A/N: A Hermione drabble. Scrounged up from the depths of my notebook. Yay. Uh, totally un-beta'd. Feedback is much appreciated. :D Oh, and HP belongs to JK Rowling, not moi.
Hermione hates Christmas.
The happy people outside, caroling, laughing, throwing snowballs... It all makes her sick.
She wishes she were elsewhere, somewhere warm and hot and breezy. She thinks about Apparating to that somewhere. She thinks about it, but she stays in her armchair, facing the fireplace.
She gave up magic a long time ago.
Reaching shakily for the mug on the table next to her, she clutches at the warmth it provides her icy fingers. It doesn't help much.
Shivers run up her spine and she closes her eyes. Orange and red lights dance behind her eyelids.
She dreams.