Disclaimer: HP is not mine, unfortunately
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No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do.
It's a gray afternoon, and I study my shadow. So much like me, so, so close; except it can't laugh like I can, or read to a child, or touch an angel. It cannot weep with me in the sepia haze of the evening. And so I feel pity for the lonely creature, doomed to forever imitate my every folly. My shadow--poor thing!--is chained to the earth, having desire to fly, yet possessing no essence to take wing. My shadow is Icarus, but I am no Daedalus to forge him wings.
A favourite professor of mine once said that our shadows are dimmer in the rain. But when the sun comes out, they sharpen into a distinct likeness of our shape. So when the sun comes out, she asked, are our shadows more real, or are we?
For I have known them all, already, known them all:--
Have known the mornings, evenings, afternoons.
Hermione laughs, and lightly touches the boy's arm. Though they are protected from the Autumn drizzle by an amber canopy of trees, the boy removes his cloak and wraps it about her shoulders. His hands run through her tawny curls briefly, before settling just under her chin.
"Better?" He says, tossing his head back when red hair falls into his eyes.
Hermione tilts her head, a smile curling her lips. "Thanks. How very gallant of you..."
"Yes," the boy replies. He assumes a thoughtful expression. "Yes, I suppose I am quite gallant. Rather like a knight, if you ask me."
"You be the knight," Hermione grins, and raises her eyebrows. "But I'm the king. I can order you about whenever I please."
The boy chuckles then, and the sound reminds Hermione of cedar: spicy and dark green, infinitely, reassuringly familiar. He leans down, still cupping her face, and draws her lips to his.
She relaxes for a moment, but then pulls back. "We should study--"
"Hermione," the boy pleads. "We have half a weekend left. Let's see if anyone's going to Hogsmeade."
"No." the girl says, suddenly stern. "Potions essay and a History test due Monday, remember? Come on. I'll help you practice your wand movements..."
Barely concealing a grin, the boy shakes his head, and follows her back to the castle.
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight downed with light brown hair!]
We have study sessions, Hermione and me. In the flickering torchlight of the Library, we go over texts--ancient, nearly crumbling under my fingers--and write essays. Sometimes we'll debate a topic. "For practice," she tells me. "It's good for both of us. And it keeps our minds sharp." Everything Hermione does, I think, has some underlying intellectual benefit. It's incredible, really. Once I saw her wandering the Hogwarts Grounds with a textbook on plant life, learning about every tree, rock, and herb between the castle and the Forbidden Forest.
And probably every tree, rock, and herb in the Forbidden Forest, too. She's brave, my angel is, and a willful creature besides.
She's with me in the Library now, bent over her Charms text. The wind had been at her hair, so it's a chestnut tumble over her shoulders. Hermione's cloak--a man's garment--is far too big for her, so she seems lost in it's commodious folds.
I close my eyes. I can almost feel her in my arms...the sweet cherry scent of her hair--that wild mane!--the creamy skin I know to be soft as sable. But now isn't the time for those thoughts: I'm studying. Or I ought to be.
Perhaps I'll ask for some extra help with my wand movements after supper.
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me
Hermione cat-stretches, and looks for some marmalade to layer onto her toast. This early in the morning, the Great Hall is nearly empty, save for a few teachers, so the girl has plenty of room to stack her books on the table in front of her. Today, she's immersed in A Wizarding Commonwealth. It's a lengthy read, and (as most would claim) a dry read as well.
She glances up at him when he enters the room. His red, red hair is tousled, and Hermione sees him attempt to flatten it before he reaches her table. But she likes it messy; it gives her an excuse to run her hands through it. But more than that, his mussed hair is like her own. They are utterly opposite people in all other respects; yet his hair is her hair. A bit of her is in him.
"Morning," he murmurs, swooping down to kiss her cheek. "Sleep alright, then?"
Hermione reaches for a cup. "Pretty well. Oo-long or chamomile?"
"Mm. The latter, I think. Thanks." He watches her her add a microscopic amount of cream, just how he likes it. "Have you thought about plans after school?"
Hermione looks at him quizzically. "School? It's a Sunday--"
"After Hogwarts, I mean." The boy takes a sip of tea. "Have you thought of a career yet?"
"Oh," Hermione turns her gaze to the ceiling, fingers twirling a lock of hair. "I suppose. Teaching, I believe. I've been tutoring students for a while now, and I think the job's for me."
The boy looks at her appraisingly. "I could see that. You'd be happy?"
"Yes," Hermione nods. "I think I would, anyway. What about you? Quidditch? I remember you and Harry wanted to be Aurors for a while."
"Dunno. Still deciding, I guess. I know I'd like to stay close to Hogwarts, though." He shoots her a sideways glance.
The girl's cheeks suddenly turn rather pink. "I'd like that," she says, and they both meet the others eyes in a shy smile.
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
Her smile is radiant. Like when it rains, but then just at the end, the sun breaks through the gray curtain, and you feel a jolt of heat. Or when you stay indoors for a long time, so long that you forget the sound of wind. And when you finally step outside, and the sun hits your face and the air is crisp, you wonder if you should leave town, and escape the world.
But she's not smiling now. Sunday night, and all the other Griffindors have toddled off to four poster beds, to maroon coverlets and feather pillows. But Hermione--O, you angel!--is sleeping by the fireplace in the Commons. That squashy cat of hers is cradled in her arms, and the loud rumble of his purr cuts through the stillness of the room.
I walk over to her, knowing I should wake her up so she can go to her dormitory. I wonder if she's dreaming. If there's a fairytale palace in the garden of her mind, a wishing well on the hill of her desires. I wonder if she sees me there, too. Perhaps if I dream of her tonight, we'll meet in our slumberland and wish wishes by the well.
Hermione must feel my gaze, because her eyes open. She blinks, once, twice, and then sits up.
"Oh. I must have fallen asleep for a moment." She stretches, and the outline of her chest is visible against her thin cotton top. "Thanks for waking me. Good-night!" Hermione lays her hand on my arm, and my bare skin burns like fire. I think she might embrace me, but then she turns and heads upstairs.
I stand here by the glowing coals, feeling the loss of her presence keenly as a knife.
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets,
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Hermione walks hand in hand with Ron. He is wearing the blue scarf she knitted for him, and it brings out the cobalt in his eyes. It is early--just before dawn, and the Grounds are utterly silent.
"Did you ever get to sleep last night?" He asks, and his breath steams the air.
"It was late," Hermione admits. "Neville was the one to wake me. It's good to be up so early now, though." Ron quirks his left eyebrow, and Hermione valiantly attempts to imitate the expression. He bursts into laughter, and after a moment, Hermione joins him.
He musses her hair. "I'm going to remember that expression until I'm older and grayer than Dumbledore, Hermione."
"You'd better. Because I can pull it off a dozen times better than you ever could."
Ron wraps his arm about her shoulders. "Good thing we'll never find out. Shall we head to breakfast?"
She puts her hand over his wrist, and kisses him in answer.
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
She's outlined against the rising sun, and I can just make out her dim shape. I move closer, wanting that cherry-sweet scent near me, wanting to feel her skin burn my own. I wish I could hear them talking, Hermione and her lover, but they're too distant, all the way across the Lake. If I had wings, I could fly over.
But I am no Icarus, and I cannot touch an angel. Hermione, seemetouchmehearmeloveme! I lean my hand on the slender trunk of an silver birch--see, Hermione? I can learn about every rock, tree, and herb too!--and feel the silvery-wet dew on the rough, slippery wood.
I am Hermione's shadow, and when she comes out, I am more real.
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Thanks for reading, please review! The lines in bold are selected from T.S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
Hope you enjoyed :-D