W h o l e
(because three thirds don't always make a whole)
Hermione Granger's life works in fractions. Everything and everyone, split into halves and quarters. She's one third of a friendship, she's the middle, the one who pulls them together, the meat between the bread or the Quaffle between two hands (and yet Ronald scoffs that she doesn't understand Quidditch). They're bound together by their label, by numbers as much as by souls. They're the irrational half, the insane-blinded-by-love-mean-absolutely-everything-to-her two thirds of this equation, and she's the lucid third piece, and yet they all match and fit together perfectly.
Math is logical, it's rules and structure and perfection, Hermione knows this, and then she wonders why she and Harry, the only two decent, caring halves left, can't quite seem to make a whole and fill the empty space that he left. She's starting to learn that friendship can't be defined by a set of instructions; that's just completely and utterly against the rules of nature. They were a cake cut into three slices, but now the thirds have become halves and they still can't become one. This is one friendship that bewilders even her, and Hermione's always prided herself on being a know-it-all, no matter what they think.
It makes her laugh, the irony and the unintentional hilarity of it all. She's always prided herself on sticking them together, and now the entire world feels like it's been severed, and she's falling apart herself, sick with worry and fear: what if he? Did he? Is he …?
Hermione supposes that's why she's so angry – there's not a term that comes close to describing the hatred and the relief she feels – when he returns. Harry and she have just started to piece everything together, to solder the halves together again, and he just had to come back and wreck it all. They've gone from thirds to halves to thirds again; and they still don't fit together, and it's all too confusing for her; she just wants to stick her head in her hands and scream.
C'est la vie, she thinks sometimes, because life isn't perfect and the rational side of her brain knows this. But then the other half of her brain, the side that's too chaotic to be defined by mere words gives her a kick and she's confused again, because why the bloody hell can't they just fit together? It's a simple equation. Three thirds make a whole, and yet they've got a boy with a scar on his forehead, a ginger haired idiot and a girl that just can't understand why they don't fit together perfectly anymore.
It's not until after the war, when Ron lays beside her, entangled in the bed sheets and Harry snores in the room next door with his fiancée, that she realises: not everything is bound by rules. Three thirds (or four quarters, as it is these days) may not make a whole, but it doesn't matter anymore. They have each other, and that's all they need.
Fin,
-Cuba …x