Here, There Is Only

There is a room where the fire is always burning, and the candles are always lit. Small, almost cramped, it’s dark. Shadows dance, faeries on the wall.

Here, there is sanctuary.

The boy sits in a corner, sprawled on a cream couch. His eyes are closed, but he's not sleeping. He's waiting for her to come, and soon she enters, weary.

In this place, there are no school books. There are books about Rome, books about penguins, books about DNA, books about aloe vera plants. But not one from school.

The girl enters quietly, and the boys shows no sign that he knows she has entered, save a smile on his face. The girl drops into a seat, tired and sore. Scars of battle, of life, circumnavigate her thin flesh. She inhales deeply.

The room smells of vanilla, parchment, ink, and leather. There is only quiet. There is no Hermione Granger or Blaise Zabini. There is no Gryffindor or Slytherin, Muggleborn or Pureblood.

Here, there is only he and she.

The room looks mismatched; it is filled with little personal effects and small objects stolen from the castle. A lone table sits in the middle, with a soft chair that she sits in. Parchment is scattered across the room. A bright purple throw is splayed haphazardly on the ivory carpeted floor. It's cluttered, but comforting. A small white orb sits in one corner of the room, enchanted by the boy to play music softly. A green and gold quilt lies on the edge of the couch, a piece of home from the girl. Here and there, there and here, are signs of a normal existence, a far cry from the chaos that seethes beyond the solid door of the small room. Here, there is quiet.

Here, there is home.

She sits at the table and begins to write. Not for class, or letters home; here, she writes for herself, and the boy. She writes simple expressions of love, and frustration with life. She writes of raindrops, persimmons, unicorns, and the sun. There is no reason, no when, where, or why, and here she does not need any. Here, she does not have to save lives, or sing praises, or think quickly. There's no need to dissect, divulge, and decimate. There is only writing what she knows inside, the inner demons that plague her and the boy who came to save her.

Here, there is safety.

He gets up and shuffles over to her, sitting on the ground by her feet. He's tired, in a good way - a day of debates and jokes has wound him down. But he's worried, and he's missed her all day. By unspoken word – for what words need to be spoken? – they have never divulged their secret to anyone else. To speak of one another to others would be defiling the sanctity of the other. No word is ever spoken, and both are satisfied.

One day, they know they'll be discovered. And they'll face that storm, that intrusion on their Shambhala, one day. But tonight, there is only Beethoven and parchment. She doesn't feel the calluses on her fine white fingers from knitting; he doesn't feel the pressure of his family trying to pull him into being something dark and hollow.

He places his head on her lap, dark sable locks flowing over her thin knees. He closes his large black eyes, lashes spread like spiders over his golden skin. He feels the warmth and love emanate from her fragile skin, and snuggles his head deeper into her lap, wrapping long tan arms around her slim pale calves. Determination and concentration flow from her, but even stronger are bonds of companionship and rivers of love. Here, this is all they need to sustain them for the battles they face out there.

She lays one small hand on his head, gently stroking his hair as he begins to fall asleep. The need he has for her – for her kindness, for her understanding – is only matched by her need for him. For his strength and his compassion. Beyond these walls, they have nothing. But in here, they have some small measure of peace. They have the knowledge that there is someone there who loves them unconditionally.

Out there, they are people.

But here, they are sacred.

There is no Hermione or Blaise here.

There is only they.

Fin.