A/N: Here I am, at last, back with new stuff for you. I warn you, updates will be sporadic; it's been a long time since I've written anything in my Potterverse, so it's taking me a while to get back into the swing of it. Each chapter will take place in two places, and will include a mixture of letters, and writing about where they actually are, and occasionally - as in this one - poems. I felt quite cheered by the two recent reviews for this, it's lovely people are still discovering it, and I hope that everyone will enjoy this after a two-year period of limbo. Welcome back to Small Blessings.

France is dry. The air is filled with cigarette smoke, there are sophisticated couples floating by, and it's just like in the stories her parents told her when she was young and not quite so jaded.

She met a young wizard, fresh out of Beauxbatons, who could use wandless magic, though only a little. She'd been lodging in a spare room in his house – towering and empty, it belonged to his parents, who were almost always absent.

Perhaps it was being alone so much that made Gerard create his own shortcuts.

"C'est difficile," he admits, and she watches as he frowns, staring at his palm, then murmured, "Lumos."

Light began to well in his palm, like water flowing from a tap, until it floated in a sphere, linked to his hand by a thin chain of light. On the ceiling above, she could see the shadow of his hand, and the light above it, emitting waving patterns of warmth and magic.

Hermione blinked, and was surprised when she felt wetness on her cheeks.

The cold never did bother her very much.

She meditates, in the mornings, atop a small hill just outside of Reykjavik. The ground is thick with frost and crunches underfoot, and she's wearing only a light cotton dress, but she sits down anyways, and turns to the south-east, using a compass to place it.

The morning air is chill but sings through her thin bones, like a voice carrying over the seas. She can feel Hermione in the air, her magic pulsing even now.

When she awakens from her meditation, she is inside with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She has been carried in by Sven, who chides her in a beautiful, musical voice, like windchimes and sadness.

"You were turning blue out there."

And Luna sighed, and smiled, thinking about how blue was Hermione's favourite colour.

Hermione,

Beginning this letter was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. Finding the words to start with was near-impossible – how can I accurately show a summation of how I feel about you? About us?

With your name. It was always going to be with your name. After the war it's the only name I want to hear anymore. Every day when we were helping clear the wreckage of our school, hearing your name on another's lips was some kind of quiet music to me. A promise of continuation; the relief that you too were alive hit me every time I heard it.

Hermione, I'm in Iceland. Of course, you probably know that. Well, you definitely do – you plotted out this journey of ours. We're meant to find the answer to our futures this year, aren't we?

The scenery here sparkles with a sort-of magic; I have met a few witches and wizards, not many, but it's hard to tell here who has magic and who doesn't. I suppose that just shows how crazy the idea of Blood Status was. Magic can't be seen in a person's blood, or in their family. Here everyone is peaceful and calm, living their peaceful, calm lives despite the fact that I can see that the war stretched even here.

There are refugees here, you see. Far more wizards and witches than there ordinarily are. They hide themselves well – I've only met about 10, and that was their choice – but I can taste the remnants of spells in the air.

You can see magic in a person's eyes, though. It burns brighter in yours than in anyone else's I've ever seen.

It is cold here, but I don't mind – I'm enjoying the benefits of the short hair. Not having quite so much hair makes me feel purer. I like the way the wind whistles through my layers of clothes, tosses my hair about; almost makes me feel as though the war polluted me, and here I am, cleansing myself of darkness before I see you again.

My father has written to me, hoping I am well. He says he hopes you're well too; Hermione, I think he is quite jealous of what you have caused in me. He feels as though he is losing his little girl – he isn't, of course, he never could – and it worries him to see me so…attached to you. He hasn't felt that way towards anyone since Mum.

Have you visited your parents yet, Hermione? I know you're headed to Australia before I am, but you didn't mention whether you were going to see them. I know you must be worried still; they haven't caught all of the Death Eaters just yet, you don't want to put them in any danger until you're certain they're alright.

They will be safe if they are with you, that much I know. I never felt safer than when I knew you were around.

I am trying to pretend I'm not scared about the future, but it's not quite working. I'm trying to find my answer (though to what question, I'm not sure), and the best I can come up with is 'Hermione'.

They have a saying here, and I'm going to write it in Icelandic so that you can feel the beauty of the words:

'A saga er eini helmingur told ef there er eini einn hlið nútíminn.'

'A story is only half told if there is only one half presented'. Remember that, Hermione, and think of me.

Yours,

Luna

P.S Enclosed is a wooly hat I bought for you, for when you get to the colder parts of the world. I hope you like it.

Luna,

I've spent a long time wondering how to start my letter, too. You know me; I'm not very good at being romantic, or showing how I feel. You know me. It seems we reached the same conclusion, though – the only way to start a letter to you that I felt was right, was to just put your name. Simple, to the point.

Thank you. For the hat, for the letter. I miss you, and they made being away from you somewhat less lonely.

As you know, I've started off with Paris. Or Paname, as I've heard people our age calling it. You'll like it here – I know your mother taught you French, and if I could get by on mine – I haven't spoken it in a while, I was taught it at Muggle school – then I'm sure you'll do fine.

I'm staying in a small hotel just out of the city centre, and while I love how I feel as if I've lived here for an age, these hotel walls are closing in on me. Though I suppose there are worse walls to be closed in by – the architecture here is beautiful. The little Muggle girl in me wants to take obscene amounts of photos, with my thumb over a corner of the lense.

I'm trying my hardest to give you an idea of how lovely this city really is, but I can't form it into words.

What I like is that here, I'm just a girl. I'm not a witch, a know-it-all or a lesbian. Here I can be anonymous, and after everything, I think that that is what I like the most. I love Harry and Ron, but I don't know how to cope with the fame. This Golden Trio business is very tiring, and even though the war got here, too – some buildings are damaged, but they've magicked them so that Muggles can't tell – thankfully people don't seem to know me. Or, they can tell I'm trying to hide, and they let me.

At night, when I look out from my window, and see the whole city illuminated with blinding lights, and watch it float out into the ether, somehow it reminds me of you.

Seeing your name on the same piece of paper as mine helps me kid myself that you're right here with me.

Hermione

She wakes up the morning after she sent her letter to find an owl perched at her window, a small slip of paper rolled around its ankle. Hermione untied it, paid the owl, and sent it on its way, unraveling the paper and reading.

the sun is constant
on this island of light.
i see your face on my eyelids
as i surface from
the blackness
of sleep.

they speak quickly here.
urgently. reminds me of you;
of haphazard painting
and old books, longing to be
read. you read them
every last one.

they ask if i want wine with dinner.
neitun , þakka þú. i need no
wine but that which you give me,
hermione - a name that
lingers, semi-precious,
on my lips.

i tremble at nights
is it cold where you are?
paris is warm i know, though
not
as warm as
you.

She shuddered, by habit. It was coming to night-time in Paris, the colours of the day subdued and diffused by ozone. Hermione could smell it in the air – the pollution, the desperation.

The lights outside her window are bright, harsh – she missed the calm and serenity of home, the peacefulness of love and Luna.

Outside, the landscape felt wider and colder than ever before to Luna – the bustle of London is a faint memory, compared to the quiet goings on of Reykjavik. The land of ice threatens to freeze her to the bone, but nothing comes. No cold – only fire, coursing through her bones.

She held Hermione's letter to her heart, keeping her voice circulating through her mind, keeping the memory of their quiet life alive. Soon, she thinks. Soon.

A/N: 'neitun, þakka þú' means 'no, thank you' in Icelandic.