My Darling Fleur,

You asked me once, years ago, when our love was new, just why I loved you. You may remember that I rather offended you when I could not come up with an immediate answer. I hesitated not because I don't love you, but because I love you so much, in so many ways and for so many reasons, that I simply didn't know how to put such immense feelings into mere words.

Over the years, I hope and trust that I have told you and shown you how much I love you. You are ever foremost in my thoughts and in my actions, and these actions have spoken much which words alone cannot utter. Nonetheless—

You are gone for this next while, and I miss you terribly. And so, since I cannot show you how much I love you, I thought I would return to that long-ago moment, and attempt to provide a better answer now than I did then. But know that, even with the thought and care I shall put into this (Even more than I ever applied to my essays as a student. Blasphemy!), what I write will only be the barest shadow of what truly lies inside my heart.

You are a woman of passion—intoxicating for someone like me, often stuck in the hum-drum and all the happier for it. I love your passion because it balances me, it reminds me that there are more important things in life than pushing through the next piece of legislation at the Ministry or publishing my next academic article. You never fail to induce in me that vitality, that joi de vivre that bubbles over so beautifully in you. You show me what life really is.

And the surprises borne of your passion, they never fail to please and charm (As I am sure you are quite aware. Stop smirking—smugness is unbecoming. Except maybe on you… Ack! I thought it was that look—you know the one—that you get in your eyes that made me blurt out things like that. What spell have you placed on me, woman!?). Ahem… Whether it's a rose just because, or a spontaneous getaway, I prize all your surprises equally. Each one speaking as it does of love and devotion.

And writing of passion. Your efforts in the art of love never disappointed. In fact, no one has ever made me feel the barest flicker of the fire you light in me. The swiftest glance, the lightest touch, a single whispered word all inflame me beyond endurance. Every kiss, every caress, every bite—Gods I love it when you bite me, hard enough to bruise, marking me as only you can mark me, showing the world I am yours.

Hurry home, my love. I burn without you.

All this I love about you, and yet… It is the in-between moments that I perhaps prize most. The day-to-day minutiae of our life together. They are rarer than I would wish, given our chosen careers. We could stay home together every day if we liked, I suppose—there's money enough. But neither of us would be happy not putting our talents to use. Still, given the frequency with which we have to resort to correspondence, careers as the Minister of Magic or Gringott's Chief Curse-Breaker make romance a (most rewarding) challenge. And in addition to making the heart grow fonder, absence has taught me what is truly important. And that is why I cherish these quiet moments above all.

I prize the comfort of lying next to you at night, your steady presence after what was, like as not, yet another trying day. The softness of your breathing in the dark, the sureness of your arm wrapped around me. Your warmth during those seemingly endless English winters, the ones I know you put up with for me. And if I am very lucky, I wake up first to the vision of you asleep, free from all cares.

I love sharing a house with you. I'll admit, at first it wasn't a picnic. Mornings in particular were a nightmare—do you remember?—what with your beauty regimen and my daily battle with the hedge that grows atop my head, it's a wonder our morning routines never ended in blows! But practice (and separate bathrooms) have fixed that. Living alone after the war, the only noises in my flat were the ones I made, and the only presence was my own. I never knew how lonely that was, not until you woke that feeling in me, and cured it all at once. I suppose it must be because of—everything, back then-but the sound of you making coffee or fetching something from another room mean more to me than they should to any sane person. (Shut up.)

And most of all, I love looking after the children with you. I never even knew I wanted children until you came along, but how could I not want to grow and share this love we hold between us? Merlin knows how many nappies we changed and messes we cleaned up. But with you by my side, I can't begrudge a single moment of it. And thank Morgana that you can somehow be strict with them (How do you do it?). If it were left to me, they'd be spoiled rotten by now! (And who would have thought, Hermione the goody-two-shoes as the pushover parent… Ha!) I see so much of you in them. In Victoire's smile and Rose's eyes. In their love of flying, their rule-breaking (ahem), and their unflagging spirits.

(They send their love, by the way. And goodness knows how many drawing for Manan, which I have included.)

This list could go on forever, Fleur, just as my love for you does go on forever. It is unceasing, eternal, and present in all that I am and all that I do. I hope that the years have shown you the truth in this, but should you ever doubt, keep this letter close. And remember that, even if I transfigured all the water in the Hogwarts Lake to ink, it would not suffice to write out the entirety of my love for you.

Be safe, my dearest, and come home soon.

Your Hermione