Written For: Round 9 QLFC
Team: Kenmare Kestrels
Position: Chaser 2 — Hermione Granger
Prompts:
(word) rich
(quote) To light a candle is to cast a shadow. - Ursula K. Le Guin
(word) harm
Beta: Keela Adoette
.
.
.
Unsent Letters
.
.
.
to light a candle is to cast a shadow
.
.
.
'Hermione is an intelligent young girl. She's creative, and has a burning curiosity for the world around her. As her teacher, I'm satisfied with her progress thus far. I do have some concerns, however; I find her to be a lonely child. She does not engage with others her own age. I have asked her to try and make some friends. Additionally, she retains her stubbornness. I have attempted to encourage her to use different coloured crayons, but she is insistent on only using two — ' she stops reading.
The rest is dull and currently meaningless to her. She had already found what she wanted to. Her mind replayed those words. She could picture them right down to the broad stroke of the y in 'try'; to the sharp, imposing slant of the I; to the gentle, loping letters that sprawled languidly across the page.
"I have asked her to try," Hermione whispered. She smoothed out the paper. It was an old school report, from nursery school. She mulled at those words — she could not help but mull over them.
Her lips twisted. She had tried. She had tried since she was three; since she was five; eight; eleven … so many years of trying. She sucked in a breath.
What is the point of this? She stood, school report cast aside. She stretched.
Mrs de Sousa had been a good teacher, she recalled, but she had not understood Hermione. Hermione had tried to make friends.
"Hermione?" her mother called, knocking at her door gently. Mrs Granger entered without waiting for an answer.
"Goodness," she said, "what are you reading that old thing for?"
Hermione hesitated. How did she articulate something that she had been struggling with herself?
"A reminder, I suppose," she offered.
Her mother made a face as she lay the tea tray on her daughter's bed. "A reminder of what?"
"Not sure," Hermione said quietly. She rocked back and forth on her heels. "I should do some work now," she said abruptly.
"Hmm," her mother hummed, spearing her with a sharp gaze. "Don't work too hard, darling. Magic is wonderful, certainly, but I don't want you keeling over."
Hermione tilted her nose up proudly. "As if," she proclaimed.
Her mother sent her one last fond look and then made her great escape, leaving Hermione to her work.
The truth was that Hermione had already finished her summer homework. She had finished it in the first week. All that was left was the revision of her Charms essay, which she was certain she could improve. It had been difficult to restrain herself — magic was just so exciting! And to think: she had six years of studying left.
Her eye was drawn to Mrs de Sousa's report, lying carelessly on the floor, and then to the blank parchment sitting on her desk. She puffed her cheeks out, angry with herself.
"Go on, Hermione," she muttered. "Don't act all moggy now."
It would do no harm, certainly? She probably wouldn't even send it. She didn't own an owl, so she'd have to send it using someone else's, and that was just a ridiculous plan.
She would ring, of course, except Ronald wouldn't have a phone, would he? And she didn't know Harry's number.
Was it too presumptuous of her to send a letter? She nibbled at her nails. Fighting a troll together counted for something, didn't it?
You didn't do anything except scream pathetically, she thought darkly.
That was it! She was writing the bloody letter. She just wouldn't send it. Yet.
She sat down at her desk, much calmer now that a decision had been made.
All of her stationery was already set up, so she unbottled her ink, and dipped the quill.
Dear Harry, she began. Paused. Was that too informal? Could she say "Dear Harry"? Well, of course I can, she thought crossly. The question is may I be so informal?
Well. Onwards. Needs must.
Dear Harry,
How are your holidays going? I trust you have started your homework.
Hermione paused, blinking. That was a lie — she did not trust Harry to have started his homework. Perhaps a different start would do …
She skipped a line and began anew:
Hello, Harry Potter —
No, that was frankly ridiculous …
Hi, Harry,
I hope your holidays are going well. Mine certainly are. I've started reading this new book called 'The Unsurprising Surprise of Snails in Potions' … and so the letter went.
Hermione reread it. Hesitated. How to end it? Of course, this letter was only an experiment. She couldn't actually send it. But still …
Love,
Hermione
Oh, no. That wouldn't do. You'll scare him off, Hermione! she raged silently.
Sincerely,
Hermione Granger
Great. She puffed her cheeks out again. Now he's my teacher instead of a potential friend. Honestly. "Sincerely"!
Regards — "Aaaggg!" she growled.
She stood up and retrieved the tea her mother had so kindly prepared for her. It had cooled, but it was still calming and warming. Having relaxed some, she returned to the letter.
Your friend,
Hermione
She beamed. There! That wasn't too despicable a first letter. No, it was an acceptable one. She snatched it up, blew the ink dry, and promptly crumpled it into oblivion and threw it into her wastebasket.
"I'll write a better one," she decided. One for Ronald, too.
.
.
.
She must have written ten letters apiece to Harry and Ronald. She didn't send a single one. She was just trying to draft the perfect letter. A letter so good that they would surely answer … a letter so good that they'd sign their letters off with "Your friend" …
"Hermione!" called her mum. "Dinner's ready." Hermione's stomach rumbled.
.
.
.
"You see," she cried. Speaking to herself was perhaps not the best sign in terms of her sanity, but what did it matter? "You're wasting time. Your holiday should not be spent on … on … friendships."
This was her fourth day of letter-drafting. It was a good thing she'd finished her homework, she decided.
She pressed her fingers into her skull. "Just two more letters," she chanted, "and then you'll move on."
These letters had evoked something rich in her: some furious passion that begged for perfection, integrity, creativity and understanding. Ron and Harry might be her first real friends. She couldn't mess this up with her bloody awkward self and annoying mannerisms. So rich passion it was: rich like dark chocolate, or the scent of a library, or the meandering trail of ink splotches. Because surely — surely — it couldn't hurt? (Oh, but it could.)
"Come, now, Hermione," she implored herself.
Twenty minutes later, two more letters dived enthusiastically into the wastebasket.
.
.
.
There is an owl at her window. There is a pretty white owl at her window. Hermione squealed — though she would deny having done so for as long as she lived.
She took the letter from the owl and offered some of her leftover breakfast bacon.
The letter was torn open without ceremony or patience, but that was alright.
Dear Hermione, it began. Ah, she thought. He used "Dear Hermione" instead of simply "Hermione". Her eyes dropped down the (admittedly short) letter. He ended it with simply "Harry". Clever. Not impersonal, nor overly personal. Clever, she thought again, somewhat bitter that she hadn't thought of doing that.
And then she wasn't thinking because she was too busy bouncing around happily.
Someone wrote her! Out of their own free will!
"Muuuuummmm," she called.
.
.
.
She signed her return letter like so:
Your friend,
Hermione
She was a wild child. An absolute heathen, she thought giddily.
.
.
.
'I do have some concerns, however; I find her to be a lonely child. She does not engage with others her own age. I have asked her to try and make some friends', she read.
She had tried. Time would tell if she had succeeded. What more was there to say? she thought sadly.
Abruptly, she was a bit angry. Harry's owl was flying away with her letter. A letter that was signed off with Your friend, Hermione. Surely that counted for something?
Her mind had forged an association between this nursery school report and every social interaction she'd ever had. And it was ruining her happiness. Her teacher had done this: her teacher the flame, and she the shadow. She hesitated, torn in two. Was she the flame or the shadow?
.
.
.
Another paper joined the wastebasket. But this one? This one was not a letter. It was a report — from a teacher, no less.