She sat on the bed, legs hanging over the side and hand moving hurredly as the words were scratched onto the paper. She wrote terrible things, and beautiful things. She wrote about that night and she wrote about her experiences. Jotting down things in the margain of the current book she held, she was never able to find it again if she waited too long to make a story around that one line.
I love the way the skin of red apples crack around my teeth.
And from that evolved this.
I love the way the skin of red apples crack around my teeth. The noise makes me feel alive. When my teeth taste like flouride, I pray for cotton mouth or a split in my gums. When I get a piece of chicken stuck between my teeth I pick at it with my paper thin nails and butcher the gum between my teeth again and again. I slice at it over and over just for that pain. It's not even pain, it's more like the reasurrence that I am alive.
Many times, she'd go through old books for that one lost line. She felt incomplete having never used it and sometimes, when finding it, she felt a lost cause on not being able to create a sonnet to tie around that single verse.
Many times (this time), she was writing a letter and incorporating all aphorisms she's ever thought of. Heading it, signing it, and making curving lines for decoration, she left a blank area in the middle of the paper for where her thoughts would go.
Hermione glanced around the dusk lighten room deciding on getting up to close the door. She then sat at the window to write in what little light was left and to poetically express herself to one person. Having written him before, she knew what the tone would be, but she never let him read a single line because she didn't want him to think she wasn't a writer but someone who saw the world in the eyes of a pesimist.
And she wrote.
And the rest to be written was the fastest thing she'd ever written before. When complete, she didn't dare read it over but folded it quickly and walked silently to the bed. The ghosts of the house couldn't hear her; the house elves hadn't a clue; and her muse was safetly out of the entire castle.
Hermione put the folded parchment until the pillow of the bed. Picking up her clothes from Harry's bed and dressing, she lingered for a moment, her face above his pillow, and kissed it and fled quick like a rabbit.
Dear Harry,
You've no idea how inspiring you are. From your face down to the single yarn that completes your entire sweater. I've written on the back every quote I've collected from my head when with you. I hope you realize my thought process when we are together. It is quite obvious.
Yrs,