Hermione's POV
I glance down at my hands and start a little when I see the enormous diamond glittering coldly from my finger. Wow. All this time and I still haven't gotten used to it. I frown involuntarily at the magnificent ring. The stone is stunning, huge, flawless, and bewitched to shine in the darkness, match my outfit and mood, and even sings songs when requested.
Yes, the rock is perfect, even more so because of what it represents. It is an engagement ring. Ron gave it to me a few months ago. So why does it make me so unhappy?
Ron, like the ring, is perfect. He is the kind of guy most girls would kill for, a charming, sociable guy with a great bod and a mind-rattling amount of fame and fortune from his Quidditch. Plus, he loves me. Not love like the kind guys say they feel to get chicks to sleep with them, but real, true love. I can more easily see him castrating himself with toenail clippers than ever even saying anything that could hurt me.
But………..when I'm with him it always feels like something's wrong, something's missing. I guess I just never pictured myself as a wife, or a mother. When I think about the future I always picture myself with a family, but I always see myself as with another woman, and, frankly, I'm always the father figure.
Another thing that bothers me is these strange dreams I have been having. Every night when I go to bed I dream that I am with a woman. Often we make love, but sometimes we just cuddle as we watch the sunset, or we walk along the beach, holding hands and chatting. We talk about almost everything, and I realize that this is not just about the sex. I really love this girl.
She is petite and delicately built, with a slender, elegant neck and breasts that fit perfectly into my hands. The skin on her breasts is smooth and white as milk, but her arms and legs are covered with freckles. She has long, skillful fingers and a musical laugh. I cannot see her face, although I have tried many times. It is always hidden in the shadows. The way her skin smells, like woman and ripe peaches, and the way she carries herself is so familiar, but I can never place them. Her entire body is covered with thin, pale scars. Most of them are simple lines, but in some places she has carved intricate designs and symbols into her skin. On her thighs she has written entire verses of poetry, mainly by Poe. The scars are not beautiful, but I love them anyway because they are a part of her. Her belly button sticks out slightly from her flat stomach and swirls distinctly, like a tiny white cinnamon roll.
Yes, I love this woman; I love her more than I have ever loved anyone else, even more than Ron or my family. But she is just a dream. Only a fool would ever give up a man like Ron for someone who doesn't even exist. Just a silly dream.