A/N:I know that Meg's going to murder me because I have not yet finished "The Christmas Present," and it is true that I may never finish it, but I hope to do so before New Year's.

Ahem - right - yeah, so...

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it. End of story. Period.

Dedication: Tonks-Rocks, because she rocks, and has proved to be a great friend and source of support. I was originally going to dedicate "The Christmas Present" to you, Michaela, but we all know how that's going.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

Or should I say, Mr. Claus? I'm not exactly sure which you would prefer, really. Saint Nicholas, perhaps? Father Christmas? Jolly Old Saint Nick?

It is possible that I am going too far, and should stop rambling while I still have the ability to do so.

Sir, I must start with sincerely apologizing for not writing you these many, many years. However, ever since I came to the age of eleven and discovered magic to be authentic, I have had a sneaking suspicion that you are, in fact, the main source of gift-giving in our outside world (as well as the Muggle), and receive thousands of letters, not unlike mine, each year. Hence, I find it quite impossible for you to answer each and every young child's plea of good fortune, and therefore, I have not written since ere my Hogwarts days.

As I've only just found it is Christmas Eve (through quite the frightful expedition that was today), you'll have to excuse my tardiness of correspondence.

I once asked you – did I not? – for a book. Not just any book, though. I desired a romance book with action, adventure, excitement, and most of all, a love shared between two of its characters. And while I did receive said novel that year (brilliant choice, by the way), I also know now that I no longer need such legends to keep my mind racing throughout the day.

You see, Santa, I have found a story of my own – a trail, of sorts, that cannot be followed or retraced by others. Sir, I have finally found the action and adventure and excitement that I once craved through the musty pages of fairy tales like "Robin Hood" and "Jack and the Beanstalk."

Perhaps most significantly, I must note, is the area of romance. Mr. Claus, I have found someone that I wish to give my heart to.

This someone can be caring and kind and considerate at times, a right git at others, and every now and then, frightening, because he is so much deeper than what others make him out to be. He makes my stomach twist into odd knots each time he looks my way, and I can feel my throat constrict each time light, freckled fingers brush against mine.

What I'm attempting to say, Santa (and failing miserably I might add), is that I am in love with one Ronald Bilius Weasley, and it's driving me up a wall not being able to tell him this. I'm worried sick as to his whereabouts. I can't sleep, I can't eat, and the stupid tears that continuously fall from my eyes won't halt, no matter how many times I magic them away.

The main purpose of this letter, I must finally ask, is to request of you one thing.

Would it be possible to send Ron back to me this Christmas? He may need a bit of persuasion. Please give him a sign or a warning or something. I'll take whatever I can get. I just – need him here, you know?

I hope you are successful, as if you are able to somehow do this, you might just bring a little bit of Christmas spirit back into me. I'm beginning to think that not all magic has logical explanations.

Sincerely,

Hermione J. Granger

A/N: Right...so, some of you might be wondering where that came from. I must say that I am being the SCROOGE of all Scrooges this Christmas, and then, it hit me to write, and try to get some of the pent-up anger out. Each time I sat at the computer, however, my inbox of unread alerts continued to build up, and when I did actually write (at times few and far between) it was two or three lines added on to "The Christmas Present," which, at the rate I'm going, may never be completed.

So, tonight, I sat down at the computer desk and shut the door, thinking what a miserable Christmas this will turn out to be, when I remembered someone else with such a burdened holiday.

Hermione.

I plugged in my iPod (which I never use, by the way), sent it to Beethoven's Symphony No. 9, and just began to type.

I already know that criticism will be headed my way for those writers who are extremely neat and precise about their work, and usually, I'm up there with said meticulous authors. I simply can't bring myself to put up a fight at the moment, and so I say, with welcome arms, bring on the (hopefully) constructive criticism.

Oh, yeah, and happy holidays!

100-percent-HP-obsessed