DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling's, all of it.
Not my usual style – don't bite my head off for it!
Hermione's POV, after Ron's poisoning in HBP.
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I like writing letters. I always have. They're always long, filled with interesting anecdotes, jokes, and other slices of everyday life. I know you hated me writing letters to Viktor, but I've never understood why. You don't seem to mind me writing letters to you.
I love the smell of fresh parchment, too. And old books - they smell musty with time, but have another scent I can't explain – old tales, re-read so many times I could recite them by heart, but they're still new to me, every time I read them. And new parchment. It smells of hope. Nothing written on it. It could turn out to be a love letter, or an essay on Aelfric the Unfortunate (who turned up to a battle two days late after being hit in the head with a rogue Bludger, in his pyjamas, and had his head accidentally cut off by his best friend), or a game of Hangman… anything, really.
And I love – no, I can't say. I have my pride, still.
I love the smell of freshly mown grass, because of that wonderful day we had last summer, Harry and you and I. Lying near the big oak tree in the field near your house, the sky a brilliant blue, the sun shining, you and Harry napping in the shade, while I lay on my stomach making a daisy chain, smelling the fresh air and watching while your father cut the grass, rather over-enthusiastically, with a Muggle lawnmower. I wished that it would stay like this forever. No Voldemort, no school (I can't believe I just said that), no worries except whether a bee would land on my nose, Harry and you and I, all together.
I know now that nothing ever stays the same. Nothing.
You're lying there so still. No insults or jokes coming out of that wide red mouth. Your Gryffindor scarf still tied around your neck. A smear of chocolate at the side of your mouth.
Do you know, I don't think I've ever seen you still before. Those long arms are always waving around, illustrating a point; your gangly legs are always outstretched, just waiting for someone to trip over them; even your hair is full of life, springing from your head and blinding people with its colour, especially when you wear that Chudley Cannons hat you love so much.
You're still now, and pale as death, your freckles standing out like spots of paint on your skin, your mouth tinged blue and slightly open, every breath wheezing out of you.
If it wasn't for the breathing, I'd think you were a corpse.
Is this my fault? It feels like it is, although I know I'm not to blame. If it's anybody's fault, it's that stupid little twerp, Romilda Vane. Fancy trying to give Harry chocolates with love potion in them, and her only in fourth year! Besides, Harry likes Ginny. He hasn't told anyone, but I can tell. Of course, if he were to tell you, you'd probably be furious…
Ron. I forgot about you, for almost half a minute. How could I forget? I've been nothing but horrid to you, really, since you and Lavender started going out – if you could call it that. Snogging and not much more, as far as I could see. Of course, you weren't particularly nice to me either… but I started it, with those canaries, and with what I said in that Herbology class. What if you die? You look like you're about to, really, even though Madam Pomfrey said you're stable, and should come out of the coma within a few days, a week at most. But I never said sorry. Not for the canaries. Not for giving you the cold shoulder these past weeks, although I thought, at the time, it was best. Not for being so hateful towards you. And if you die, I'll never be able to tell you that I… I…
I love you, Ron.
Please wake up.