Flower
"What flower do you think I am, Harry?" Hermione asked absent-mindedly, as the pair of them lay on the grass besides the lake.
"A violet." Harry answered immediately.
"Why?" Hermione turned over to face him, leaning on her arm.
"Firstly, because after seeing your dress at the Yule Ball, the only thing I can see you as is a violet."
Hermione laughed.
"Because you're modest and virtuous. You don't throw yourself at me like Romilda and Su Li, but you still give me affection when I need it. I know you'll always be faithful, and so will I. I also know you'll always be watching over me, making sure I don't do anything idiotic." He tapped her nose and she crinkled it in amusement.
"Because when I asked you to go out with me on a date, it was a risk. I took a chance at happiness, and it paid off. I'm happy with you, really happy. But mostly, because I love you, 'Mione."
Hermione sighed and moved onto her back again, shuffled over slightly so she was lying into Harry's side. "I didn't know you knew Victorian flower language, Harry."
"Snape made me do it." Harry grumbled.
"Well, it's very romantic." Hermione assured her flirtingly, and Harry threw his head back in laughter.
The dark figure standing in the window watched the pair with a distant longing, as the son of his enemy said all the things he wanted to say to his love. Because Lily had been a violet, really.