So…well…after a couple of days of receiving only 1 review…I hope this chapter will redeem my reputation.
I've written till chapter 36… and I can happy say that I like where this is going.
Chapter 29: Of Breakfast and Letters
It was early, very early somewhere in Bucharest. Florence had apparated there only minutes ago; she needed to get away from the Burrow. She needed to get all the pain locked up inside of her, out of her system. She loved George. And she missed him already. Had she made a mistake? What about Snape?
She was sitting in a comfortable armchair, too comfortable for her back. She caught a glimpse of her black quill laying on the wooden table and standing up from her previous resting sofa, she took the quill and a piece of parchment on her hand.
She started what would be one of many letters.
Dear George,
It's very strange to write what my heart constantly denies; I love you.
You knew that already, of course. What is not to love?
I had travelled a long way; you are probably somewhere far away from me. "He will not be reminded of me if my presence is no longer available"- I thought. Was I right, George? Was I really? Or is it that you are so far from me now that our fingers can't touch if we stretched our arms really hard? Because I sometimes do stretch searching for your hand, George, did you know that?
It's too early here and I miss you already. My bed looks so empty; my heart feels so empty…
I should go to bed, George. I do not like to think. My heart aches too much; does your heart ache too?
Yours truly,
Florence.
---*---*---
Ronald Weasley carried Hermione all the way down to the Burrow's kitchen. Their holiday would soon be over and Hermione was feeling sick; what could be wrong with her? Ron knew the answer, of course. Professor Snape's last statement had cleared his thoughts… but could she be pregnant?
-Hermione, dear, you look extremely pale- Molly Weasley said at once, when Ron and Hermione entered the Burrow's kitchen.
-Oh, its nothing Mrs. Weasley- Hermione said in a very weak voice- I ate too much chocolate.
-Oh, dear, you should have told me before. I'll fix you a cup of tea as soon as possible- Molly Weasley offered trying to ignore the chocolate stains all over Ron's chest. She failed to do so, when noticing that Ron was wearing only boxers- Ronald, dear, I think you are highly underdressed for the occasion- She protested.
-Mum, please… not now- Ron begged. He was looking pale as well… a baby? Was Hermione carrying his baby?
-Ron, please… put some clothes on before you come back down- Molly Weasley demanded. Ron nodded. He was so confused- Now dear, here you are… here's your tea- Molly Weasley said, placing a cup filled with the steamy infusion.
-Thank you, Mrs Weasley- Hermione said in a fragile tone.
-Dear, tell me something…- Mrs. Weasley began.
-…anything- Hermione replied.
-How long have you been pregnant?- She muttered under her breath. Hermione chocked with the tea after Mrs Weasley's question.
-What?!- She almost shouted, despite her weak condition.
-Hermione, dear, didn't you know?- Mrs Weasley asked- You are pregnant, of course. If it would have been just a stomach ache, this magical tea would have healed you.
-Oh, my god- Hermione said between her teeth. She touched her stomach with her left hand- pregnant? Me pregnant? – She asked to herself twice before stopping to breathe.
-I guess from your reaction that my son does not know about this?- Molly asked, getting up from the wooden chair.
-No- Was all Hermione managed to say. She wanted to say more; she wanted to say much more… but no words came out of her mouth.
Before Hermione could say anything else, though, Ron entered the room wearing green robes that needed ironing.
-Are you feeling better, 'Mione?- He asked. She nodded, because as much as she wanted to speak, she couldn't.
He sighed. That was good news. For a moment, he completely forgot about the possibility of Hermione being pregnant. She, on the other hand, was wondering how on earth she was going to communicate the news to Ron. Where was Florence when she needed her?
---*---*---
Japan was great at this time of the year. It was wonderful to finally be away from the Burrow; away from the place that had caused him too much sorrow.
It was late; the time difference between London and Tokyo was enormous and even though he had woken up only 2 hours ago, the sun was no longer there. He wasn't in the mood for strolling; he wanted to check in and stay at his hotel room for the night.
And so he did.
But when a black owl with big green eyes entered his room through the open window, he knew that he wouldn't get too much rest. That was Florence's owl; Hamilkar.
He opened the sealed envelope with a butter knife and proceeded to read the letter. His heart was jumping wildly, he felt like a teenager again. He needed to answer her letter back, and he needed to answer it soon.
When George picked up his green quill from the night table, he did not know that the words he was about to write would be…so…so… not like him. The old George- the one that loved to shag around- would have kicked this old version for being such a silly old man.
He was about to write one of the many girly letters he would trade with Florence.
Dear Florence,
I know what you mean; I love you too though my heart begs me not to tell you so, for its own sake. There are so many things you should loath about me that the bare though of listing them makes my soul ache with pain.
You shouldn't have left; I had travelled a long way too and you are right: we are probably too far away for our fingers to touch, even if I stretch my arm as far as it gets. My fingertips want to touch yours so much that the pain they cause is too much for me to handle. I sometimes think that I will loose my mind.
"Away from the eyes, away from the heart"-He thought. I see that you shared my same idea. I don't really know if our decisions were the wisest ones, but what is done, is done, my flower. Too late for regrets, I guess.
It's too late here… I wonder where you are… my bed seems empty, too, without you in it.
I hope you are alright, Florence…I wouldn't like to hear you are not, as I love you so much.
Yours,
George.-
