A letter of sorts from Ginny, to Hermione. Hermione's searching for the Horcruxes, Ginny's stuck at home. Hermione/Ginny (duh), Mention of Harry/Ron.
It's raining right now. The sound of the drops on the roof is horribly peaceful, almost comforting, something I don't wish to feel. The storm has lasted for hours now, and will probably carry on into the night. I picture the blacktop streets, the uneven and cracked sidewalks, the overgrown hedges and the bare willows all drenched in the would-be cleansing downpour of the village below. I imagine you're huddled in your cloak, beside a small flickering fire, reading. Probably a classic, like A Tale of Two Cities, or perhaps a fantasy, like The Hobbit. Or perhaps your studying Ancient Runes or Transfiguration, with the hollow realization that if you were at Hogwarts, you'd be knee deep in essays, reaserach notes and other text books, cramming as much study time as possible for the ever looming NEWTs.
Or perhaps you're asleep, your hair spread behind you on a somewhat comfortable pillow, a scratchy flannel blanket pulled around you while Harry and Ron hold eachother below you, hoping their love for one another goes unnoticed. Ron doesn't wish to break your heart, and Harry doesn't wish you to feel excluded. Neither could love you like you want to be loved, need to be loved, but now, on your journey, is not the time for their relationship to come into light. And you, blissfully asleep in the cozy stuffiness of that small tent, dream about better days, lighter times. And what do you dream, Hermione? Do you dream of the Quidditch World Cup, where we spent hours into the early morning sharing secrets? Or do you dream of those searing summer nights we shared in my bed, exploring and discovering and falling in love? Perhaps you dream of the day before Bill's wedding, when we went to the orchard, and the cool summer evening breeze blew around us, and you promised to return to me, promised to think about me every day.
The rain is turning to snow, and all across the grass the flakes are sticking, clinging together to form blanket of dense, white velvet. The cold is like a dull ache, and it reminds me of how much I miss you, how I would do anything to be with you in that bed, under the same scratchy blanket. For you are my home, Hermione Granger, and wherever you go, my heart is with you.
So I sit here, in the gathering dark, the scratching of the my quill the only sound penetrating the stillness, thinking of your laughter, and reminiscing the taste of your lips, and for the moment, with the memory of your cinnamon curls balled in my fist as your slender, clever, brilliant fingers pump pleasure through my veins, make my heart pound and my blood boil deliciously, I know that you will return to me.