Beat

Summary: "It was just another normal morning, basking in the scent of coffee, the noise of her typewriter, and the slight sunlight falling in beams through the thick red curtains that covered the cracked windows."- Hermione reflects on the life she leads.

A/n: This'll be my first fic as BWR. Not, by far, my first fic, but it will suck like all the rest. R&R, flames gladly accepted. Oh yeah.... hints at lesbian relations. Dont like, BYE BYE....jerkwad

Disclaimer- If I owned Harry Potter, I would have a shiny red phone booth.

Once again I wake up with a stray coil poking me in the back, and birds singing. I used to find their songs cheerful, but everything changes. I climb out of bed, hoping beyond all hope that it's not cigarettes for breakfast. That perhaps there is ibuprofen in the cupboard.

Even though I know that there isn't, I feel inclined to check.

For now, the writing hasn't been paying her like it used to, and the Ministry likes to pay me lower wages than my peers. It must have something to do with the fact that I have been dating their number one critic for over three years. Well, their number one critic that has the balls to say what they're thinking. Or maybe it's because I make no effort to follow their guidelines on how to do work. It might even have something to do with the unruly friends I allow to come along whenever they are so inclined. However, they I tend to think its her. The logic that still resides within me points to her. The person they hate, 'cause she's got the balls to say what she thinks.

Perhaps they're just angry that she doesn't even have balls.

I open the cupboard, and of course, find no pain killing pills or potions of any sort. Hell, we're even low on cigarettes. I need to say something about this, but I'll have to wait. If there is one thing you learn from living with a hot-tempered writer, it's that you do NOT interrupt their work. Besides, she'll be done soon. She refuses to write past 8.

She told me why once. "At eight o' clock, the whole world wakes up."

I smile fondly at this memory. It was just another normal morning, basking in the scent of coffee, the noise of her typewriter, and the slight sunlight falling in beams through the thick red curtains that covered the cracked window. The conversation had begun when I had awakened noisily, still not adjusted to the pain that coil caused (and still causes) my back. She had smiled, being in the rare mood in which she will spare time for me before eight (since she never really ceases to spare time for me), work be damned.

"Coil still got it out for you?"

"Why do I always wind up on it?"

"It might have something to do with me sleeping on it, and usually waking up before you."

"And I always gravitate to the spot you leave?"

She just nodded, and went back to her work. I find myself smiling softy at the way she looks as she works. The way that her graceful fingers fly over her beloved typewriter, how her lush red bangs always escape her curly ponytail and fall into her eyes, how she frowns when she is at a loss of words, or dislikes were she is going with the idea. I remembered that it was then that the clock struck eight.

Wherever she was in whatever she was writing, she just stopped.

She stood up and walked into the kitchen. I took a moment to shake my head, still confused about her little routine, before I began to stretch. As soon as I finished, she re-entered the room, carrying two cups of coffee. Without a word, she sat next to me, and handed me my cup. I smiled, accepting it, along with a chaste kiss.

"Morning love."

I laughed at her remark, but still replied. "Good morning Ginny."

We leaned forward, sharing another kiss, this one deeper than the last. It is our morning routine. I wait until she finishes writing, then share a cup of coffee and good morning kisses. Of course, that morning, this was not yet an established routine. We were still very new. Which was why, when we were settled together, her holding me as I watched TV, I asked her why she never wrote after 8 am.

"I do. I write at 12 am the next day."

"You know what I mean, Gin."

She smiled. It reached her hazel green eyes, making them glint.

"Because at 8 o' clock the whole world wakes up. Everyone starts to get ready for work. 9 to 5, of course. That's when I have to go out. To soak up the day. That's where the inspiration is, 'Mione. I have to touch everything that is possible to touch; to watch all the things I can see; to smell every scent that I ever come across, from trash to whiskey; to taste every part of life, from your lips to cigarettes. I have to hear-no...to feel, every beat that makes the world go round."

I stared at her in awe. It was then that I knew just how passionate she was about what she did. Sad isn't it? I'm completely whipped by her. Everything she does is awesome, more passionate than I can imagine. She either takes it serious, or doesn't give a rat's ass. She looked me in the eye that morning, and I knew that I was (and still am) one of the things she takes seriously.

Right now, I'm sitting on our bed.... ok, pullout couch, smoking a cigarette. I never thought I would be a smoker, but she turned me. I never thought I'd like red curtains, or run down apartments on a shabby side of town, but she turned me. I never thought I would savor black coffee, especially that strong French roast she always drinks. You get the idea. Its five minutes past eight, so of course, she is sitting with me. We watch the morning news. I smoke, and she drinks a glass of Jone's Strappleberry juice. I figure she isn't in the mood for coffee today, because when she is in a coffee mood, she always holds me. Today I'm holding her, content with my life, no matter how much better everyone says I can do. They're all wrong. This is the best.

She is the beat that makes my world go round.
END

11:00 pm 5/29/04

Sincerely, BurningWhiteRose