Last Love's First Kiss

Is it possible to have two first kisses with the same person?

This is the thought that I ponder as I make my way along the cobble streets toward Harry's humble flat. I suppose that Apparition is always an option, but I often find myself in need of a bit of travel time, specifically before any and all potentially significant events. Perhaps it's simply a reversion to my Muggle roots. Whatever the reason, my stride is slow but steady as I gently kick a pebble onto the street, envisioning it as my doubts, my fears, gone forever as I banish them into the cracks of my past.

Young love, in itself, is a strange and beautiful monster. All consuming with limitless power, it often flips us upside-down in the climax of adolescence. It is for this reason that our parents warn us against falling. It is for this reason that, despite our happy daydreams and plans for the future, we frequently check to make sure that the ground is still beneath us, no matter how high we may be flying. It is a tricky business, knowing that you love someone more powerfully than you've ever before and simultaneously realizing that one day it will inevitably end. There are exceptions, so you are given reason to hope. But hope is dangerous. Once placed within us, hope can become a parasite, killing off all darkness until there is so much light we just may lose our sight from it. Love is blind, so the saying goes.

The first time I kissed Harry Potter as a boy, I held my breath because I was unsure of what else to do, and nearly passed out in gratitude of sheer social stupidity. The first time I attempted to Harry Potter as a boy, we smacked noses, hard, and I had to clot the blood as I walked him to the hospital wing. We were so embarrassed that we told Madam Pomfrey he'd run into a wall. When we held hands the first time, neither of us wanted to let go, so we endured sweaty palms until finally an activity demanded the use of all ten fingers and we could release each other without offense.

I laugh now, thinking of these precious fumbling moments I experienced with Harry Potter as a boy. In truth, he was on the brink of manhood, preparing to fight a battle that men twice his age would shy away from. Still, he was a boy, but he was my boy, sweaty palms and broken nose and all. We fumbled our way into romance, and the result was more amazing than anything I could have possibly come up with on my own or with the aide of Ginny's amusing, but trashy, romance novels. We lived for each other, in every sense of the word. Actions that had once been considered ordinary were suddenly changed somehow, electrified by the simple presence of another. A touch of the fingers, a lingering glance - we rarely needed words, though we professed them often just to hear ourselves say them.

I believe it was my mother who first said that we wouldn't last, though I hardly begrudge her for it now. She thought on behalf on what she'd learned in her own lifetime, and in any other life, with any other boy, she would have been correct. In my heart, I knew she was wrong, and clung to my precious hope, but soon other voices joined in with hers in a chorus of improbability. Be happy, they told us, but don't expect it to last forever. First love fades. It's who you love last that matters. Suddenly the two things in life I felt most sure of - those I love and the one I was in love with - were in conflict with each other, and I could not fight against a moment's hesitation. I began to doubt the feelings I felt so passionately for my Harry, and it was that seed of doubt that grew to poison our relationship. My uncertainty became his resentment, and his resentment became my frustration, as well as further proof that my reservations were founded upon reality.

I can see his building just up ahead now. The night is clear - the moon bright. A few wispy clouds hover, decorating the sky and casting necessary shadows. Weather, it seems, appears to have a deep appreciation for my relationship with Harry. My first kiss with Harry Potter as a boy was on a bright and sunny day. The night our fighting finally ended as the two of us split apart, the wind howled over our shouting and sobbing, and the rain hid our tears. This crisp and clean night sky gives me the encouragement I need to knock on his door.

Harry Potter, as a boy, was always exceptionally good looking. Muscular for his years with eyes that revealed his true age and hair that managed to make him seem both confident and aloof as well as vulnerable, his appeal was rarely lost upon other girls, not that I cared or he noticed. Harry Potter as a man, however, is utterly breathtaking. With all of the same appealing features he possessed before, Harry now holds within himself a knowledge, a wisdom, that only develops through each passing day. He is wearing the v-neck sweater I picked out for him, and it looks better than I could have imagined. The appreciation I see on his face tells me that I have improved over the past half-decade in his eyes as well.

Our dinner tastes pleasant, I imagine, if the elegance of the restaurant is any indication. The food is tasteless in my mouth, however, perhaps due to a lack of focus on my part. With my heart racing and my palms sweating, I can hardly lift my fork to my lips, let alone chew my food without choking once it reaches my mouth. Music floats through the air as if the musicians are painting it into the room with fairy brushes. An old couple sways on the dance floor, and I catch Harry watching them as well. He turns and I look at my plate, hoping he didn't see my obvious longing. Can this truly work? Can my first love actually be my last love?

When Harry stands and extends his hand I hesitate only a moment. As our bodies blend with the rhythm, his hand on the small of my back and mine on his shoulder, I am struck by the very rightness that I feel, gliding in Harry's arms. Before either of us have a chance to shy away, we are looking into each others eyes, and I become acutely aware that his never changed. For a several seconds I try to decipher between the boy I once knew and the man holding me in his arms, and I find that I can't. I suddenly see that, though the years passed and we each changed, he was mine all along, just as I remained his from the start. The simple truth strikes me hard, and I can feel my eyes widening with the realization as he speaks to me.

“I'm yours, Hermione.”

I suck the air into my lungs before I can stop myself, then mentally admonish myself for my silly theatrics. Harry isn't laughing though, only staring at me, studying me. My hesitation is gone now, and suddenly my very core burns with the desire to truly claim him as my own. With the subtlest tilt of the chin, I tell him I'm ready, and Harry does the rest. Using is other hand to gently cradle my head, he slowly pulls me closer and closer, until I we aren't even touching but I can feel his proximity tingling the surface of my skin.

The first time Harry Potter as a boy kissed me I stopped breathing because I did not know what else to do. The first time Harry Potter as a man kissed me I stopped breathing because suddenly air simply didn't seem important. This kiss, his kiss, did not take my breath away, because I willingly gave it, surrendering eternally to a love that I now knew could withstand all tests of time. My toes curled as I clutched onto his shirt, no longer aware of the restaurant or it's other patrons. They became clouds in a clear sky - necessary shadows but otherwise unimportant. Suddenly I could see a future, filled with weddings and birthdays and the laughter of small children…

He released me and I looked up in awe. There he stood. My first love, my last love, my true love - Harry Potter.

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