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Different paragraphs would be written with different pens. His writing changed from the beginning to the end--as if he were tired at the end of the day and the pen dragged slowly across the page without the enthusiasm of the morning.For two years we traded letters. Most of my classmates had stopped writing as soon as that first school year had expired. They considered the correspondence an assignment. Though we weren't graded, I think they failed. They did not learn anything.One day, I received a nearly illegible letter from Eric. I could only barely make out that his parents asked me to visit during the summer. By this time, I was nearly eleven. I considered myself old enough to travel by myself. I realized why his writing, that day, nearly leapt off the page, for I was as eager for the opportunity to meet as he was. My parents frowned. They did that a lot when they were thinking seriously. I waited three days before they decided, but I abandoned my practice of sending only a perfect letter to Iowa as soon as I heard their decision. Yes. I sent only three lines. Physically, they were hardly worth the postage. Eric, my parents have agreed! When shall I visit? All my love, Hermione. The weight of those few words seemed nearly unbearable. Surely, the envelope would burst open with the significance of its contents.That summer was the first time I watched fireflies hover around me. I lived in that big, white house with the grass and the trees and the rosebushes and the dog for nearly a month. I stayed until the end of July, reminding Eric that he ought to visit me next summer. Yes. I was nearly eleven. Hardly old enough to fall in love, but I was young enough to realize I had a wonderful friend. My best friend, I think. I didn't have many friends in school.As I stepped off the plane in London, I took a deep breath. The air was so different. Everything was so close, so scrunched up into little spaces. But I had my parents. One doesn't realize how much parents mean until one has lived with different parents for a month. How I hugged them. But everything was not so happy for long. At home, a letter waited. Yellowed parchment. Violet ink. Odd, but "violet" is so similar to "violent." "Violent" better described those scrawled words. I learned, for the first time, my true nature: witch. Oh, yes, I was excited at the prospect of attending a new school. And my parents were, as usual, supportive. They were delighted. I admit, I was, too, until I realized what that letter meant.I never wrote another letter to Eric. How could I? I couldn't tell him that I had to change schools and train to become a fully educated witch. That would only create more problems, so I slowly capped my pen and burned the remaining sheets of clean, unrumpled paper. I resolved to make a new start in this school. I had no reason to feel attached to my Muggle school. Few people associated with me. I was not popular. I vowed to put that behind me.I lived through six years without a letter to or from Eric. He sent confused letters my first year at Hogwarts. There were days that I longed to reply, but I couldn't. I was Hermione Granger, the witch. He wrote on paper with a ballpoint pen; I used parchment and quills. Our worlds no longer coexisted. Needless to say, he never flew to England. I never got to show him my world ... I no longer lived in the world he would have expected.Oh, I had Harry and Ron. They were friends enough. Goodness, I even tried dating them. But we all knew no romantic relationship would ever survive between us. And I had Viktor for a summer, but I let that drop. 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It's easy to imagine a lush, green lawn twinkling and sparkling with these lantern-bugs. I can see, in my mind, a cozy, Sleeping-Beauty type cottage smiling to itself as the lights glitter around it like magical guardians. Of course, magic is no longer something pleasantly mysterious to allude to in reference to such charming pictures.When I was eleven, I was so happy to learn that I was a witch; I imagined that, surely, my new life would be a part of that warm, safe, fairy-tale world.I never saw any fireflies near my own house. The noise and smoke of the city kept most away. Any that ventured near were impossible to detect in the glaring street lamps. But I remember seeing paintings that danced with those little bugs. They were in my first picture books. Mum and Dad never gave me the typical children's books, though I've learned to appreciate their simplicity and idealism. No. I was given books of paintings--artwork. I grew up on Venus de Milo and the Winged Victory. I would turn pages to find peeling frescoes and restored murals. These things I fed to my mind. It's no wonder I find few difficulties with large, tedious volumes: I've learned to find something interesting in nearly everything. Nearly.The first time I saw real, live fireflies I was ten years old. I was oblivious to half of the world around me. I was visiting a friend ... no. I must start before that.Miss Carls, my schoolteacher, announced one day that each of us would draw a name from a bowl. We looked at each other, wondering what would happen. The last time we drew names from that bowl, we had to write a story about a person with that name. We had to create a character and write a story. So few facts. Not this day. Miss Carls smiled and announced that we would start international correspondence. She wanted us to learn about other countries. I sat, eagerly awaiting my turn. Andrew was the first to reach his hand into the bowl. All of the girls in my class ran after Andrew during lunch. He was handsome, I think. Andrew drew the name of a girl in Tokyo. He grumbled that he wanted a boy--not some girl. Jenny was paired with a girl from Moscow. Alex picked a boy from Caracas, Venezuela. I wonder that I can still remember this. Perhaps I don't. I thought I would never get to rereach my hand into that bowl. Courtney pulled out a name from Cairo. I sat on my hands to keep them from grabbing that bowl. I got butterflies in my stomach from the excitement. Ann plucked "Gary" from Montreal out of the dwindling pile. Finally, it was my turn. I recall the smooth glass of the bowl. It was cold in the peculiar way glass has of being cold despite a warm surrounding. It nearly stuck against my clammy hands. Such a funny day. I hurriedly snatched a slip of paper from the mess. It seemed to take forever to pull my hand away from the other pieces and draw my treasure to me. I don't know what I hoped for. Cape Town, perhaps. Sydney. Maybe even Seoul. The boy was from a strange town. Nothing important. That is, the world would not consider this an influential city. He was from Iowa. That's all I saw, at first. I did not want to write letters to someone in the states. That was not interesting. I stared at my new burden.Indeed, I must have forgotten many things about that day. Not all of the names belonged to a huge metropolis. I know that mine could not have been the only of its kind. But I don't remember. I only remember the disappointment. I was eight years old. Being Hermione Granger, however, I resolved to make the best of the situation.Eric was a wonderful pen pal. After my initial disappointment, I learned to enjoy our letters to each other. He lived on a farm, it seemed to me. Really, he lived in a town, but there was so much more space than years after I finished my time at Hogwarts, I tried sending a letter to Eric, but it returned to me. He no longer lived in that white house. He had grown up, too. I traveled to the states, once, to give a lecture on new methods in Transfiguration. I don't know what I expected. He wouldn't have been in that crowd.I'm happy enough, you know. I still have Harry and Ron, though a family of my own has not materialized. I teach bright-eyed Hogwarts students, now. Only on nights like this do I regret what I have done with my life. When the heat swells in the castle and the old stones muffle their soft sounds, I wish I were still in that big white house with the fireflies. Not even my parents know this. Not Harry. Not Ron. Not Professor Dumbledore, though I think he may have guessed at some point. He seemed to take pity on me my seventh year, though that may have had more to do with Harry's temporary disappearance than anything else. And when the nights grow cold and sigh through the castle, I wish I had someone. I can't help wishing I still had Eric. Heavens! I was only ten years old, but I still wish I had him to talk to. I wonder if Spud is still alive. He liked to chase those flitting lightning bugs.In all my life, I never read a single book or chapter or paragraph about fireflies. I never wanted to break my fantasy that they only loved certain houses. I never wanted to discover the mechanism behind their flashing bulbs. They still embody ... magic. I want to be enfolded in that brand of magic. I want to be buried in it. 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