Chapter I: Letters & Longing

"I love you."

I wish it were as simple as that. But no, it's always so much more complicated. I can't just walk up to my best friend and say, "I love you Ron," and have everything turn out just fine, the happily ever after of fairy tales.

Yes. I, Harry James Potter, am in love with you, Ronald Bilius Weasley. But there are too many technicalities for it to ever work.

You happen to be a guy, like me. And you, unlike me, happen to like girls, if Fleur was anything to go by. Or Hermione, for that matter—you two bicker a quite a bit for "just friends."

You happen to have a life besides me and my stupid adventures that get you hurt, and I don't want to wreck that.

You also happen to be beautiful and you happen to deserve better than me.

Despite all this, I'm hopelessly in love with you.

I don't know how I'm going to survive this year . . . every time I look at your flaming red hair, see a strand in your eyes, I'll want to run my hands through it, tenderly tuck it behind your ears and drop a kiss on your forehead. Every time I catch a glimpse of your freckled skin, I'll have to look away, just so I won't reach out a hand and stroke your velvet cheek, run my thumb over your stubborn jaw. Every time you say a word, I'll close my eyes in a vain attempt to block out your beautiful voice. And every time you're in the same room as me, I'll wish you were mine and I yours.

A tapping at the window brings me out of my thoughts. Hedwig. With a sweet smile, I open the window. "Hey old girl. How was your hunt?"

Fondly, I stroke her wing feathers, and she blinks then hoots softly. It's our greeting ritual, sort of. Whenever she comes back from a hunt, I run my fingers through her soft feathers. Down her wings, then up again, tracing a path around one of her eyes and inching downwards towards her chest, which I lay my hand on. My beautiful snowy Hedwig.

I smile again, and lead her over to her perch, by the window sill. I made it at the beginning of the summer. Nothing much; a sturdy pole with a few branches nailed to it and food and water dishes. The Dursleys don't know about it: every time they come in, I cover it with my invisibility cloak. Not my own magic, so I can use it.

Hedwig hoots softly in gratitude, bringing me back to the world, then alights gently on the branch next to the food and water. She takes a long drink, then holds out her clawed foot. Only then do I notice the letter. I take it from her carefully, eyebrows raised. She turns back to the dish, and I flop down on my bed, tearing open the letter.

Dear Harry,

Ron here. Hullo, how are you doing? Are the muggles treating you all right? They'd had better be, or I'll send over one of Fred and George's Ton-Tongue Toffees for your cousin! Haha!

I've decided to improve my writing skills this year, so be ready to read painfully long and boring letters from me. I'll be writing my attempts to you, hope you don't mind, mate.

Summer's awfully boring so far here at the Burrow. It's too quiet for my house. There's always something going on with one of us—Fred and George making explosions in their room, or trying out something on Percy, Ginny, or me and Percy yelling back at them, Ginny screaming, and me just throwing things at them. But Fred and George are gone for a week, so it's quiet here.
And guess what? Percy's moving out to share a flat with Oliver. You know, Oliver Wood, Quidditch Captain?

I had a long talk with Percy the other day, in which he apologized for being so . . . alienating sometimes. You know, cauldron thickness and stuff? He says he just wasn't sure he wanted to show everyone what he was really like. He's not really such a prick, you know. He just acted that way because he thought that was the way we wanted him to be.

Anyway, it was nice talking with him. I got to know him a lot better. I'm happy for him and Oliver (like the rest of my family), but it makes me kind of . . . jealous. Yeah, I know---rubbish, right?---but I want to know what love's like, too. He and Oliver always seem so happy together, and I can't help wondering what it feels like. Ugh, sorry Harry, that sounds horrible and girly, but I promised myself I wouldn't scratch anything out.

Anyway, Ginny isn't here either. She's over at a friend's vacation house for a week. Dad's always at work these days, so it's basically just me and mum. Kinda lonely actually.

I've already finished all my summer homework. I know, I know. How unlike myself, huh? As I was saying, I've finished all my homework (I was BORED, okay?) And I've taken to reading.
Even though Hermione's fanatic about it, it's really not bad at all. I like reading quite a bit. I've read tons of good books already. You would like reading if you got into it and those stupid relatives of your could gave you any money or a library card. I dug mine out when I was done with my homework; I've been borrowing from the library in the town.

I know this author you might like. Mercedes Lackey. She is bloody good! Muggle fantasy writer, at that, but some of her ideas of magic are really neat. She has a really wonderful writing style and an her descriptions are great. You really should read her book, Magic's Pawn. It's great.

But I'm sounding more boring by the second, and that's how I feel—you couldn't possibly come and stay early this year? Mum says you're welcome to, in fact she told me to tell you to hurry and ask Dumbledore if you could.

Anyway, I'm rambling, so I'll stop here, and you should feel grateful to receive the longest letter I have ever written. Kidding!

Love,
Ron

I trace the name over lovingly with my fingers. Love, Ron. The phrase echos through my mind, giving me a warm feeling from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. Love, Ron. I read the letter over again, smile quietly growing.

God, Ron. You don't know how much I love you. I don't think even I can fathom it. I love everything about you. All your little quirks; the way you cross your eyes ever-so-slightly when you concentrate on something with all your being; the way you tilt your head to the side when you learn something new that interests you; the way you crack your knuckles just about every other minute; all of your little subconscious actions.

Not to mention the rest of you.

I pick up a pen and snatch a piece of paper from the stack beneath my bed and begin a letter to you.

Dear Ron,
Life in

The Smallest Bedroom
Number Four, Privet Drive
Little Whinging

is nothing out of the ordinary. I still wake up every morning to my aunt's screeching and my uncle's roar-grunts. You'd think I live in a zoo or something, the way they go on . . . my aunt could be the giraffe, with her ten-meter-long neck, my cousin could be the pig in the Petting Zoo (he certainly weighs as much!), and my uncle could be the rhinoceros, always pawing the ground and charging at things. And I could charge admission for people to see them; I'd call it: "Harry's Freak Zoo." You think I'd make any money?

All your homework done already? I'm almost jealous. When I come to stay, I'll be slaving away on my homework when we could be doing fun stuff! Ah well. As Fleur would say, "Ce la vie; zat ees ze life."

God, Ron, I'd LOVE to come and stay early if possible. Your house is more like a home to me than this hole, if I may say. I'll ask Dumbledore when I'm done with your letter, all right?

Give Oliver and Percy my congratulations! I always thought they'd make a cute couple, and I did wonder about those extra long showers Oliver took after Quidditch . . . (wink wink). I'm glad for Percy and Oliver, too, they both deserve it.

Gasp! The Great Ronald Weasley actually touched a book? Your Majesty, I'm shocked. Snicker, just kidding. Hermione will definitely be pleased—maybe you can lend me some good books when I come to stay? I used to have a library card for my old school, but somehow I don't think it'd be welcome anymore. I always like the fantasy books, but Hogwarts never had any good muggle books to borrow. I recall I really liked the Lord of the Rings books, though—you read them yet?

Ron, on the love note. Don't worry about it. Everyone wonders what love's like and wants to know—and don't worry, I won't tell Hermione about your moment of "girliness" as you call it, or she might squeal.

Anyway, you won't have to wait long. Soon you'll meet someone, and fall in love, and then you'll see it. I warn you, though, it's not all happy-sappy notes and powdery hearts. Sometimes love is hard.

Anyways, I've got to run, ask Dumbledore don'cha know, and sorry my letter's so short (I feel so inadequate compared to you!) but I'm not the best writer on earth.

Love,
Harry

P.S. Give your mum my regards.

I pause only a moment before picking up another piece of paper.

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

I'm sorry to bother you with this letter, but I had a request I was wondering if you might fulfil.

If it's to much trouble, don't bother. However, if you've taken your time to read this, my question is this: is it possible in any way for me to stay with the Weasleys earlier this year? I know that there are special protections on the house, but knowing you, Professor, you've probably put similar ones on the Weasley's house, too, and if not, then I would understand, but please, please please please consider it. I really miss Ron. And his family.

Sincerely,
Your Student, H. J. Potter

"Hedwig?" I ask, turning my eyes toward her. She turns her own optics on me and I continue. "When you've rested enough, would you deliver these?" I wave the letters in the air, and she nods, hoots, and gazes at me for a moment, then holds out her leg.

"You're sure?" A hoot. I smile in relief, tears coming to my eyes for some reason. "Love you, old girl. And would you . . . would you see that he's alright?" She knows I mean you. I worry about you, you know. She's watched me pace many a night in pensive thought about whether Voldemort will go after you or not. I think my owl is more than just an animal, because she looks at me with soulful amber eyes and hoots softly. I nod, one tear sliding down my cheek.

I love you.