September 19
Dear Tom,
I know you don't want to write to me anymore, but I need to write to you. I told you how my bed is by the big slanted window, and I can see the Quidditch pitch. I don't know what got me up so early, but my eyes opened at quarter to seven, and I looked outside. The Gryffindor team was practicing this morning. If I put my pillow at the foot of my bed and open my curtains just a touch, I can watch. It's too far away to see very much. But it's easy to tell which one of the dots is Harry. He hovers above the rest of the players and waits. I know it would be silly to borrow Beth's omnioculars. She has some from the Celestina Warbeck concert. But she'd lend them to me, I know it. She might ask why, though. I don't want to tell. Perhaps if she left them out, I could just borrow them for half a minute.
I came downstairs early. I'm waiting in the common room. The team just left the pitch, I saw them from the window, and they'll be in any minute to wash up for breakfast. I'm in a big chair by the fire, so Harry won't notice because the back of it is to the door, and I'm too small to be seen around the sides. I just want to hear him.
The fire's nice. It's got cold, this week. I put on thicker tights today.
There are people at the portrait hole.
.
.
.
OH. He just - he had left his Transfiguration book - it was under the table where he and Ron play chess - he came over here, he saw me. He looked right at me and said,
"Hi, Ginny."
It would have been so easy to answer. All I had to say was "Hi, Harry." Why, why am I so stupid - why am I so stupid. He talked to me. He said my name. I know he knows. But he never shows it. I love him, Tom.
I miss you.