"Harry."
He opened his emerald green eyes, hoping, yearning to see her. Her red hair, her freckles, the playful smile or smirk that would dance on her lips when she saw him. He could picture her in her mind, but he never was able to do her justice. No matter what, each time he would picture her in his mind's eyes, it was always incomplete. He never knew what it was that made the picture of it so imperfect. A freckle out of place maybe, the shade of her hair, the colour of her brown eyes. No matter what something was always wrong. No matter how much he dreamed of her, it was never enough. The kisses in his dreams were never enough. He could picture them though, and he could still vaguely remember the kiss from his birthday. Her red lips lush and inviting. The love that she poured into the kiss.
"Harry."
It wasn't her voice. No matter how much he wanted to hear it, it wasn't her voice.
"Ya, Hermione."
"It's your turn for watch."
He numbly made his way out of the tent and to the outside. It was snowing out, and the snowflakes danced before his eyes, each one a different shape. He imagined her beside him. Her flaming red hair jumping out against the white landscape the snow settling in it and then she would shake her head to clear it off. She would shiver and then lean into him, and he would pull her close and wrap her in his cloak. Then secretly, making sure that Ron wasn't around, he would kiss her. He could see it so easily, and he could feel it too.
But it wasn't enough.
It wasn't real.
And until Voldemort was defeated, it never would be.