The Promise

Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch
September 13th, 0023 AM

It's abnormally chilly out here. I'm huddled in a tree again, patiently waiting for Hermione to arrive. Harry had pulled her aside earlier this evening and told her to meet him at the Qudditch pitch after her Prefect patrolling. That was five hours ago.

I see spiriting her way up here. Her nightgown floats behind her, making her look like some beautiful wraith floating amongst the grass. I shake my head; who comes out here in a flimsy white nightgown at this time at night?

Hermione Jane Granger would. For all her famed intelligence and cleverness, she throws it out the window when her Harry is involved. So she runs half-dressed to him, beautiful in the moon light.

They've had a hell of a time finding ways to spend time together alone since they boarded that train. They're both naturally reserved, but ever since Sirius died, they've almost completely shut down. Of course, they have Ron and Ginny there to run their mouths, so their silence goes by largely unnoticed. I think the only one who suspects is that Ravenclaw, Selena or something like that. But she's quiet, and respectful of their wishes, so no one has noticed. I snort silently to myself. I really wonder on how stupid people can be. Sure, at Grimmauld place, you might not notice it, but really now, how can you miss how Hermione mashes herself against the wall, and the strange way Harry sits right next to her, as if he can shield her?

And he is shielding her. Ron is starting to become more aware of Hermione - or rather, more aware of the fact that she's a girl. Needless to say, this makes the both of them uncomfortable. They choose not to tell anyone but Remus of their relationship, because they wouldn't understand. Harry needs Hermione they way he needs oxygen. It's unconscious thought - he doesn't dwell on it, he simply does. And she needs him just as badly. When you're broken and bleeding, you cling to your crutch. When they're in their Common Room, if you pay attention, you can see it. He shifts her bag so he can run his fingers on her side; she hands him a book so their fingers can brush together. There's so much electricity there, it could light up a Muggle carnival.

But they're subtle about it. When they eat, it's always Hermione, Harry, Ron. Harry will not let Ron sit next to her, because of his irritating habit of sneaking glances down her blouse. At least, that's what I hear he's been doing. The halls are abuzz with the gossip that Ron has finally fallen for Hermione. There are bets being placed on how soon he will end up with her. Hermione hears all this, and I know it makes her feel worthless. That's one of the reasons why she connects so much to Harry - she's known by titles, not personality. She's The Bookworm, The Brain, One Third of the Golden Trio. She hates that as much as Harry hates being the youngest Qudditch Seeker in a century, and a Parselmouth. Not to mention the Boy Who Lived.

She's slowing down, and I can see Harry's eyes shine in anticipation. Not the glow of a man who's about to bed a lover, or the sparkle of thought of what he could do to her. No, they're shining with relief - here, at last, they can be together openly. The moon and stars are witnesses to their love, only them, because they'll never tell. His hands are shaking, because it will most likely be the first time he's gotten to hold her that day. This would have all been simpler if Dumbledore hadn't been so insistent on making Ron a prefect. What was he thinking? Insofar as I can tell, he's been using his ability to be out after hours to find a closet with whatever girl he's with this week. Trying to build up courage to ask Hermione out, because it would take a strong man to deal with her. He doesn't realize that his true barrier is the boy who sits between the both of them, day in and day out. He doesn't realize that the hand that she's been holding under the table is Harry's, and will always be Harry's.

When they sit, their knees are always touching. He carries some of her books for her, because she's lost so much weight that she can't hold all of the heavy coursebooks. No one notices, of course - they take most of their courses together. It's just Harry being his chivalrous self - he'd do it for any girl, right?

They always skip lunch and retreat outdoors, even on rainy days, to practice their defense skills. They're training to be Aurors - Ron, as was expected by many, flunked out of potions. They sit next to each other in class, in their common room, everywhere. Hermione does not go anywhere but to her dorm and to the loo alone. I suspect this is starting to frazzle Ron, but he's too ... Weasley to notice that it's Harry with her. Harry pours her drinks, she loads his plate, and the whole damned world is just too fucking blind to notice.

Here, at Hogwarts, they are deprived of home. They cannot be Harry and Miya, who once spent hours tickling each other senseless. They cannot laugh and hold one another as they walk down the hall. They cannot demonstrate their love openly, lest they incur the wrath of the status quo. Harry is not supposed to fall madly in love with his best friend, a boring bookworm with bad hair and a bad back from carrying all her books. He cannot show of this beautiful ring she bought him; he placed a charm on it so that only those that know about it can see it. Hermione is supposed to be some flaming feminist who can hold her own against the world, men, and injustice; she's not supposed to caress the face of the boy she loves and murmer random fluffy things into his ear. Here, they must be Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, with personalities given to them by their peers and protectors. That is all they'll ever see of them.

Yet I wonder.

How can you not notice how Hermione uses her bookbag to help hide Harry from public view as they walk down to their classes? She lets her hair down more often that not as of late, because she can hide her face, and his as well. How can you miss how she twirls her curls around her finger when Harry looks at her? How can you miss the look of true bliss when Harry shoots her glances in class, how their faces light up when they see each other?

But the world is full of bastards and idiots, and so their love goes unnoticed. They go unnoticed. As far as Hogwarts is concerned, Harry James Potter and Hermione Jane Granger have ceased to exist. There is only The Boy Who Lived and The Bookworm left. It's enough to make Harry and Hermione weep. And weep they do; they cry silently at night, holding each other, their tears mingling as they press their cheeks together. Together, they mourn Sirius Black, James and Lily Potter, Cedric Diggory, and so many others.

I watch her approach Harry, hair wild. She smiles shyly.

Harry picks her up and whirls her around. Hermione is laughing. Now, she's less spectre and more fae-like. In the soft moonlight, she doesn't look as frail or saddened. But her eyes always sparkle when it's just her and her Harry. That's what she calls him. He calls her precious Miya. Just like Sirius used to, when it was late at night, and just the three of them and Remus, the older pair entertaining the younger with funny stories about their days as a Marauder. I shake my head at the insanity of it all; what would James and Lily say if they knew their only son was sneaking out, not to cause mayhem, but because it was the only time he felt it was safe enough to embrace the girl of his dreams? They'd probably lock him in his room, telling him that he couldn't possibly be in love with her. Then again, they dated less than a year before James popped the question to her. He did it in front of the whole school, more fool him. Reliable sources say that when they were alone, she nearly gave him a black eye for embarassing her like that. In the moonlight, they look strikingly like James and Lily.

Harry puts her down, takes her hand, and begins to dance with her. It's magical to watch. For a few short minutes, their shoulders are not bent with the burdens of Voldemort, Death Eaters, school, schoolmates... for a few brief moments, they are Harry and Miya, and they are free. I don't know what music they dance to; it's some unheard song only they can hear. But as he twirls her and dips her, you can see love radiating in their eyes.

Since school has started, they've given up on playing house. There's no way to make curry and turkey sandwiches at three in the morning without rousing the suspicion of someone. So late at night, they honeymoon. They dance - it's their way of making love. They dance for hours on end, whether it be in their Common Room, or on the rare occasion they sneak out, the Room of Requirement or the grounds of Hogwarts. The creatures watch them, but say nothing. There are some things that cannot be intruded or remarked upon.

This is one of them.

Their silent song ends, and she rests her head upon his chest, sighing softly. She looks content, peaceful - the only other time she looks like that is when she sleeps. They finally found a way to be together at night - there's a corner of their Common Room that's rather dark. If you walk up to it, there's a small ledge that leads to about 15 square feet of room. In all my years, poking around the school, I had never discovered that nook. They've stowed away blankets and pillows there, and late at night, they slip down into it and sleep together. I shudder to think of what would happen if they were forced to sleep apart. Until Harry found it, they had been forced to sit down in their Common Room until everyone went to bed, then pretend that they had been doing homework and had fallen asleep. Now, she stays up and does homework when she's not on Prefect duty, and he sneaks down in his Invisibility Cloak in case anyone is down there. Hermione is currently the bane of half of Gryffindor's existance - even the seventh years can't stand up to her when she tells them to leave the Common Room. They stay up, talking, and Harry feeds her whatever he's stolen from the kitchens that day. They barely eat now, but once again, the people around them don't notice.

Harry steps back from her, placing a hand on her neck. He's very possesive of her. And I think she enjoys it - she belongs to him. He tilts her chin up with his other hand and kisses her gently, pressing her against him. In the pale moonlight, I see the scars that decorate her arms and dance above her decolletage. His slide from his shoulders, down his arms, to his very fingertips. In school, they are hidden by robes and jumpers, but here... here, they are testaments to their strength. Together, they overcame their internal pain, their anguish. It is a badge of honour that proves that love conquers all, that friendship is strength. It is the reminder of a past life, one without their mutual love. I don't think they'd be rid of them if they could.

"I have something for you," he says breathlessly as they break apart. I school myself to stillness; patience is a necessity when you have a job like mine. I learned it long ago, although most people wouldn't guess it from my natural temperament. She stands there, confused while the winds begin to whip around furiously. She looks just as clueless as when Harry asked her out.

I remember it vividly. Harry possesses many things in spades, but finesse is not one of them. It was the second night she had crept to his room, dragging a bag full of sandwiches and soda for him. He was standing with his back to her.

"Harry?" she called out tentatively. He didn't respond.

Her face fell, and she turned around to go. Harry ran in front of her, and before he could lose his nerve, he kissed her hard. Hermione promptly dropped her bag and wrapped her skinny, scarred arms around him. He kissed her lips, her face, her neck, her chest. "Stay with me, my Miya," he had whispered, and she only kissed him back.

It's the stuff of fairytales. Or would be if it weren't for the Dark Lord and all that nasty business. It's a sort of desperate love, but that's the only kind that's worth it. That's the love on which kingdoms are built and heroes are made.

He digs into his pyjama pockets, and produces a small sack. Hermione looks at him questioningly, her curiousity piqued. Even in the dim light, I can see him blushing furiously. Hell, I think I can feel him blushing from where I'm precariously perched amongst the tree branches.

"Er...I.. uh, that is to say.." he says. Hermione merely blinks, still confused. She's not the only one.

"Oh, bugger all," he says, grabbing Hermione's hand. He hastily digs his fingers into the small sack, finds whatever he's looking for, and shows it to her. I hear a sharp gasp from Hermione, and I lean forward to get a better look.

Mother of Mercy, that is the biggest bloody diamond I have ever seen. From the look on Hermione's face, I surmise that it's the same for her.

"Mine," says Harry flatly. He grips her hand so hard, her bones should break. "Mine. Please."

Hermione lifts a small hand to his face, tracing his cheekbones. She tugs on a lock of his hair before circling her fingers around his eyes. She smiles gently, and a tear escapes.

"Yours," she whispers, and brings his hand to her face, and she kisses her palm. "Always yours," she says, and places his hand on her chest, over her heart. Part of me wants to laugh at the scenario - here, before my very eyes, is a girl in a slip and a boy in flannel pyjama pants and a sleeveless white undershirt, proposing to her. Yet I can't laugh, if only becaue of sheer seriousness of the situation. Harry slips the ring onto her left ring finger, drawing his wand and enchanting it. It’s the same charm he has on his ring - no one will notice it unless someone tells them that it’s there.

He twines his arms around her waist and brings her back to him. They begin to dance again. Circle wide, circle close. Withdraw, retreat, regain. It’s some sort of mystical ceremony that exists only in their minds. In some very odd way, I feel privileged to see it - I’m in on the secret. But I can’t bring myself to gloat to anyone, although having this sort of information could be useful. Both sides of the war seek to manipulate Harry, and I, who have watched him through the years, hold this piece of information. But something in me hesitates - neither side has the right to take away such beauty. I shake my head - I’m becoming soft in my old age. Whatever would Dumbledore think, if he could see me now? But I suppose that’s not important.

They are waltzing. That’s my cue to go. When they waltz, it goes on for hours. If nothing else, you have to admire their stamina. I silently slip out of the tree, avoiding the Whomping Willow. Oh, the memories that tree holds - it’s been there for long time, and I’ve seen the damage it can do. As I turn to look back at them, I see them dance into the distance, a pale light in the dark sea of life. I smile. That’s all I can do.