Lionheart

A fine mist of dust covered the library table as the ancient volume hit its surface. The tattered leather bindings of the slim book clung together precariously, and the yellowed pages looked as if they would disintegrate at the touch. The gilded letters of the title clung faintly to the surface: Portraits of Bravery: Wizards Who Dared.

Hermione turned the pages slowly and carefully, rather in awe as her eyes ran across the faded black letters. Godric Gryffindor himself read this book, she thought. She was pleased with her discovery; it would really bring detail to her essay on the primary influences of the Hogwarts founders. She neatly copied some notes onto a piece of paper and turned the fragile pages of the book.

She looked at the rough edges of the book, the thin stack of worn paper. In its antique roughness, it had a beauty of continuity, as if the pages belonged together--except for a tiny, almost imperceptible gap near the end of the book. Hermione gingerly slipped her fingernail between the pages and delicately opened the book to the source of the interruption.

A brown piece of paper, folded into thirds, was nestled into the binding of the book. The paper had an aged color, but the crispness of the edges and the smoothness of its dark surface gave it an untouched appearance. Perhaps this paper had been waiting for centuries to be read. . .

Hermione gently pulled out the paper and unfolded its tight creases. A precise angular script, still clearly discernible despite the passing of time, ran smoothly across the page. She began to read.

Dear Godric,

Even as I write this, I laugh bitterly at the irony of the book I have selected to bear these words. I cannot be brave enough to bring this to you in person, and I will trust fate to deliver this into your hands at the right moment.

You may remember the day we first met, before the four of us founded the school, before Salazar's uprising, before we gave our hearts to Hogwarts and forgot about ourselves. We were only eighteen. You took my hand and we walked through the mountain paths near your grandmother's house, near my own uncle's cottage. Maybe you have forgotten, but I still remember, and will always remember, the firm warmth of your hand as it held mine. That was the last time we were together as merely a young woman and a young man. We would not see each other for many years.

When the four of us came together that night several years ago with the vision of Hogwarts, you never noticed how my eyes constantly rested on your rugged face. You never noticed the longing in the cold words that I directed at you. Perhaps it was because of the steely defenses I had built for myself. I was always Clever Rowena, no great beauty, better with books than with a wand or with other people. I had long accepted that I would live my life alone.

But somewhere you had awakened something in me. With you, planning and talking and dreaming, I felt complete for the first time. I felt content, sitting by your side. If I had only told you what I felt then, before it grew into the desperate longing I feel now, perhaps things might have been different. We might have learned to love one another before we devoted our lives to education. But it is too late now for love, I suppose. We still have much to accomplish before we can be certain the school will last. I am convinced this is more important that the fruitless affection I cannot help still bearing for the greatest man I have ever known.

I cherish the small parts of the day that we are together. Do you ever notice, Godric, how I sometimes invent projects to work on with you, how I so often come to you with problems? Do you ever notice how I am restless without you? It is late at night, and I cannot sleep. I am haunted by what my life could have been if I had spent the last few years with you. I may seem fulfilled in teaching, but it is nothing more than a partially filled jar for me. The emptiness of the top part of the jar surrounds me, and I can find no warmth, comfort, or solidity except in the small part of my life I spend with you..

How can you not know that I love you? Every encounter with you is both bliss and torture. I try to control my feelings, and to reign in the small part of myself that wants so desperately to express the love that burns in my heart. And yet, I lack the bravery to actually let my inhibitions go and tell you that I love you. I am torn between expressing my heart and indulging the cowardice that has led to my misery.

My brave, dear Godric, if you find this letter, I can scarcely hope that you will come to me. My heart is already broken because I am not with you at this moment. Unless you find this letter, unless you mend my heart with your courageous, embracing arms, I shall barely allow myself to dream of you, though I cannot stop the visions that flood my thoughts. I crumble in loneliness, and I feel the still, empty silence of a solitary life that is not enough.

With all the love that my aching heart can hold,

Rowena Ravenclaw

Hermione carefully refolded the letter and tucked it between the pages of the book. Centuries later, she could still feel the cold pain of secret love, of wondering what could have been. She wondered if Godric had loved Rowena, as well. . . If he had, she never knew it. Godric had wed another woman. If they had ever had a chance, it was gone because Rowena had never had the courage to tell him that she loved him. It was a tragic story, and one that Hermione could easily imagine happening in her own life. Drawing from the depths of courage that had led the Sorting Hat to place her in Gryffindor House, she began a letter of her own, one that would not be tucked away from centuries, but, frightening as the thought was, delivered that very day.

Dear Ron. . .