Love’s Real Reference

Snow blanketed the Hogwarts grounds. Hermione Granger sauntered through it in her oversized snow shoes nonetheless, resolutely stalking two boys whose foolhardy games she had had quite enough of. Soon after, however, the snow soaked the bottom of her robes and slowed her pace as she stopped to kick the snow off her feet. Four times she had tripped in those shoes, one time right in front of everyone. So now their impression of her snow-shoeing prowess was not very good. In the distance, she saw smoke pouring out of Rubeus Hagrid’s cabin merrily, and she heard shrill cutting noises, a swoosh, and the sound of a blunt axe striking a pine tree. There was silence, and then it struck the ground – probably going to be used for firewood after.

She kept walking, stooping down to form a snowball in case she was attacked. Usually, Harry and Ron had many tricks up their sleeves, and they did not exactly “go easy” on her because of her feminine exception. Because they were seventeen and still wet behind the ears, they merely thought of her as a fellow teenage boy and left it at that. And quite frankly, Hermione was sick of waking up in the morning with a whirling headache because Ron felt like trying out his new headlock move on her. Harry would incidentally say that he had Quidditch practice or something to do for homework. He usually said Snape, to make it seem of more urgency, but Hermione knew better.

Either Hermione could foresee the future, or she just knew Harry and Ron very, very well, because, next moment, a snowball came out of nowhere and grazed her right ear. She stopped and swayed on the spot as she tried nursing it back to its original warmness but it did not work. Her ears perked up when they heard stifled laughter and she shouted, “Ronald Weasley, if you don’t come out here this instant, may Merlin have precious mercy upon your wretched soul, because I’m on the verge of backhanding you!”

Ron fell out of a small pit atop a hill on her rightmost side, clutching his ribs due to excessive laughter. He looked very silly when he was all bundled up in a jacket. In his amusement, his scarf fell off. Hermione advanced briskly on him.

“You sneaky little devil. I should hit you!” She chucked her snowball at him and it hit him squarely in the stomach. Seeing as how she did not impose the snowball upon him as he had on her, he hardly flinched.

“You’re weak,” he said, critiquing her throwing arm.

“When I want your opinion, you’ll surely know,” she snapped. “Where has Harry gone?”

“I don’t know,” answered Ron, sky-blue eyes alight as they twinkled in suspense. “Why don’t you look for him?” He clambered back to his feet and backed slowly away, accidentally falling into the pit. She heard him yelp from the painful contact his head had made with the snow but overlooked it in her attempt to find Harry. She continued her stroll in her snow shoes down near Hagrid’s cabin, reasoning to herself that if she failed to find Harry, she could just go pay Hagrid a visit and grab a cup of steaming hot chocolate on her way out.

But she was averted from further concentration. A pair of red-mittened gloves snaked around her neck, pulling her downward. She inhaled sharply, thinking it was Ron. “You crazy fool!” she shrieked as she lost her balance and fell on top of him.

Then she smelt it: the cinnamon toothpaste – the perfect winter flavor – the fleeting sight of his raven hair and the sparkling contrast of those emerald eyes against the pearly white snow. Harry.

“Oh, it’s you, Harry,” said Hermione, thrown off guard. “What are you doing here?”

Harry’s lips curled upward into a mischievous grin. “Looking for you,” he answered, his innocent tone deceiving no one.

“Well, you’ve found me. You could have found a better way to have said hello,” Hermione said exasperatedly. She stared, mystified, into his irises, not being able to control herself.

He noticed, shifting around uneasily as they lay there, completely unaware of how the image would look if Ron were to waltz over and see them there, Hermione sprawled on top of him. As he held on to her, a funny feeling came over him, and then something happened that he didn’t want Hermione to feel. “Um… shall we get up?” he asked, his hormones steadily ensnaring the sense of friendship he had once felt for Hermione. Something was making his body… tingle. He looked down and closed his eyes sharply, pushing Hermione up a little before her leg brushed it –

But something was occurring in her, too. She didn’t know what it was, and not even books could have told her what it was. No reference could properly define the feeling of love. She gawked at him and did not realize that he was speaking to her until she looked down at his lips, his luscious lips –

“Oh!” she said, brought to attention by them. “Sure.” She heaved herself off of him in reluctance and rolled around on her back, having trouble because of the snow shoes. “Harry, could you please -?”

He noticed the snow shoes. “Yeah, quite all right.” In one tug, he brought her to her feet once more, and she could not help but marvel at his strength, not that she was a very large girl – quite the contrary. They trudged through the snow back up to the school.

“Did you hear about the big Valentine’s Ball the sixth year prefects have had planned? Dedicated to us seventh years, isn’t that fantastic?” said Hermione in excitement.

Harry didn’t seem very excited. “Yeah, I’m over the moon about it.” But for some reason, the look of his eyes sounded a different answer to Hermione.

“Harry, what’s wrong?”

He stopped and looked at her. “Nothing is wrong.” He turned to walk away but Hermione had grabbed his arm with him noticing – maybe it was the effects of the winter cloak.

“I can sense something. Your eyes tell me something is wrong,” said Hermione dubiously. “Please, Harry. Tell me.”

She could just see the cogs working in his mind, the many wheels turning to figure out a conceivable reason as to why he was down in the dumps. “Because,” he stammered, “there’s this… girl. And she’s really nice. I feel kind of stupid because I haven’t noticed how nice she was all this time and I wanted to make it up to her.”

Hermione’s gaze sharpened. “Go on.”

“There’s something that I’ve been wanting to do. I’ve always been really interested in it, but I think that sometimes those Muggle movies just make it all up. I don’t know if it’s as wonderful as it sounds.”

“What is it?” asked Hermione on tenterhooks.

Harry stared at her, suffused in nervousness. “Um… kissing.” Perspiration formed on the palms of his hands as he waited with bated breath for her answer.

“How interesting,” she said, sounding envious. “You want to kiss this girl?”

Harry nodded, but didn’t look quite finished. “Well, not only that. There’s something else, too, I mean, because we’re older and everything and I think that I’m, um… okay… to, you know… ” He stared pointedly at her.

“I, uh… Oh!” Hermione said. Oh, God. He wants to lose his virginity. She felt sympathy for him. The Dursleys, she surmised, had probably wrinkled their noses on the subject of “love”, so Harry was left on his own. To find out for himself. She didn’t think that he would know exactly right from wrong, and, quite personally, didn’t want to be the one to coach him on it.

“Could you help me, Hermione?”

“Help you with what?” It wasn’t like she had had any experience in the field.

“I’ve, um… I’ve never kissed a girl before.” He didn’t leave her any room to speak, launching into an explanation. “I saw you with Viktor Krum once two years ago, and you seemed like… you knew what you were doing.” It seemed more like an interrogation. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself. I kind of want to do that, but I want to… ” He trailed off again, undoubtedly feeling uncomfortable because she was a girl.

“And how do I help you with this?” Hermione partially knew what he meant, but didn’t know if she liked the fact or not.

“Um… are you a good kisser?”

“Oh, Harry. How could I help you, I don’t see the point - ” She was lying. She knew very well what he wanted: he wanted kissing lessons from her, and he wanted to learn how to “do it” with her. “This is insane! Can’t you ask someone else, like Ron? He can show you, he has a girlfriend - ”

“Ron can’t kiss me, though,” said Harry impatiently. He held onto her arm. “Please, Hermione? Please, I’m begging you.”

Hermione gazed up into his pleading eyes. “Who is this witch? Who? Just tell me.”

He suddenly floundered as he probed his mind for words. “Um…. It’s a secret. Sorry.”

She yanked her arm away stubbornly. “I don’t have to help you, then.” She began to walk back toward the doors of the castle. Harry caught up to her, still looking desperate.

“Please?”

“It’s that Chang girl, isn’t it?”

Harry stared at her in turmoil. “She graduated last year. She’s dating Roger Davies. They have a flat together in London. And anyway, I’ve gotten over her. I haven’t liked her since I was fifteen. I let her go after Cedric died.”

“Well, then, who?” she insisted.

Harry’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly. He looked to be on the verge of letting it slip, then recognized the excitement registered on his best friend’s face, and seemingly decided against it. At least that’s what she thought, for he shook his head, more so to himself than to her. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I’ll tell you after the Valentine’s Ball.”

Hermione may have unwillingly agreed with the negotiation, but her brown eyes sent him a different message.

“It’s a promise I can keep,” he told her in reassurance. “I’m serious.” She couldn’t help but believe him as they meandered back to the doors.

He grabbed her hand just as they entered the castle. “Meet me in the Astronomy Tower… ” He trailed off. “At ten.”

“Isn’t ten a little late?” asked Hermione suspiciously. “And do you realize what goes on up in that Tower?” She bulged her eyes out of her head to emphasize, and he got the gist eventually.

“So? I mean, we’re just going up there - ”

“To kiss, Harry. That’s what most people do up there. Maybe one out of ten students could honestly tell you that they have used the Astronomy Tower for its original purposes. I’ve used it for Astronomy, though.”

“Well, so have I,” piped Harry. “And that’s all we’re doing. You’re just coaching me, we’ll do it, then we’ll come back before anyone spots us - ”

“Oi! Idiots!” they heard Ron shout to them in the distance that spanned between them. They saw him making his way toward them through a particularly deep level of snow. He pushed open one of the castle doors, which they had callously left ajar, and when he reached Harry and Hermione, his cheeks were cast in a rosy pink color and his nose was bright red and running slightly. He sniffed carelessly and quickly ran a hand across his nose to get rid of the excess gunk that came out. “What are you two talking about?”

“Nothing, Ron,” said Harry quickly. Hermione walked unobtrusively further into the castle, and Harry stared almost wistfully after her. It left her in confusion as she walked slowly back to Gryffindor Tower alone, gradually pulling off her winter wear as she began to adjust to the castle’s warmth. But she shivered when drafts of crisp wind sneaked through the cracks in the windows and the castle’s walls. She could make out distant mumbling between Harry and Ron behind her, but did not wait for them.

The Fat Lady peered down at her amicably. She had always favored Hermione, and had been one of the people who had insisted that Hermione be made Head Girl, because she considered her quite the role model. “Hello, dear. Did you enjoy yourself out in that snow? I may not be able to see directly out of the windows, but from what I’ve seen from some of the children’s robes, it’s deep.”

Hermione nodded hurriedly. “Scarlet fever,” she whispered to the Fat Lady, who swung her hinges open in reluctance. Harry and Ron were steadily advancing on her, maybe about ten or fifteen yards away. She jumped into the safety of the common room and sought refuge in her own bedroom – Head Girl’s privilege. Hermione didn’t think of it as a privilege. No matter how annoying her old roommates had been, she rather missed hearing them hiss at each other when they were supposed to be sleeping, or hurriedly applying makeup in the morning or asking her the answers to nearly all of their homework. She hated being alone. She knew very well that Harry did, too.

There was a knock on her door. “Come in,” she called out from her bed in which she had thrown herself on. Harry, of all people, stuck his head in.

“Are you… erm, coming tonight? To the Tower?” he asked her nervously.

She nodded, and his frightened looked vanished only to be replaced by relief. “Good,” he said. Then she saw his eyes carefully exploring her room. “Nice place you have here,” he commented. She noticed that he habitually fidgeted with the ends of his robes when he was nervous – but this time, it seemed like he was itching to take them off.

“It’s a place for me to kick my shoes off in,” said Hermione, yawning. “Don’t you have homework to be doing?”

Harry shuffled his feet nonchalantly. “Well, Snape hasn’t assigned us anything… and neither did Flitwick or McGonagall. And Binns doesn’t want that essay due until next week – after the Ball.”

Hermione seemed like the answer would suffice, no matter how much she despised procrastinators. “That’s fine, Harry. How about I meet you there later?”

“But I thought we would just… hang out together or something. You know, talk.” He was terrible, so it seemed, on chatting women up.

Feeling uncomfortable with a man’s presence in her sleeping quarters, Hermione shook her head, knowing much better than her parents had even taught her. “No, Harry. Isn’t Ron around, somewhere?”

Harry looked downcast. “He’s… busy. With Parvati Patil.”

Hermione chuckled, receiving the gist. “How wonderful. And where is he… ‘busy’ with her?”

“In the dormitory. He told me to tell Neville, Seamus, and Dean that he had a headache and didn’t want them to come up until late.” Harry seemed suddenly hopeful, but she misunderstood as to why.

“Well, we would expect him to say something like that,” said Hermione, wearily. A stoical silence ensued, and Hermione nervously consulted her watch. “Harry. It’s seven o’ clock. I said we would meet there at ten. And I don’t really care if you don’t want to finish up Professor Binns’ assignment; that is not my problem, it’s yours. I like to do things when they are assigned to me, and not put them off until the last minute. If you don’t mind, I’d like some privacy so I could get a head start on it.” And with that, she got up from her bed, pulled open the chair to her desk, and threw herself into it, rudely turning her back to him. She didn’t say another word, but got out a fresh roll of parchment, dipped her quill in its bottle, and pretended to start, penning her name on top of the parchment. The words ‘Hermione Granger’ glistened at the top momentarily, then dried.

* * * * *

She almost had no initiative to let one foot stray out of the safeness of her private dormitory. The reaction Harry had registered seemed to tell her that the lessons for the night were off, and she was apprehensive on being caught in there, with him. Fellow Hogwarts role model. Head Boy. Quidditch Captain. What some younger, naïve girls referred to as a “fine slice of Gryffindor beef”. Her best friend. Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. Companion… but what about lover?

Golden-brown hair swayed with the shake of her head as she denied that Harry was no lover of hers, although she’d like him to be.

Hermione suddenly halted to a standstill as the realization finally dawned on her: she, Hogwarts Head Girl, of all people, was lost. Maybe it was a trick of the light? But no; she had never seen such grotesque paintings before. Some horrid, some amazingly explicit, some vulgar and crude… she wondered if, due to inappropriateness to younger beings, these portraits were moved to the upper floors to prevent any disturbances. Beyond her, a doorway caught her eye, a darkened stairwell proceeding it. Slightly tinged with curiosity, Hermione walked lightly to the door and peered up the ominous passageway. It seemed dank and drafty, as if something fresh were up there… air? Tower? She began to climb, curiosity and temperature decreasing with every level of ascension.

The top slid into view and her footsteps faded as she stopped again, sharply inhaling at the sight.

The grounds of Hogwarts stretched out behind an arched window way, stars twinkling above innocently, adding essential scenery to what she had only just realized she had stumbled upon was the Astronomy Tower itself. Intricate carvings of Ancient love gods lined the gaps made by the arches and the turreted ceiling. The room was dark, except for the romantic moonlight flooding in, bathing her in silver.

“Quite the snog spot, isn’t it?” a voice she could not mistake for anything other than Harry Potter said, somewhere near her left ear. She whirled around on the spot.

“Where are you, Harry?” she whispered.

“Find me if you can,” she heard his voice float roguishly out of the darkness. She felt a tap on her shoulder, spun round, and saw nothing again.

“Harry, take off your Invisibility Cloak, it’s simply not fair!” She heard the shuffling of his trainers against the stone floor subside at those words from their pacing run and he appeared in a whirl of nothing.

“Hi,” he said simply.

“Okay, then, Harry. Where do we begin?”

“Well, I’m sure that kissing has to fit in somewhere,” said Harry. The eagerness in his voice was easily detectable.

“Um… fine.” But they didn’t know how to go about doing it. They approached each other, and stood there, staring into each other’s eyes, not breathing a word, just gazing raptly, as if some crucial key to life was hidden within one another’s body. “I think you’ll have to tilt your head a little – to the right, that’s it – not too much, now. You just don’t want the noses to interrupt. It’s like bumper cars in Muggle amusement parks sometimes.”

Harry, who had never had the eligibility to attend family excursion with the Dursleys (excepting the snake incident when he was eleven), was only vaguely aware of what bumper cars were. From what Dudley had said of them, they were “right stupid”. But maybe he said that because he had lost to some other boy in another car. “Okay,” he said instead.

“Then you must put your arms somewhere around your partner’s body,” said Hermione sagely.

“Partner. Interesting word choice,” muttered Harry.

Hermione ignored him and allowed him to let a hand encircle her tiny waist. More than she had wanted, which was a terrific thing, he pulled her dangerously close; her chest scantly firm against his. She looked up and saw him lick his lips, anticipating the moment. But she couldn’t help herself. She stopped him.

“Who’s the witch, Harry? Please tell me.”

Harry was hesitant, his eyes wandering as he floundered in his search for an answer. “I can’t tell you. Now let’s do this.” He leaned forward again.

“Tell me.” Hermione could feel his breath become moistened in her skin. Her body tingled oddly.

“I can’t,” he protested.

“Please.” They argued in huskily persistent voices.

“Just help me.”

“Just tell me.”

Harry put a hand over her mouth. “After you kiss me, I’ll tell you.” Hermione looked at him in disbelief.

“Really?” she asked. Excitement could not help but show on her face as she eyed her best friend.

“Really,” he verified, leaning in.

This time, Hermione didn’t object as she felt Harry capture her lips for the first time. At first it was calm, placid. He had done everything she had hoped he would have done, and even more than that. Losing themselves entirely in the kiss, they moved closer together, forgetting that they were only supposed to be practicing for the mystery witch that Harry loved, forgetting that they were only best friends. And yet, forgetting what the public would say if they found out that Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, after the horrid love triangle that had occurred between them all but three years ago, were at it again, only this time by themselves. The arms that were clasped to her waist moved seductively up and around her back, finally finding the front buttons of her robes. Without thinking, Harry had roaming hands slip through and probing her back. Even more grateful for it, Hermione allowed her hands, which were momentarily around his neck, dangle slightly inside of his white-collared shirt. He didn’t notice that she was actually touching his skin until he felt a feeling, a burning feeling.

Impulsively, it seemed, Hermione snaked a hand to his face and removed his glasses. She carelessly tossed them aside, letting them hit the stone-flagged floor and not even checking to see if the lenses had been damaged. Harry, by the looks of it, apparently did not care himself. All he cared about was the task at hand, which was to make the witch of his dreams his and only his. Thus far he had succeeded, and she had been fooled into it, not relinquishing the astounding contact they made. In mounting desperation they began to fumble with each other’s robes; within seconds, Harry made Hermione’s robes fall to the ground, and she lightly kicked them further behind her.

What are we doing? she asked herself. But she knew what she was doing. Her breath quickened, and the sound of her heart beating thumped painfully against his chest. He felt it, too. Hands ran through hair, balling into fists, as they became more and more aroused. Temptation was futile to resist at this point. Before he knew it, Harry had scooped Hermione in his arms, not breaking the kiss once, and carried her out of the Astronomy Tower and down the winding staircase after collecting their things.

Some moments later, once down the hallway, the kiss was miraculously broken. Their breaths were ragged, sharp in and outtakes. Hermione clutched at a stitch in her chest. Her body felt electrified and tingling for more. But Harry just stared at her.

“I get to tell you who the witch is now,” he said, grinning oddly. His emerald eyes were afire with happiness as he surveyed Hermione.

Reality fell down with a jolt. She had completely put out of her head, after being preoccupied with the sultry excursion she had endured with the one man she knew she loved. Now she knew, after the momentary bliss he had put her through, she could not know. She could not bear to witness some other witch, seeing her caress his cheek, kiss his lips, she could not hear rumors floating around that he had made love to this witch and not her. Hot tears poked at her eyes.

Harry was startled to see her lips wriggle as she tried to fight back tears. “Hermione?”

“NO!” The scream echoed throughout the corridor. People in the portraits stirred in their slumber and gazed groggily after the commotion. Hermione turned on her heel and ran swiftly back to Gryffindor Tower, not even checking to see if Harry was following.

* * * * *

The next morning, Hermione walked down to breakfast with gloomy spirits hanging over her. She dreaded seeing Harry putting the moves on the girl he admired, and, even though she had vowed to just avoid him, she knew it was foolish; she had almost all of her classes with him, and she wasn’t angry with Ron, after all.

But Ron wasn’t even talking to Harry. He wasn’t even at breakfast, come to that. Seamus, Dean, and Neville were all extremely annoyed because Ron would not let them back into the dormitory. All three of them had had to sleep by the warmth of the flames the previous night. After she noticed that Lavender Brown was also sitting alone, she knew very well where her promiscuous redheaded friend was.

Harry was surprisingly alone himself. Her eyes strayed over him, his unkempt hair, which, even though it looked like it never had been, not brushed at all, his robes in wild disarray, like he had not changed them, his face seemingly diminished after the occurrences of the night before. He wasn’t speaking to anyone, and hadn’t even touched his golden plate and goblet, which lay intact in front of him.

* * * * *

Hermione grabbed a long piece of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a peacock-feathered quill Harry had given her in fifth year from the safeness of her desk. Retrieving the items, she walked back down the stairs.

Ron was there this time, but busy with Parvati. The two of them were giggling contentedly, and Hermione felt disgusted watching them kiss. She noticed that her supposed best friend didn’t even say good morning to her.

They left some moments later, probably not thrilled about Hermione invading their privacy. She pulled a table close to her and claimed a large chair by the fire. And suddenly, she began to write.

When I was in my youth, I was just Hermione Granger. Virtually worthless to most other Muggle children. Nobody talked to me. Nobody had words of encouragement to bestow upon me except for my parents. And even then, with all of those words, I was not saved. I craved for an affectionate friend, which, evidently, I was not meant to make. They saw me as a snobby know-it-all, for which I will calmly upbraid my adoring parents. It seemed like all they did was flaunt me as someone they wanted me to be, and not the person that I actually was. And that’s all I was to anybody.

Hermione the bookworm. Honor student. Pride taking, academic-wise. A girl who loved her parents dearly, and agreed with everything they said.

She stopped writing and admired her work. Unlike the night before, the words did not shine on the parchment, but were rather blank. She continued.

And then, I became a witch.

Goodness knows how Mother and Father were so very proud of me, yet I saw apprehension in their eyes as they thought of their own daughter, predictably sporting a fake, wart-adorned nose and a pointed black hat with a matching, ragged dress. I knew. I just knew that life would change. I could still be smart there, but no one would know who I was before. No one would know that I hadn’t any friends. Nobody would know. I could live a lie, and grow into it, steadily believing it to be true myself. I could take on a new identity.

And I believe that that was exactly what I had done, as I boarded the Hogwarts Express. My first bit of magic, after the book practicing was the task of passing through platform nine and three-quarters. Thankfully, Professor McGonagall left instructions enclosed within my acceptance letter.

All that was left was to meet my new friends. I was immediately acquainted with a chubby-looking boy named Neville Longbottom. But he didn’t seem the right person. But Neville, who has, still to this very day, been a very dear friend to me, has kept me sane when my other friends would not.

Momentarily abandoning Neville, I found the two boys whom I knew were just “it”. Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. I’ll always love them, maybe even Harry more. And I will never forget the very day I met him. I felt so terrible for acting stuck-up and snobby in front of him after, that I attempted to atone. But he was too busy with Ron to even care. Ron scowled at me, and was consciously envious of me academically. He made me feel like I didn’t belong, and Harry’s indifference only made it worse. Yet, upon saving me from the mountain troll, these two boys have lit up my life ever since. In fact, I’ve never really felt alone from them. Ever.

At least up until now.

Hermione’s quill stopped in its tracks as she pondered what to say. Once again, she felt like crying, but she was determined to convey her exact emotions onto the parchment, telling herself sternly that she would feel a lot better.

Harry has found solace in another woman. I had not realized, at the moment he let the words escape from his lips, that I loved and needed him so terribly. It was not fair that both Harry and Ron were both content with their choices, and, most of all, it was not fair that Harry and I had exchanged a very passionate kiss right before he was about to tell me. That kiss, that electrifying, radical kiss, has only confirmed my belief that he is the man I want to wake up next to each morning. He is the man that I want to call my own in the future. If ever I bear children, he is the one I want squeezing my hand when they come wailing into our world. I want to call him my love. I would want my children to call him “Daddy”, and I would want to see his face light up in happiness.

And most of all, I just want him to know. Even if I have to hear him say, “I don’t love you, Hermione. My feelings go out to another witch.” It will still warm my heart to know that he read this entry and merely acknowledges it.

A sob was emitted from Hermione’s mouth as she moved a trembling hand up to the top of her entry and dated it. But for some reason, she still did not seem to be finished.

Sometimes I often wonder if Harry fantasizes about me. I know that I do about him. Some of the wildest dreams you could ever imagine have crossed my innocent mind. One night, I woke up, my entire body drenched in a fine coat of sweat, after an amazingly erotic dream I endured about him. It was like he was the Muggle David Copperfield, doing awe-inspiring feats with just my body. I was positively screaming with pleasure. But when I awoke, I found that I was alone, I was most definitely a virgin still, and my body was in perfect array with my bed, as it had been the night before. But I vowed to myself, that if ever I do find him making ferocious love to me, I will pour seven years of grateful friendship into it in return, to let him know exactly how much I love him and how much I wish to please him. I wish to get into his gentle interior and inscribe the words, “Our love is perennial. Never will it waver.” I don’t care if it hurts him.

I know Harry may be skeptical if I propose the thought of us being together to him. He might even become angry with me. I would not blame him for not wanting to. Everyone knows of our supposed love affair when we were all but fourteen. It was a lie. Viktor Krum had declared me his everything, and pledged his love to me right before my fifteenth birthday. Ron was infuriated, but Harry seemed particularly skillful at hiding his feelings. I will never, not even in a hundred years, be able to decipher the look on his face when I, blushing furiously, confirmed the rumor that Viktor and I were indeed dating. I feel foolish, still to this day, for ever having the slightest attraction to Viktor, for last year I just knew that he didn’t mean anything to me. He was angered, but agreed. We exchange letters, but it’s not the same as before. He would grab me in public, twirl me around, and plant scintillating kisses upon my face. Anyone could have detected Ron’s jealousy then, but, then again, he had had feelings for me as well.

Ron finally mustered up the will to ask me to date him about a month later – no doubt with words of encouragement from Harry. I agreed, but Ron was different. I thought that he would treat me like his other girlfriends – someone to kiss during the day, make love to each night. But he never did, actually. Occasionally, he kissed me, but for some reason, he liked to do more talking than anything. In the time that we dated, I noticed a significant change in Harry’s behavior. He seemed very cold to both of us, curt at times, but never too particularly friendly. We both gathered up the assumption that he was jealous, and decided it was best that we end the relationship. That was more my idea than anyone’s, and I was shocked that Ron took it so well. I thought that he would explode and throw profanities at me, but he said, “That’s fine, then. Anything to bring Harry back to the person he used to be.” We had both missed Harry.

Our relationship permanently ended about a month or two after it had begun, and, sure enough, Harry was back to normal. Ron and I conferenced often about him and it strengthened our beliefs more and more.

So now, I wait in patience. Patient for the day that Harry will ask me to date him. But now that he’s met this witch, whoever she is, it will never come. We are all adults now. In five months, it will be approximately the end of the month of June, and we will be on our own. Ron hopes to get a job in the Ministry of Magic with his father, so I’ve been helping him to get top marks. Harry will hardly speak about the future. Whenever we ask him, he says sagely, “I like to worry about things as they come up, and not beforehand.” But why does he want to practice this kiss beforehand, then? Perhaps Harry should practice instead what he preaches. I still think that it’s an excellent idea that he is preparing for the moment, the one moment when his life will change. I just hope that this witch will treat him with respect, listen to him, and not flaunt him around, just because he’s Harry Potter. In the midst of my love for Harry, I had noticed that I had completely forgotten about Harry’s reputation, and I’m proud of myself. Ron and I have both sort of adapted to the feeling of recognizing him as a normal human being. He loves to be with us both for that reason, besides the fact that we’re just so compatible together. I want Harry’s secret admirer to love him like I have, still to this day. I want her to look at him as a true person, and not a celebrity. And I want Harry to love her just as strongly back.

But in doing this, I want him to remember that Hermione Granger still loves him, and hopes that, even though marriage, sex and other miscellaneous things will never happen between us, he will love her, too, while simultaneously loving his wife.

I love you, Harry Potter. I always will.

Hermione closed the inkbottle, dried her quill, and dissolved into tears, cupping her face into her hands. She let her hair cascade over the sides, to hide the pain and agony she felt.

And it was then that the portrait door swung open, revealing none other than Harry, looking like he was about ready to attack anyone who talked to him. Hermione stopped her crying, not wanting Harry to feel the pain she did. He stopped in his tracks, looking at her, drinking in the expression on her face as she stared back at him. His eyes slowly slid over the parchment in front of her, filled with her miniscule, immaculate penmanship. “Homework?” he asked shortly.

She sniffled, picked up the roll of parchment, and suddenly, had a very good idea formulate in her head. She stood up, parchment in hand, and walked over to him, firmly holding it out. He took it, expecting it to be a report about something for History of Magic.

She stared at him for a moment or so. “Read it,” she said hoarsely.

Harry brought the parchment closer to his face and began to read. She tried her hardest to get into his thoughts, understand what he was thinking, wanting to know how he was feeling as his eyes traveled further and further down the parchment. After a moment, blatantly intrigued by what he was reading, he sat down on one of the armchairs, the armchair closest to her, she noticed. At one point, Hermione even saw Harry tensely peel his shirt away from his skin, a gesture that often suggested you were hot inside.

Then she gathered that letting him read it was foolish. Tears begged to come out, and she unwillingly let her guard down, heaving her shoulders as a sob made her body shudder. Harry looked up, face distorted with concern for her, but continued on reading. She mused about what he was thinking about as he read the fantasies she had had… how could she have been so stupid to write that she wanted to make love to him? As she saw his eyes nearing the end, she had half a mind to run, just flee, before he could yell at her.

He looked up and said nothing. Bottle green eyes scanned tearful honey brown, and lips were pursed tightly together. They were just sitting there, staring, doing absolutely nothing, when Hermione, for the first time in her life, saw a tear slide down Harry’s face, too.

It was so painful to see Harry cry, after all that had happened to him. She must have been the only person in the world, besides the untimely death of his parents, to have an influence on his shed tears. As he cried, he smiled. Smiled, she didn’t know why, but she curled her lips upward in return. He suddenly leaned in and hugged her, and Hermione realized that that was all she wanted from him.

* * * * *

An hour later, she was laying in a bed. Harry’s bed. With nothing on whatsoever. She rested her head contently against his bare shoulder, thinking of the current events that had passed. The journal entry she had written lay on the desk. Harry had asked if he could keep it, for memory. She obliged. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said, softly caressing her cheek as she smiled up at him.

“Thank you,” she whispered back at him. They both laughed.

It was then that curiosity struck Hermione. “Harry, do you like beef?”

Harry positively sputtered. “What?’”

“Well, some women said you were a fine, er, slice of, um…. Gryffindor beef.”

They were silent for a moment, and then they collapsed into laughter. After that Hermione remembered that Harry had never even got around to answering her question because they were so giggly.

So, in the end, Harry did indeed get what he wanted. And, so, it seemed, did Hermione. Everyone was just a little surprised when Harry turned up at the Valentine’s Ball with Hermione. By then, Ron had a new girlfriend – Blaise Zabini, from Slytherin. This shocked Harry and Hermione, but they were willing to accept Ron’s profound attraction to her, as long as he was willing to accept theirs.

* * * * *

Just one month after their graduation, Harry and Hermione were engaged. Ron was angry, as expected, but, like he had been before, said he would not mind if they went and got married right away. As for him, he became a snake in the grass. Each month, he had some new girlfriend hanging on his shoulder. He still lived with his mother and father at the Burrow. Harry had left the Dursleys practically the day he returned, dragging Hermione into the house with him. They stayed in his room, one night, despite his aunt and uncle’s requests that Hermione not sleep with him in his bed. Out of respect for the elders, they did not make love that night, even though Harry had wanted to.  Hermione was relieved to leave the very next day. Harry had found a flat during school, madly searching the Muggle newspapers, got in contact with its owner, and bought it. Hermione’s heart simply melted when he asked her if she wanted to stay with him, too.

They were married in September, relatively close to Hermione’s birthday. It was very small. Ginny had been Maid of Honor respectively, and the same with Ron as Harry’s Best Man. Friends and family members from all over came – except for anyone from Harry’s side. Hermione’s heart panged with sympathy for Harry. His mother and father never got to see him on his wedding day, when he had looked so marvelous. Ron and everyone else had surreptitiously pitched in and arranged a small trip to Hawaii for their honeymoon, which coincided with Hermione’s eighteenth birthday.

And now, Hermione sat again, in her study that Harry had so willingly singled out for her, and looked down at her parchment. She had not written for months about her life, and was so excited that she only wrote this:

I’m pregnant, and Harry doesn’t know.

She dated the entry 14 March 1999 and rolled it up, tying it with a scarlet ribbon and stuffing it into a drawer where she kept all kinds of worthless junk. She never threw any of Harry’s things away, even wrappers from food. Luckily, it was unbeknownst of him.

Then, Hermione Granger- Potter ran to tell her husband the wonderful news.

***