Those Who Love

Those Who Love

She had changed after the three months that she was gone. She came back with a smile on her face, bright cheeks, and curly hair. She came back with more exuberance than she left with.

It was mind-boggling.

She and her beau went about their usual trysts, but nothing ever came of it. Nothing ever would and she seemed to know that. She would smile and pat his hand, telling him it was for the best and it was never meant to be. She seemed stronger, more adult and mature. Her composure was different. She wouldn’t only seem smart, but she looked smart. She held her head high and that look in her eye was something else. It was intelligence and knowledge that none of us knew.

She went about her daily business, eating with her friends, homework and Hogsmeade visits. She would sneak around and smile and laugh. She was herself, but she wasn’t all the same. She seemed to never smile as widely, nor did she ever fret about schoolwork as often.

Her friends finally asked her about it, and she just smiled and told them they’d find out in later years, when they were ready to hear it. They told her that she was just scared and didn’t want to tell them. She told that, with that same smile, that they were the ones that were scared of her words. The topic was never breached again.

And here, sitting in front of me, is this very girl. Now a woman with the same air of knowledge and intelligence. She sat looking at me with a curiously cocked head and a small smile, her hands folded in her lap. She wore a conservative dark green robe, her black cloak folded neatly on the back of her chair. She hadn’t changed since that fateful day she came back, just as abruptly as they day she left.

We sit and chat, talking of old times and new times, of new things and old things. We talk about our different circles of friends who are but acquaintances to each of us. When finally the words escape my mouth.

“What happened to you sixth year?”

She smiled at me and I covered my mouth, wondering where that stupidity came from. She seemed to think for a moment, before she slowly answered me, piece by piece.

She gave me the entire puzzle and solved it for me. She seemed to know what she was saying as she said it, as if she’d already played this conversation in her head thousands of times. There were no revisions, no sentences that she left untold. She was smooth and concise and understanding.

She told me she had gone into the past in order to save our world, to save Harry. She told me that while she was there she fell in love and knew that it was wrong and decided that love was worth it. Her secret love was worth it all, and she still loves that man that she never should have, even though she has two children of her own. She told me she nearly left the world she lives in now for that man, but she realized the stupidity of her near decision. She told me that she was glad that she made the choice that she did, even though the pain was evident one her face even now.

That man, she said, forever changed her life. He had given her something no one else could. He had given her confidence, intelligence, and knowledge that she was who she was and no one could change that. He told her she was beautiful and smart, capable in any situation that she should come across. And that was his timely demise, she’d realized that he was right and that she’d come there for a reason. She wasn’t to be deterred.

She knew even as his face faded in front of her that he was real, he loved her and she loved him. Even though he faded and never was. She told me that she’d never once uttered his name from that day on, but in passing she’d hear the name ‘Tom’ and smile. She would wander around London and see someone that resembles him and she would smile, her day a little bit better than it had been.

She told me how it came about, how she hated him first and loved him last. How she fought to love him and fought to keep him, but in the end she knew it was for the greater good to lose him and remember.

She told me that ‘Those who love the most do not speak of their love.’ And it all came together, she loved him so much and treasured what they had that she kept it quiet and to herself. She kept the secret in her heart and held it dear, and it was safe and only between each other. She kept it secret mostly to save her friends from the trouble of worrying about her, to keep herself from remembering too often when people would inquire about her tryst years before she was born. She told me that not only did she keep his name quiet for herself, but also for him. He never would have wanted that kind of knowledge to hit the papers after he died.

Now that I look, her face is glowing and her eyes are alight. She is alive as she speaks of him, and not only am I hopeful that that light will come back even as it fades into nothing as the conversation moves onto the world of sports and our husbands.

I have in my capable hands, the secrets of Hermione Granger. I am merely her sister-in-law, but I find that I know more about her than anyone alive. As for the dead, I am found beaten by the very man that faded from existence.

Those Who Love
Sara Teasdale

Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guinievere,
Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak if at all
Of fragile, inconsequent things.

And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride,
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.