Not until one night in a bathroom when one learned not to be so intractable and unbending and annoying and she found twoand three. Granted, over the years I could still be all of those things and more - stubborn, bossy, controlling, superior - but they let me and kept me in check because, somehow, though, I’m still not sure how sometimes, we had become a team - a unit. We were one, two, three together and we were part of something.
And it was like that for years, though we fought - of course we did. We were a unit, but we were still human and we were going to have very human grievances and make very human mistakes. But we always came back to each other. Because we were home - each other’s home. And that’s where we belonged - shoulder to shoulder, as they say. And that is how we lived and laughed and learned and fought and struggled - together.
Even during the war, when we had a side, a bigger team, I still felt like we were part of a smaller unit. Maybe it was because we were the only ones who knew of the Horcruxes, or we ran and hid and searched and survived together. Or because of what we saw along the way - how they saved me when I felt the life fighting to leave me and they rescued me from pain that made me wish it would. Or when we entered the Ministry with no sense of certainty and courage that we drew from each other. Because we were surrounded by people who would hurt us - kills us, probably, if they found us. But they couldn’t - because we were one, two, three together.
I loved them - these pieces. I mean, there are many who I love - I am fortunate, in that sense. But it was different with them. There is love and there is love. That which consumes and drives and melds you together. And there was nothing I would not do for them - and I am not one for saying things that I don’t mean. I have never felt that way about anyone else, though I have loved; I still love. But for them, it is infinite. I followed them to war; I would have followed them anywhere.
But then, one of the parts went somewhere that we couldn’t; somewhere we couldn’t follow him. And I thought then about the chair with the missing leg and the remote control with one battery and Merlin, I envied them. Because a chair doesn’t scream and writhe in pain when part of it falls off and the remote control doesn’t feel like someone has wrenched out its insides if one battery is removed. They remain there - stationary and unmoved by their inability to function.
And it didn’t seem fair to me - that they did not even notice what they were missing and yes, they didn’t work anymore, but did they care about it? Not one bit. But then there was us the two remaining pieces and God! I couldn’t bear it. Because we weren’t just part of a unit - we were part of each other. A jigsaw puzzle that fused together once you assembled it - and he was ripped away from us. And then the jigsaw was incomplete and the picture didn’t make sense anymore.
We tried to make it do - we tried to make a picture with just the two pieces; we tried to fuse together, just the two of us. And it worked, for a while, because we were the only ones who understood; who could feel the full weight of each other’s grief. And, though I would never wish to diminish a mother or a father or a sibling’s loss - they had a place; they had a team. But we were one and two and we felt the loss of three like an open wound that just poured out more grief the more you tried to stem the flow.
And I think it might have brought us closer for a time - united in our self-indulgent misery. We probably made other people feel inadequate - like they weren’t enough for us; like they didn’t know the depth of our anguish; like we didn’t need them, because the only thing we did need was unobtainable. And it was selfish, I can see that now. But then, we couldn’t see anything beyond our grief.
I clutched two’s hand throughout the funeral - like he was my anchor to this world; he was, I think. The last solid thing left - a clearing in a forest of other; my refuge from the crushing loneliness. We refused all other comfort - not on the surface, but in our hearts. Because it wasn’t enough, as arrogant as it seemed, it could never be enough unless they had the open wound too. And I remember that we were there long after everyone else left - just to be one, two, three for a little longer. And I remember turning to him and saying something like:
–Did you think it would be forever too?â€
And I remember him looking at the newly laid earth as if his answer were written there and I was just too stupid to see it. And I remember his hand was tight and hot against mine and that it grew hotter and tighter still. And I remember how his face looked when he finally turned it to mine - empty, broken and so beautifully drenched in the tears that poured like the blood from our mutual wound. And I remember his words, so simple and sad and sincere.
–There’s no such thing as forever - just a long time. We should have had more time.â€
And anyone listening might have thought he said ‘he’ instead of ‘we,’ but we knew better. Because we buried part of us that day and we needed more time. And he was right, there is no such thing as ‘forever’ - he had proved that in his victory, I think. But there was supposed to be years - a lifetime, even. We were supposed to be done with the war - the messy, painful, draining war - and we were supposed to be able to get on with our lives. Because we would have them and they would be ours to do what we pleased. That was how it was supposed to be. We won and our reward was a lifetime.
This was not the deal. We did not fight and strive and get our world back, just for one of us to never even get to see it. And I think that is why I held onto his hand as we stood for another hour in the graveyard and why I held onto his words for years after - because I had fought and strived and got our world back. But it wasn’t enough - it would never be enough.
I think they expected us to get on with our lives after a while, because we could not stand in a graveyard clasping hands forever, like we were the dam against the endless flood. And couldn’t they see - I mean, were they not looking? Because if they were, and I mean - really were - then they would have noticed and they would have known. We didn’t want to move on. We were perfectly fine being one, two, three together, thank you very much. And who could tell us to be otherwise? How dare they? How dare they?
But even we could see, after some time - more time, I think, than most would have liked - that perhaps we should learn to be one and two - a pair. And we tried that as well, but it didn’t leave much room for anyone else. By trying to fit ourselves together we pushed away the others - friends, family and a lover. And they tried, like they had done when we were one, two, three, but they could never measure up.
But then we realised: neither did we. Because we were one and two together now - but we were still the same; still the same shape; still the same people. And we were missing a piece. It got to the point where we tried to change ourselves - mould ourselves into a different shape and change our colours and make a different picture entirely. We even tried kissing once - just to see if that was the picture we were supposed to create. It was all awkward and teeth and desperate, like we had never kissed anyone before. When we pulled apart he looked at me and smoothed my hair back and laid his lips on my forehead and whispered:
–We don’t fit like this.â€
And I knew, in some sensible part of me that still lurked under the all-consuming misery, that he wasn’t just talking about the kiss. I think it was then, or at least sometime soon after that, that I realised that I wasn’t part of something anymore. And I think I cried solid for about four hours, though I don’t really know why. I think it might have been because I had only just realised what him being dead meant.
It didn’t just mean that our trio had ended or that we weren’t part of a small little group anymore. It was that he would never get to get the chance to take his NEWTs, or - because it’s him - skip his NEWTs and become and Auror like he used to talk about when it was just the two of us, in case anyone thought he was just following our third piece. He would never get to see what he could be like as his own person; not in the shadow of his best friend. And I know, I know, he would have been great - I know that he was capable of greatness, because he found it within him somewhere to love me.
There had been a time, when I was I primary school and one alone that I did not think it possible that I could be loved by anyone - not like that, anyway. And it was like he came from nowhere and hit me with the Knight Bus. I mean, yes, there was the years of friendship and then there was the more than that. And I think I might have felt that for longer than the friendship. And I never told him. I never told him that he was the best man I’d ever met. I never told him that he could be great - because he was not particularly clever and he was not Chosen, but he was my choice.
And he was never again going to be there to make us laugh with one of his silly jokes or disturbingly accurate impressions. He would never smile in that lazy, lopsided way that reminded me of the Knight Bus every time he did it. And he would never smirk smugly when he thrashed us at Wizard’s Chess, or look sheepish under my bossy glare when I asked him why he couldn’t just do his essay himself. And I would miss pretending I wouldn’t help, even though I never had any intention of doing anything but. Because he would give me that lopsided grin - and what else do you suppose I could do?
And he would never whisper ‘I love you’ into my hair like he did during the heat of battle, and I would never say it back like I so wanted to. And I would never feel his lips on mine - soft and wanting and desperate, but in a completely different way. He would never make love to me in that same way - soft and wanting and desperate. I would never be his like I wanted to be - he would not call me ‘wife’ and I would not call him ‘husband.’ He would not be called ‘father’ and no longer could he be called ‘son’ or ‘brother’ or ‘friend.’
It was his life that was lost and we were making it our lives. And that was wrong, because he was a beloved son and brother too and he was not ours alone to miss. And we always thought we were one, two, three, when really we were: one and two and three. We are separate entities - in a way we never realised, or at least could never cope with, at Hogwarts or during the war. I think I was just scared to see it before.
We had spent the whole time trying to fit two of us together, when we should have just tried separately. Because we are ourselves; we are individual - but that does not mean we have to be alone. It just means that we connect ourselves to a bigger jigsaw puzzle with more pieces. And, yes, it’s more complicated that way, and yes, it might not be so secure - but it is the best we can do for now. And maybe there are still one or two pieces missing, but there are enough left for you to get the general picture.
I just hope that, one day, we might have the strength to survive as our own, individual pictures; that we won’t fall apart when a piece goes missing and we suddenly aren’t whole anymore. Once we learn that, then maybe we’ll get our reward for the fighting and the striving and getting our world back. Maybe, one day, hopefully when we’re very old, there’ll come a time when we can be one and two and three together again.
Then it would be enough - that would always be enough.
One, Two, Three by Alice Mac
Chapter Endnotes:
Well, that was my attempt at something vaguely AU (unless you count Dramione, which most people seem to). I hope you liked it - please tell me what you thought of it!