Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine and neither are other things and people that are familiar from the books. In addition to that the story contains phraises from the songs of Raimond Valgre which I don't own either.

Dear Beloved,

It was one of the warmest days of the summer. Beams of golden light shone through the large windows of the veranda, and though the door was wide open, no wandering draught found its way in, the air was thick with the heavy smell of roses and the lazy buzz of bees. A young lad was sitting at the table, sunlight gliding along his bare tanned back, nibbling a quill and staring at a clean piece of parchment. Occasionally he would take a sip of pumpkin juice or run his fingers through his hair wet with sweat; then the hand would drop back to the table. From time to time he would take off his glasses and try to wipe them clean with a corner of the tablecloth; he would dip his quill in the pot of blood red ink and then stop it midair, pausing to think and watching the ink drip back into the bowl.

Everyone dreams of happiness. And love. Only seldom is the dream fulfilled.

James dropped the quill back to the bottle of ink, but instead it fell to the table, staining it with tiny drips of scarlet. He brushed his fingers through his hair so that thanks to the sweat it glued to his head, then abruptly ruffled it up again, so that he looked like his usual self, with his black hair sticking out at odd angles. He was tired of writing that letter. For every day for the last month he had been writing it, never managing to complete it, never sending anything to its recipient. It didn’t matter whether it was raining outside or not, whether it was cloudy or there was a drought, whether it was foggy or the sun was shining, whether there was a thunderstorm or a silent afternoon like that day, he would always be sitting in this chair at this table, looking absentmindedly out of the window or staring down at the paper. Now and then he would shoot up from his chair, lash his arms around, and maybe yell something pointless, just out of frustration. Then he would walk in circle around the table, stomping his feet just to make himself feel that his feet still existed, and walk to the door, stop there, and look out into the large flower garden his mother was so proud of. A minute or two later he would run quickly back to his chair, scolding himself for forgetting the task at hand, ready for writing the letter.

Every night I dream about your eyes, and the fire that burns within them…Sometimes he would write the sentence down, look at it for some time, and then cross it out again. Sometimes he would just dip his quill in the ink and raise it over the parchment, ready to write it down, but then stop before touching the parchment. Or then, other times, he would forget about the quill and the parchment, the veranda, the summer, and dream about her eyes.

But then the morning dawns, and I know that it was just a dream.

Sometimes he would get angry at the parchment, crumple it and throw it into the far corner of the room. Sometimes he would even throw it out of the door, for the non-existent breeze to play with. Then he would quickly retrieve it and try to smoothen out the cracks, but after some furious attempts it would end up in the paper basket next to the fireplace with all his brothers and sisters from the previous days.

Alone. By myself. Alone! My mind is wandering in the depths of the starry sky…

Some nights he would sit at the window and look at the stars. He was quite convinced that his parents thought him asleep. Sometimes he would even fly out on his broom, fly at the stars until his mind caught up with him and reminded him that they were out of his reach, just like her. He would then turn back to his moonlit room, think of the pointlessness of it all, ponder the meaning of life, think of the endlessness of the universe, and dream of her bright green eyes.

Yesterday, I waited for you for a whole hour.

Some nights he would wait even longer. Actually he loved to sleep, for in dreams, he knew, she would come. Some nights he would doze off instantly when getting into bed, other nights he would drift in and out without getting his mind off her for long enough for the unconscious dreams to come. Some nights he would force the sleep to come, and then get up again in frustration, wander down to the fireplace. Then he would burn the crumpled pieces of parchment that had been piling up there, dreaming of her eyes. The days following those nights would find him sitting at his usual place at the table and staring at the blank parchment with baggy eyes.

Everything you said it was like music…Sometimes this sentence would find its way to the parchment. Sometimes he would then stare at it and smile. Sometimes he would start humming. Sometimes he would cross it out, and then write down again, only to cross the second one out as well. Sometimes he would explain. That’s why every little piece of music always will remind me you. But then the reality dawns on him and the parchment is thrown to the bin again.

But then the morning dawns, and I know that it was just a dream.

It was one of the warmest days so far and James was fiercely pounding his fists at the back of the chair. He knew his mother would not be angry at him for staining the tablecloth, she never was. Lately, he had to admit, she had taken up a habit at checking on him at certain intervals as if she wasn’t convinced in his sanity. He sat back in his chair, emptied the glass of juice in one gulp, and snatched the quill up again.

I stop and remember again how you said, “I’m a woman who never falls in love…”

Sometimes he would put the quill down and grab hold of his head with both hands. Sometimes there would be a bead of sweat running down his cheek, sometimes a lonely tear. Sometimes he would even have to bite into his lip to suppress a sob, but that he would never tell anyone. Sometimes, on days like this one, he would just sit at the table, hold the worn quill in his fingers and watch the blood red ink drip back into its bottle, while the warm sun glides on his tanned bare back, and his black hair stick out in odd angles. Sometimes his glasses would get misty; sometimes a drop of sweat would run past his temples; sometimes he might even realize that the letter would never be sent.

I’m too bad to be loved by you, to be thought of in the moonlit night. You’d never believe that I could be true; I’m just too bad for you.

Sometimes James would just close out the world and dream of her emerald green eyes, the ones that he sees in the stars, the ones that he sees in the fire.

Everyone dreams of happiness, and love.