Chapter XXXI

I ashamedly confess to having been negligent in paying proper attention to my calendar during the final month of term—at least by my standards. I simply didn't want to confront the undeniable future; the emerging reality of my last days at my beloved school. However, even with this admission at the forefront of my consideration, mind you, I'm sure I would have noticed today's date being marked as "Unexpectedly Visit Hermione Day"—because apparently, that's what it was. As it goes: after dinner (my final dinner at Hogwarts—I sniffle back a threatening tear) I give Harry and Ginny drawn-out goodnights before returning to my room. I'm still in a bit of a pleasant haze from my talk with Dumbledore only a few hours earlier, and I smile and hum to myself as I bathe and slip into a crisp, freshly laundered set of nightwear. Crookshanks purrs in anticipation of a pleasant night's sleep as I fold back the sheets of my bed, but then, the faintest knock is detected from my door, followed by a distinct chirp, oozing with the feminine bubbliness that I've only encountered in one person my entire life: "Her-my-oh-knee."

I gulp.

"Uh—Lavender?" I call back, rising unsurely to my bare feet.

"Yes, can I talk to you?"

"Erm—sure. Hold on." Frowning, I step to the door and open it, indeed confirming the presence of Miss Boyfriend-Stealer Herself—enough of that, Hermione, I inwardly scold myself. She technically never did anything wrong. You and Ron were not officially anything when she entered the picture. That's all in the past now. And besides, you still got the title of being Ron's First Kiss—wearing a revoltingly pink bunny-patterned night dress, with her long hair towered in a messy bun on the top of her head. "Um—"

"Is this yours?" she asks before I can inquire as to the purpose of her unexpected visitation. She holds up a single pale purple sock (so pale and purple that it would even be appropriate to label it lavender, I think with a mental cringe).

"No," I answer, shaking my head. "No, I don't think so."

"Oh, well—you know, Parvati and I were just doing some last-minute packing, and I found this near your old bed. I thought you might have left it behind from when you still shared a room with us." She looks down at the lonely article, and then chuckles in apparent embarrassment: "I—I actually think this is my sock, now that I'm really looking at it. Funny, you'd think I'd know my own sock—especially when it's the same color as my name! But I guess it's not unfathomable that I might have accidentally pushed it near your bed, since our beds were right next to each other." Giggling some more, she plays awkwardly with the sock, and rolls back and forth on the balls of her dainty manicured feet. "Well—erm, since I'm already here, I thought I'd tell you … um, Seamus and I are talking again!"

"Seamus Finnigan? You went to the Yule Ball with him, right?" I ask with a raised brow, leaning against the frame of the door.

"Yeah. Actually, he's sort of my boyfriend now," she says, biting her lip. "And … well, I was just thinking … I know we've never really been friends, Hermione … but, you know, I hope that all the hullabaloo that happened between us last year hasn't affected your opinion of me in the long-run."

"Oh …" I reply, dumbfounded. "Oh, Lavender—"

"And I'm sorry about that time I yelled at you in the Hog's Head Inn and accused you of only going after 'special boys,'" she says quickly, as if rattling off a long and depraved confession to a spiritual leader. "I've realized you can't always trust what you read in papers—especially if it's written by Rita Skeeter. She did a so-called 'report' on my daddy's business a few months ago and accused him of being 'suspiciously friendly' with one of his female employees!" she says, scowling. "But that's not of much relevance to this matter anyway, I guess."

"Um … wow," I begin slowly, still unsure of how to respond. My expression softens and I address her in a small voice: "Well … thanks, Lavender. I appreciate it. And … and I'm sorry, too, for the way I acted during your relationship with Ron. It wasn't appropriate in the slightest. Ron and I weren't anything official at the time—it's not like I had any right to him. Even if I was jealous, it wasn't right of me to behave the way I did."

"To be completely honest with you, Hermione, in a way I was jealous of you even when I was with Ron. He talked about you all the time. Except when we were snogging, obviously. I mean, I admit Ron and I didn't do a whole lot of talking to begin with, because we were, you know, snogging," she explains with an awkward grin, "but—yeah, whenever we did talk, you somehow always made it into the conversation. I don't even think he realized how much he talked about you. It got quite annoying, honestly." She sighs deeply, stretches her arms before plopping them back down on her sides, and regards me with a contented upward turn of her pink, glossy mouth. "But that's all over now. I think Seamus and I communicate a lot better than Ron and I ever did, and I just wanted to say ... I wish you both the best. Um, no hard feelings?"

"No hard feelings," I echo, smiling back at her, and doing so surprisingly without strain.

And then, to my shock—my absolutely incredulous, jaw-dropping, impossible shock—Lavender Brown actually holds out her arms in a silent, smiling invitation. I'm rooted to the spot, and she takes the liberty of in fact wrapping herself around my shoulders, patting me thrice on the back. I mirror her actions, and it's an awkward and brief embrace that nearly leaves me with a headache as a result of the overwhelming scent of her flowery shampoo, body lotion, and perfume.

"Well, then," she says cheerfully, looking rather pleased with herself, "I'll see you tomorrow, Head Girl."

"I'll see you tomorrow too."

She slowly steps back, beaming genuinely. "It was nice knowing you, Hermione Granger."

"It was nice knowing you too, Lavender Brown," I tell her with a strangely pleasant puzzlement, and the beautiful blonde smiles at me one last time before crossing over to her own dormitory, the lavender sock still in her hand.

It's amazing—absolutely, exquisitely, and unimaginably amazing: the feeling of the black leather-encased diploma in my hands. I open it again and run my hand delicately along the glossy parchment, where my name—my name, Hermione Jean Granger—is confirmed to have met the requirements necessary to graduate from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Ron is true to his word about making his presence known when my name is called, shouting "that's my girlfriend!" as I walk across the erected stage in the Great Hall, blushing furiously with bittersweet tears streaming lightly down my cheeks as I receive my diploma and shake hands with Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, and the other Head of Houses.

After the ceremony, we (the graduates) board the enchanted boats to take us across the Black Lake—a poetically sentimental throwback to our first arrival at Hogwarts seven years earlier. I sit next to Harry, who wraps his arm around my shoulders and mutters an affectionate "love you, sis." The boats are routed to drop us off at Hogsmeade Station, but we all know that no one has the intention of going home right away.

The graduates scatter amongst the village, with a large portion of them concentrating in the Three Broomsticks for music, dancing, and more rounds of butterbeer than would normally be appropriate. But, upon finding Ron in the crowd, the two of us know exactly where to go for some much needed alone time. The Weasleys have been nice enough to ensure my parents (and Crookshanks) get home safely, and I've already promised to spend the entire following day celebrating with Mum and Dad in exchange for a relatively parent-free Grad Night tonight.

The moment Ron and I are in the privacy of Our Place, my boyfriend pulls me into a crushing embrace, kissing me sloppily over every inch of my face, with words of affection and encouragement—"I'm so bloody proud of you, Hermione", "I love you so much", "So, so proud of you, love"—spoken hastily as we collapse onto the sofa in more heated snogging. Eventually we separate for the mere sake of catching our breath, only to resume our passionate ministrations a few minutes later in our usual bedroom upstairs. Given the circumstances, I find Ron's affection especially endearing, and I flutter my eyes shut and allow myself to become lost in every little movement, every tender graze of his lips across the flushed skin of my face, lips, neck, and collarbone. Marking me. Loving me. I whimper a little loudly as Ron continues to move deftly above me, and he removes his lips from my own and looks down at me with concern.

"All right?" he asks.

"Uhm hmm." Sighing, I turn my face in the direction of the nearest wall, allowing my eyes to pass across that lovely graffiti; the innocent remains of the Shrieking Shack's former occupants: Lola + Davey. Forever in love. 1972. "Do you think they're still in love?"

"Who?"

"Them," I say, motioning to the wall. "Lola and Davey. Do you think they're still in love?"

Chuckling, Ron rolls to my side and addresses the matter with a shrug.

"Bit of a strange thing to think about, innit?"

"Is it really?" I ask playfully. "I mean, think about it! What if they were true to their word? What if they ran off and got married? It does say forever, after all."

"You've really thought that much about a scribbling on a wall, have you?"

"You know me." I look at him, my amused grin softening with tenderness as I press my index finger to the tip of his long nose, pressing firmly before leaning forward and kissing the same spot.

"That's my nose, love."

"I'm acutely aware of that."

"Well, I'd much rather you kiss my lips."

"Honestly Ronald, do you possess even a teaspoon worth of patience?"

"Sure I do!" he asserts. "I waited to be with you since we were thirteen, didn't I?"

"You wouldn't have had to wait that long if you'd just told me how you felt earlier."

"I could say the same thing to you."

"Fair enough."

I release a slow breath of air as my head finds his chest; I close my eyes again and inhale his pleasantly familiar scent. "It's saddening, Ron. Don't you realize that after tonight we won't have any excuse to come back here? It won't be Our Place anymore. It'll just be an old, abandoned, boarded-up and supposedly haunted house again."

"I know … I'm going to miss having our own little space too—even if was never really ours to begin with. But where this ends, everything else begins, yeah? Who knows," Ron muses with an air of humor, "maybe one of our kids will come here some day with one of their friends and—actually, never mind," he quickly adds, "considering ninety-nine percent of what we did here is snog, I'd rather they not continue our legacy."

"You're not going to be one of those overprotective fathers, are you?"

"You know me," he replies matter-of-factly, echoing my earlier sentiment. I roll my eyes.

Then, suddenly inspired by his words, I rise to my feet and take out my wand, aiming it at a spot on the wall next to the remnant of the previous couple. Ron sits up and stares at me curiously.

"And what exactly are you up to now?"

"Leaving our legacy," I answer, and, upon muttering the necessary incantation, watch with delight as my wand produces a clear and pretty marking next to that of our predecessors:

Ron + Hermione. Until the very end. 1998.