Return To Me

Hermione had not seen Harry for years. When he’d told her he was going, she’d nodded, smiled and wished him well. Inside, she’d been screaming for him to stay. In the days after Harry’s departure, she’d smiled and promised everyone she was all right with it. Certain people (Ron) hadn’t been convinced. Ron knew better than anyone that Hermione was in love with Harry. He knew how long she’d been in love with him because once upon a time he rather imagined himself to be in love with her.

Hermione watched as everyone she knew from school got jobs, got married, settled down, had children. She remained quite stubbornly alone. She was waiting for Harry. She knew in her head that she was completely mad for doing so. She told herself that she was a pretty young woman with everything going for her and she could have her pick of eligible wizards. Trouble was, she only wanted Harry. It had been like that for as long as she could remember. If she took the trouble, she might be able to recall the moment she fell in love with him, but it wasn’t important when. Just that she was.

She liked her life as it was, anyway. She had a loose sort of routine. She was a writer now and so didn’t have a strict work schedule to adhere to. She usually got anything with a deadline done as soon as she could (old habits die hard) before then spending her afternoons in the garden. She grew increasingly proud of her garden as the seasons progressed: Spring to Summer to Autumn to Winter and back to Spring. She worked hard there and it was a labour of love, just like her Great Unfinished Novel.

The Great Unfinished Novel was a love story. It was about a girl who fell in love with a boy but could never bring herself to tell him. Then the boy left and she was alone again. The trouble was, she didn’t have an ending. Did it end simply with the departure of the boy? Were we left forever to wonder what became of the girl? Did she meet someone else? Did the boy return to her? Did they live happily ever after, as Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty did?

Return to me
For my heart wants you only
Hurry home, hurry home
Won't you please hurry home to my heart

Of an evening, Hermione stayed at home. Sometimes Ron could persuade her to go to the Leaky Cauldron, but she never stayed long. She knew that everyone now knew that she was in love with Harry Potter and she had let him go. She imagined that they pitied her and she expected that they thought her pathetic for holding onto a love that had never been reciprocated. She often watched an old film of an evening before heading off to bed. Then she would sleep, the sun would rise and the cycle would begin again.

One particular Spring afternoon, Hermione was in her garden. Her imagination had been caught by an episode of one of those gardening shows on BBC 2 the night before and so now she was grappling with a rose bush, trying very hard not to get scratched by its thorns. She was so engrossed in her task that, even with the back door open, she didn’t hear the doorbell ring four times.

Return to me
Please come back bella mia
Hurry back, hurry home to my arms
To my lips and my heart

“Hermione?” The voice cut into whatever daydream she was in. She looked up from the rose bush and promptly let go of the stems, earning a couple more scratches. She didn’t notice. Standing at the edge of her garden was Harry Potter.

He looked older, but then she quickly calculated that she hadn’t seen him for three years. She hadn’t lied when she understood his need to leave: fighting Voldemort and his minions had left Harry with scars she couldn’t even begin to understand or comprehend. Now he stood amongst her flowers, looking tall, strong and handsome. He also looked supremely nervous about something. He noticed the scratches on her hands and leapt across the garden, dodging delicate plants.

“Are you all right?” he asked, grasping her hands and examining them. She wasn’t sure if ‘lightning bolts’ was accurate enough for the sudden feelings she had in her hands as Harry Potter, her Harry touched her for the first time in three years.

“I think so,” she managed to whisper. “I missed you, Harry.”

“I missed you too. I didn’t mean to stay away so long without sending you word. But it turns out that the monks wouldn’t let me write home.”

“Monks?”

“I’ve been in a monastery in the Himalayas regaining my equilibrium. Well, my sanity really. I didn’t mean to stay away from you for so long.”

“It’s really all right,” she said, feeling rather faint. Then she stood up. “Would you like some tea?”

“I’d love some,” he said with a smile. Smiles, she’d missed his smiles that seemed to say to her everything she wanted him to say.

***

“Have you spoken to Ron yet?” she asked as she handed him a cup of Darjeeling. He nodded.

“I had to go to the Burrow. I didn’t know where you lived now.”

“Oh. I’ve lived here since leaving school. I didn’t fancy staying with my parents.”

“You’re a writer now,” he said. She nodded. “Ron showed me a couple of the articles you wrote for the Prophet.”

“I do those for money. I’m really writing a novel in between my hectic schedule of articles and gardening.”

“A novel?” Harry looked interested as he sipped at his tea. “What’s it about?”

“Well, it’s not finished yet. I’ve been writing it for three years but I can’t get it finished.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t find an ending.”

“Oh. What’s it about?” he asked again. She sighed.

“A girl. She falls in love with her best friend.... But before she can get up the courage to tell him-”

“He leaves her,” Harry finished quietly, looking down into his tea.

“How does it end, Harry?” she asked, terrified of the answer. Tears began to fill her eyes and then fell onto the weathered oak of her kitchen table. He reached over and took her hand.

“How do you want it to end?” he answered with a question, terrified of the answer. Hermione’s tears transformed into rather noisy sobs, three years worth of pent up emotion and loneliness.

“I want you to tell me you love me,” she said between sobs.

“What do you think?” Hermione asked as she snapped the newly published book shut. Harry smirked and took the book out of her hands.

“I think you may have found the ending,” he replied, putting it down to leave his hands free to slide around to Hermione’s back.

“I had help.”

“Will there be a sequel?” he asked. Hermione smiled sweetly and pressed her lips against his. When they could no longer hold off breathing, she answered.

“Depends.”

“On what.”

“Well, I don’t know what happens next.”

“Want me to help?” Harry asked with an impish smirk. “I reckon... I reckon that they live happily ever after. Even if he was stupid enough to leave for so long.”

“You think?”

“I promise.”

All lyrics from ‘Return To Me’ as performed by Dean Martin. (Words and music: DiMinno/Lombardo/Montes)