I Love

Hermione lay on her bed at home, hugging her pillow and dreaming. She seemed to spend all her time dreaming; now the war was over, and she often cried bitter tears when she thought of Ron, the boy who loved her but she could not love back. They had dated all through seventh year, and she really thought she could love him, but there was always something in the back of her mind telling her it wasn't right. She cared for him, she knew that, more than she did Harry, though it was nothing against him, but she had ended their relationship on the train back from Hogwarts, tears falling down her cheeks before leaving the compartment and finding Ginny and Luna to ease her guilty mind.

Two weeks had passed since then, and she had not returned any of Ron's pleading owls. She had hardly spoken to her parents, though she knew they had missed her, and were deeply concerned for their only daughter. She hadn't explained anything; instead she had climbed the stairs to her room, and wept.

She felt like her heart was breaking with the bitter regret, seeing only the crestfallen, defeated look on Ron's face as she had walked away from him. She had found her old diary, the one she had written in as a child, before her Hogwarts letter had come and everything had changed. She picked up her favourite pen and began to write...

I love sunsets. I love to lie on a beach and look at the millions of stars that I can't see at home. I love the smell of fresh cut grass, of baking bread, the faint scent of vanilla and strawberries and crunchy green apples. I love to read, to curl up in my bed and immerse myself in other peoples' lives. I love to lie in the dark and let music wash over me, soothing my soul.

I love to smile, to spend time just with my friends, watching films or talking about everything and nothing at all. I love roses, white and red, so beautiful and feminine, with just a hint of pain. I love to hear my best friend play the piano and sing, mistakes and all, because I know I'm one of the lucky few who get the opportunity to hear her. I love to write, I'm not good at it, I know, but I love it all the same. I love stone statues, all smooth curves and soft beauty and imperfect perfection.

I love to imagine I am in love, though I never see his face. I love the idea of being in love with the boy who claims he is in love with me, but I don't think I ever will be. I love to dream of that spark from someone perfect for me, but I don't think I'll ever have it.

I love to see my friends, to laugh and smile and feel more carefree than I ever do alone. I love to argue, to contemplate the universe, God, existence, philosophy and everything of any meaning at all. I love the silence, just sitting quietly thinking of nothing. I love to dream of long winter nights, cuddled up by a fire with the person I love. I love to imagine what it feels like, those winter nights, with candles, and hot chocolate, and warmth and love and snow and roses, romantic films and snugly sofas and cosy clothes and protective arms and comfortable chest and love, more than anything, love. I love to picture a carefree life, no worries, no fears, just contentedness. I love to dream of dreams.

I love to envision waterfalls and rainforests and peaceful lakes. I love to watch thunderstorms, to hear the sound of pounding rain and crashing thunder. I love hot, punishing showers. I love peacock feathers of turquoise and green and purple. I love ornate carved dark wood. I love silver and black and purple and blue and green and grey and white and cream and autumn. I love autumn, all turning leaves and the feeling of home.

I love shopping, clothes, silver jewellery, music and films. I love the orient, though I've never been there. I love silk and glamour and ball gowns and awe. I love so many things, some I have, and many I wish for. I wish for perfection in an imperfect world.

And she cried again, for herself, for Ron, for Harry and Ginny and Luna and everyone else she loved who had lost something or been lost to the war. And finally the weight she had borne all summer seemed lighter than before. It was still there, by all means, but it didn't hurt so much to carry. And she left the nest she had made in her room, and climbed into the valley between her parents; the one she had not needed since she was small, and she slept properly for the first time in what seemed like years.

And finally, for her, the war had finally ended.