Searching for a Sign

12 Grimmauld Place
July 31st, 1 AM

I see them every night, perched in the tree. I've watched them since their first year, when they were nothing more that giddy schoolchildren, in love with the sheer power and beauty of magic.

He is the son of an old, dynastic wizarding family and one of the most intelligent muggleborn, nay, of all the students, to ever cross to great doors of Hogwarts. He's been a hero, a madman, insane, and a pathological liar, if you were to read The Daily Prophet through the years. He's the closest you can get to being a martyr without having died. The youngest Qudditch Seeker in Hogwarts for over a century.

She is the daughter of two ordinary, boring Muggles. She IS the smartest witch to ever cross the doors of Hogwarts. And a mighty powerful one at that - she'll be a match for Bellatrix Lestrange, who's stronger than Minerva McGonagall. She's good with defense and fire charms.

In their day to day life, they're both fairly quiet, unless accompanied by one Ronald Weasley. Ron seems to be off with his brothers and sister a lot lately; from what I can gather from Harry and Hermione's late night whispers, the twins' store is taking off. They sit and read, they eat and read. I'm willing to bet they bathe and read. No one notices, not even Dumbledore, but they have a haunted look in their eyes. They both have been kissed by Death, but have survived. They go about their business, side by side. They rise at the same time, they dine at the same time, and they retire at the same time. Together.

She's in a long white nightgown and slippers, he's in a t-shirt and a pair of old shorts. They go to bed before anyone else. They just don't understand - you can see Harry conveying that to Hermione with his eyes.

And I think he's right. They're both alone - only children. They're both Muggle-raised. They're both immensely powerful in their own right, and were performing feats of magic in primary school that some seventh years never get the hang of. They have both had someone they loved ripped away - Sirius. Hermione was closer to Sirius then anyone besides Harry, and Remus, ever knew. He doted on her like a father, something Hermione craved. I overheard him talking to Remus one night - he had sincere hopes that Harry and Hermione would get together one day. Perhaps, in his own way, he sealed that deal when he rushed to the Ministry to save his godson and the girl he affectionately called Myia.

It's a small bed, but Grimmauld place was never considered that big. I remember the first time she slept in here. Harry was asleep, and suddenly, he sat upright and bolted out the door. I was confused, until I heard the tiniest of whimpers. A minute or so later, he returned with a crying, bleeding Hermione in his arms. She had been mutilating herself horribly, and Harry had heard her moan when she accidently sliced too deep. He would recognize it too - he has quite a few self-inflicted wounds criss-crossing his body. He didn't scream for any of the adults. He simply soaked one of his shirts in his basin of water and cleaned them up. Then he kissed her arm, her blood smeared on his lips, and simply told her that if he wasn't allowed to die, then neither was she. It was that simple to him. He tucked in her, and then hesitantly slipped in next to her. When they awoke, she had her head on his shoulder, his lips on her forehead, and their fingers were entangled.

She's been coming here ever since. She sneaks out half an hour after everyone else is in bed, padding silently down the hall. Grimmauld Place is under a ward that allow underage wizards to perform magic undetected. Harry placed a special charm that Hermione had told him about on the door - only three people can open his door. Himself, Hermione, and Remus. Because sometimes Remus comes in, distraught, and bunks with them. The Hero, The Bookworm, and The Werewolf all sharing one bed. Remus stays in here when it's time to transform - I've spent many a night watching a large, shaggy grey wolf sleeping before the fire, two children curled into it's side.

They don't go straight to bed. No, neither of them need much sleep - maybe four hours. Instead, Harry runs to the kitchen and nicks some food and something to drink. He's very thoughtful - last time Mrs. Weasley went to Muggle London on errands, he gave her a stack of pounds and asked her to bring back loads of Dr. Pepper, instant rice, and curry packages. Hermione gets so tired of sandwiches, he said, and she needs to eat. Later that day, Hermione pulled Mr. Weasley aside and gives him a stack of money, asking him to get Pepsi, macaroni and cheese, and some turkey slices because Harry can't eat all of Mrs. Weasley's rich food without getting sick. He whisks it upstairs and ghosts in the door, where Hermione is bending over the fireplace, stoking it. He drops the food on the bed and slips in behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and planting soft kisses on her neck. She merely grips his hands tightly and closes her eyes. They are not a sexual couple - not in the slightest, not like Harry's parents - but they are an intensely passionate couple. They are two souls bonded, two souls merged. You can feel strength and power radiate off them when they are together. Harry releases her and gets the food, which she takes and beings to cook. Harry drags the table out from the side of the room and sets it near the fireplace, setting the table and pouring the drinks. He tiptoes to the closet and pulls out something I saw him deposit there before she came in - a small handful of flowers. Rather pitiful looking, just scraggly daisies and a few wilted roses, but Hermione will know that he went through heaven and hell sneaking out and picking them from the garden in the back. He sets them in a vase, then digs under his bed, drawing out a book. He sits at the table and starts to read.

I was confused when they started doing this. It began small - Hermione making a sandwich for Harry, him pouring her a cup of soda, both of them just sitting down and reading and talking and laughing. It took me a while to realize what they were doing - they were playing house. That struck me as odd - house is a game that young girls play when they dream about Prince Ever-so-Charming sweeping them off their feet, riding into the sunset, and living happily ever after. It was not something a fifteen and sixteen year old war veteran would play. They should be shell-shocked - not ironing their robes, as I saw Harry do one night.

It was like a hammer hit me in the chest when I realized what they were doing - they were fantasizing. They are pretending that they are a normal, boring couple with normal, boring lives. They are acting out what they want most - a simple, quiet life. Man comes home, woman cooks dinner, they discuss day, they snuggle, they go to bed. Repeat as needed. Harry never had that sort of love, and from what I overheard from Remus and Sirius, neither did Hermione. She was a latch-key kid. They created a safe haven for themselves - they even had their pets, Hedwig and Crookshanks, lounging in the room. They are searching for a for a sign - a sign that when they wake up, they will be normal teenagers, able to enjoy their love in peace. And I do believe it’s love.

But they know, as I do, that they are not normal. Harry can’t whisk her away to a fancy restaurant when he wants to - besides Harry going out under several charms to pick Hermione’s flowers, they have not set foot outside since the beginning of July. Harry isn’t allowed to leave, and Hermione flat-out will not leave him here to mourn alone.

Hermione is pulling something out of her bag. Crookshanks is keeping Harry distracted while she fiddles with it, uncertainty on her face. Normally I stay a bit away from the window, especially when it’s cracked a bit to let air in, but I feel a burning need to hear this. I watch her make her way to Harry.

“Happy Birthday, Harry,” she says almost inaudibly. Harry smiles, pulls her in, and gives me a soft kiss.

“I have something for you,” she whispers, and hurriedly shoves it in his hand. He looks down, and I’d be hopping in anticipation if it weren’t so out of character for me. She gets up and rushes back to her cauldron, stirring her curry. Harry continues to stare at the thing in his hand. I’m about to scream with frustration. Harry stares at it some more, than grips it and stands up. He grabs Hermione by the arm, whirls her around, and kisses her passionately. I lean in for a closer look. It’s a plain white-gold band. Hermione looks like she could collapse in relief. I shake my head; what kind of girl gives her boyfriend of three weeks a ring?

Only Hermione Jane Granger.

He slips it on his ring finger. I don’t know how they plan on telling everyone where he got it - I would presume that he could say it was his father or Sirius’. It’s not like Remus will contradict them - he’s the only one aware of their ‘relationship.’ No one there would be able to refute them, since Harry and Hermione have both spent hours poking about Grimmauld Place, digging out small pieces of Sirius and his past. And since they’ve both spent hours on end practicing Occlumency, I’m sure they’ll be able to keep it from one Albus Dumbledore.

I hop down from the tree. It’s time to go, and I don’t think anything else will be happening tonight. I know the routine, maybe better than they do. They’ll set the table, eat, talk for a while, and then settle down. She will snuggle up to him, her head on his chest, and they’ll kiss deeply one last time before going to sleep. In the morning, she will slip out, run to her room, and wake Ginny Weasley up, and they will return to their sad, pathetic reality, anxiously waiting for the moon to rise.