I just realized, Hermione misses A LOT of things in this book lol.

I do wanna keep some letters going between them, but I am going to write a little about the Granger's vacation.

On with the fic!

Chapter 25: Letters and Spain

While letters between Ron and I were almost every other day, neither one of us had received anything from Harry. There were times where I wanted to ask my parents to drive over to Surrey, as it was only 30 miles away from where we lived in London. But with their schedule, they wouldn't have the time.

Dear Ron,

First of all, your handwriting is still atrocious, and I had to squint my way through your last letter. Really, Ron, how hard is it to use a proper quill? But I suppose I should be grateful you wrote at all.

Summer's been... well, dull, honestly. Mama and Papa are working most days, so I've been revising to pass the time. Yes, I know you think I'm mad, but it helps keep me busy! I will say that I am now allowed to stay home by myself. All thanks to you, actually. Mama and Papa talked it over, and said that they felt that you raised a good argument.

I've been worrying about Harry. Have you heard from him yet? I sent him a letter last week, but he hasn't replied. What if his aunt and uncle are keeping him locked up? I wouldn't put it past them.

How's life at the Burrow? Are Fred and George still terrorizing Percy, or have they moved on to you?

Also, I still can't believe you don't know what a toaster is. Honestly, Ron, you'd think someone your age would be curious enough to pick up a Muggle book once in a while!

Write back soon, and let me know if you've heard anything about Harry.

Love,

Hermione

Dear Hermione,

Alright, alright, I'll try to write neater this time, but no promises. It's not my fault I write fast. You know, maybe you should send me one of those Muggle pens. I've always wanted to use one.

Summer here is the usual chaos. Fred and George are working on something new. Exploding Socks! They've already got Percy paranoid enough to check his shoes before he puts them on. Mum's losing her mind over it, of course, but what else is new?

I haven't heard from Harry either, and it's starting to bother me. I sent Errol again yesterday, but I'm worried his relatives aren't letting him get his letters. I would hate for them to do something like that. You would think they wouldn't care if he got a letter since they don't care about him, yeah?

Oh, and about your toaster... why do Muggles even need something so complicated just to make toast? A fire works perfectly fine. You'll have to explain it better because I don't get it at all.

Write back soon, and if you hear from Harry, let me know straight away!

Ron

Dear Ron,

I'm getting really worried. It doesn't seem like Harry would at least try to write to one of us. The Dursleys are dreadful—I can't imagine how awful it must be for him if they're keeping him from sending letters. Please tell me if you hear anything!

In other news, Mama, Papa, and I are finally off to Spain tomorrow! I've been reading about the history of Seville, and I can't wait to visit all the historical landmarks. Did you know Spain has ancient Roman ruins and Gothic cathedrals? It's fascinating!

Papa says I need to "put the books down and just enjoy myself," so I'll try to relax a little. I'm sure there will be plenty of opportunities to explore and learn while having fun. I'll write and let you know all about it when I get back.

Have you tried toasting crumpets yet? Or did Fred and George sabotage your toaster attempt?

Love,

Hermione

Our vacation in Spain was absolutely enchanting, far beyond anything I could have imagined. For weeks, my parents and I wandered through sun-soaked streets, ancient landmarks, and bustling markets, soaking up the culture and history of a country so alive with energy and color.

The trip began in Seville, where Papa wanted to meet an old university friend who now lived there. His friend, Carlos, was warm and welcoming, with a laugh that could light up a room. He and his wife, Elena, insisted on taking us to a traditional tapas restaurant on our first night. The food was incredible—perfectly seasoned patatas bravas, garlicky gambas al ajillo, and jamón so delicate it practically melted on my tongue. I even tried paella, a rice dish I'd read about in one of my travel guides. It was bursting with flavors of saffron and seafood, and it was so delicious that I couldn't stop talking about it for days.

The next morning, we visited the Alcázar of Seville. I'd seen pictures in books, of course, but standing there in person was entirely different. The intricately carved arches and colorful tilework were breathtaking, and I found myself imagining what life must have been like when the palace was first built. Mama teased me for taking so many notes in my travel journal, but I couldn't help myself. History like that needed to be remembered!

One evening, Carlos and Elena took us to a flamenco show. The performers were extraordinary, their movements sharp and passionate, their voices ringing through the air as the guitarists strummed furiously. The rhythm was intoxicating, and by the end, I was clapping along, unable to resist. Mama even leaned over to whisper that I should consider taking dance lessons, which made me laugh—I couldn't picture myself stomping and twirling like the performers, no matter how inspiring they were.

Midway through the trip, Mama decided we needed a shopping day. She insisted on visiting a local market, claiming that no vacation was complete without bringing back something special. The market was vibrant and noisy, with stalls overflowing with scarves, jewelry, and handmade ceramics. The smells of sizzling churros and fresh oranges filled the air, and I couldn't help but stop to admire every trinket.

"Try this one, Hermione," Mama said, holding up a flowing dress in a rich shade of red. "It's very flamenco-inspired. Don't you think?"

I blushed. "Mama, I don't think I could ever pull that off."

"Nonsense. You'll look lovely. Go on, try it!"

I ducked behind a curtain to change, and when I stepped out, Mama clapped her hands together. "You look stunning!" she said.

It was a little out of my comfort zone, but I had to admit the dress was beautiful. "Alright," I agreed, "but only if you get that scarf you've been eyeing."

Deal struck, we spent the rest of the afternoon browsing, our arms growing heavier with bags as the sun dipped lower in the sky.

We didn't just stay in Seville, though. One weekend, we drove to Granada to visit the Alhambra. I thought the Alcázar had been the pinnacle of architectural beauty, but the Alhambra was like stepping into a fairy tale. The gardens were lush and sprawling, with fountains that seemed to dance in the sunlight, and the views of the Sierra Nevada mountains took my breath away.

Evenings were often quieter, spent strolling through cobblestone streets and sampling local pastries. I fell in love with churros dipped in thick, velvety chocolate, though Papa declared the torrijas—like French toast soaked in honey and spices—his favorite.

Of course, I couldn't go without doing a bit of reading. On lazy afternoons, while Mama and Papa sipped sangria at a café, I'd sit with a book about Spanish history, jotting down interesting facts in my notebook. But I did make an effort to relax. After all, it was a holiday, and Mama made it clear she wouldn't tolerate me spending the whole trip "studying."

One of the most unforgettable experiences of our trip to Spain was the night Mama convinced Papa and me to try flamenco dancing. It wasn't something I'd ever imagined myself doing—flamenco seemed so fiery, so dramatic, and, well, I'm not exactly known for being dramatic. But Mama had heard from Carlos and Elena about a local dance school in Seville that offered beginner classes, and before I knew it, she'd signed us up for an evening session.

The school was tucked into a little courtyard, its wooden doors open to reveal a studio with high ceilings and mirrors lining the walls. The sound of rhythmic clapping and stomping echoed as we approached, and my nerves began to build. Inside, a group of dancers was rehearsing—every movement sharp, every turn precise. Their dresses swirled in a blur of vibrant reds, blues, and yellows, and I couldn't help but gape. They moved with such passion, such confidence. How was I supposed to keep up with that?

"Don't look so worried," Mama whispered, nudging me with a grin. "It's just for fun."

The instructor, a petite woman with jet-black hair and an infectious smile, welcomed us warmly. Her name was Ana, and she introduced us to the basics of flamenco: the posture, the hand movements, the footwork. We started with palmas, the rhythmic clapping that forms the heartbeat of flamenco. It seemed simple enough—until Ana started speeding up the tempo. My hands fumbled, my claps out of sync, but she just laughed and encouraged us to keep going.

"Flamenco isn't about perfection," she said, her accent lilting. "It's about feeling."

Next came the footwork. Ana demonstrated how to stomp with the ball of the foot, then the heel, creating a sharp, percussive sound. "Tacón!" she called out, her feet moving so quickly they were a blur. When it was my turn, I felt awkward and clumsy, my steps more like dull thuds than the crisp beats Ana made. Papa wasn't much better—his stomps were loud enough to shake the room, and Mama couldn't stop giggling at him.

"You're supposed to dance, not crush grapes," she teased, earning a playful scowl from him.

When we moved on to arm movements, I started to feel a bit more comfortable. There was something almost hypnotic about the way Ana demonstrated, her hands flowing gracefully like waves. I imitated her as best as I could, my arms curving above my head. Mama, of course, picked it up immediately, her natural elegance shining through. Papa struggled a bit, his arms stiff and his face scrunched in concentration, which only made Mama and me laugh harder.

Finally, Ana showed us how to put it all together—the clapping, the stomping, the arm movements—and added a simple turn. I was a mess at first, my feet tangling as I tried to spin and stomp at the same time. But after a few tries, I started to get the hang of it. There was something exhilarating about the rhythm, the energy, the power in every movement. For a moment, I forgot my self-consciousness and just let myself enjoy it.

"Olé!" Ana cheered when I completed a spin without tripping over my own feet. I couldn't help but smile.

At the end of the lesson, Ana invited us to dance along with the other students in a short routine. The music was lively and infectious, the clapping and stomping filling the room like a heartbeat. Mama was radiant, her movements fluid and confident. Papa, though not exactly graceful, gave it his all, his enthusiasm contagious. As for me, I was far from perfect, but I felt proud of myself for trying something so outside my comfort zone.

When the routine ended, the room erupted in applause, and Ana handed each of us a red carnation as a keepsake. "For your first flamenco experience," she said with a wink. "You did well."

As we walked back to our hotel that night, the streets still alive with music and chatter, I twirled the carnation between my fingers. "That was incredible," I admitted. "I didn't think I'd enjoy it, but... it was fun."

"I told you it would be," Mama said, linking her arm with mine. "Maybe next time we'll get you a proper dress."

I laughed at the thought of myself in one of those dramatic, ruffled flamenco gowns, but a small part of me was tempted. There was something magical about the dance, something that made me feel free and alive. It was a night I'd never forget, one that made me realize the joy of stepping outside my comfort zone and embracing the unfamiliar.

By the time we packed our bags to return home, I felt both exhilarated and exhausted. Spain had been everything I'd hoped for—beautiful, exciting, and full of life. As we left, I promised myself that I'd return someday.

When I got home, Errol was waiting for me with a letter from Ron

Dear Hermione,

Spain sounds like it would be lovely, but you'd better not spend the whole trip with your nose in a book. Do something fun for once! Go swimming or try the local food—something other than reading about Gothic whatchamacallits.

Nothing new here. Fred and George have moved on from Percy and are now trying to prank Mum, which is... not smart. Ginny keeps asking if I've heard from Harry, and Dad says if we don't hear from him soon, we might go check on him ourselves. Mum's been worried too, though she tries not to show it.

By the way, I still haven't figured out why Muggles need toasters. Percy tried to explain electricity to me, but it sounded like a load of rubbish. Are all Muggle inventions this complicated?

Write back soon and tell me all about Spain. And seriously, don't just study the whole time.

Ron

I rolled my eyes, but smiled. It felt nice coming home to a letter. I hurried and wrote him back.

Dear Ron,

You'll be happy to know that I didn't spend the entire trip with my nose in a book. Spain was incredible! Seville is beautiful—there's this magnificent cathedral called the Giralda, and we even visited the Alcázar, which is a stunning palace with Moorish architecture. Oh, and the food! I tried churros with chocolate, and it was heavenly.

Mama and Papa took me to see a flamenco performance one evening. The music and dancing were so lively—I wish you could've seen it!

But... I did bring back a few books on Spanish history. You can't expect me to go on holiday without picking up some reading material!

Have you heard anything about Harry? It's been weeks now, and I'm getting really anxious. If your dad is planning to go check on him, please tell me. I'd feel so much better knowing someone's keeping an eye on him.

Oh, and about Muggle inventions—yes, most of them are complicated, but they work brilliantly once you understand them. Maybe I'll show you a toaster someday, and you can see for yourself.

Love,

Hermione

Dear Hermione,

Spain sounds brilliant! Flamenco dancing, churros, and palaces? I'm almost jealous, except for the part where you probably read half the library while you were there. Still, I'm glad you had fun.

About Harry... Dad says we're going to check on him soon. He's worried, and Mum keeps muttering about how we should've done it earlier. Fred and George say that we should just go get him on our own. I'm thinking about it, but I'm also nervous. I don't know what they have in mind. But hey, if it helps our best mate escape, I'll endure the punishment.

By the way, I think the twins broke Mum's toaster. I'm pretty sure it wasn't supposed to make sparks like that. You might have to give me another lesson when school starts.

Write back soon, and don't worry about Harry—we'll sort it out.

Ron

I didn't write him back until the morning, as I was extremely tired from jet lag. I didn't like the idea of them "rescuing" Harry, however, I didn't fancy the idea of him spending another moment with the Dursleys even more.

Dear Ron (and Harry if you're there),

I hope everything went alright and that Harry is okay and that you didn't do anything illegal to get him out, Ron, because that would get Harry into trouble, too. I've been really worried and if Harry is all right, will you please let me know at once, but perhaps it would be better if you used a different owl because I think another delivery might finish your one off.

I'm very busy with schoolwork, of course, and we're going to London next Wednesday to buy my new books. Why don't we meet in Diagon Alley?

Let me know what's happening as soon as you can.

Love from,

Hermione