Author: poetic licence
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Dislaimer: Joanne Rowling owns most of the characters, but I'm borrowing them. Lily, Anya, Sebastian and Hanna are all mine though. No profit is made from this story.
Rating: R

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My Dearest Love,

I know I promised not to write, but I missed you terribly - you're all that fills my mind during the long hours of day, and the nights are unbearable without you beside me.

I've been out nearly every day, simply walking aimlessly, just thinking of you and trying to remember every single detail of our goodbye on the Express with Hermione standing guard outside the door. Of what we said; how you stroked the side of my face with your palm; how you looked at me; how you smelled when you wrapped your arms around me and held me.

I could have run away with you that day - only you understood the loneliness we'd be going thought the next few months...it may as well feel like forever.

They are trying so hard to be cheerful here, while I drag my feet, pout my bottom lip, sulk into my food; being miserable in is my only relief. Flying holds no thrills anymore without you to challenge me, trying to grab the snitch before me, while I swerve recklessly and laugh with devil-may-care innocence. The broomstick I love so desperately (although not as much as you) is collecting dust in the back of my cupboard next to my long-discarded winter jacket that makes me sweat just looking at it.

Sleep evades me...are you the same, Sweetheart? Tossing and turning in your uncomfortably large bed alone because there is no me beside you, no warm body half settled against your cold skin? Do you munch on ice-cubes; cracking their hollowness between your teeth and making them puddle through you while you stare at your ceiling and dream of me? I miss you.

I miss the way you'd puddle your fingertips into the small of my back, your hands slipping under the edge of my shirt easily, pressing against that hollow and making my skin melt with your iridescent touch. You make me feel like molten lava, running your boundless hands across my back, pressing your artists fingers into the muscles around my spine, tease the spots of flesh under the curves of my shoulder blades; you probe, you are a pleasure. And as you continue those relaxing massages, I fold up into a breath of happiness; flushing out of my mouth into that spot under your left ear that makes your whole skin glow and tingle; you know ever inch of my surface. You know what I say when you kiss me here, you know how I squirm when you tickle me there, you know how I ache when you hold me right...there...

How I wish you were here with me now. I am lonesome without you.

It is too hot here, and the sheets cling to me; the summer sun is relentless and I have taken myself into the coolest place I can find, an old chapel with lofty ceilings and a steeped bell-tower. One of the priests told me that the old bell is named Anne, after the Princess Anne, and that she has a deep bass ring that can be heard nearly three valleys away. She is so big that I can stand underneath her comfortably, with room to spare and even if I spread my arms I can not have both hands on her sides; she is mind-boggling. Beautiful and elegant.

My appetite is pitiful - if you were here you would be sitting at my elbow practically forcing food into my mouth - but I'm the same every year; when the temperature rises, my appetite fades away. It is too hot to eat. It is too hot for anything.

I wish I were somewhere cool...do you remember the time down by the lake, Love, just before we left? It was so fierce that the classrooms stifled with it - you could see the ripples of warmth riising off everything, desks, chairs, and floors; off each other. We snuck off to that secluded spot around the side of the lake and made love, slowly, right there on the grass as two in the morning, the breeze off the water cooling us as we lay tangled together, clasped like Ying and Yang, opposites of the same idea, the same concept.

It is too hot for you not to be here.

What are you doing right now? Are you wandering around in bare feet exploring long hallways, discovering secret rooms and a hidden passage way for you to escape to when the house is crowded with guests and you're sad without me there? No, I suspect that you don't mind the company, you sit around and drink cool lemonade and butterbeer straight from the icebox (Australian style); go swimming in your waterhole. Skinny dipping in the cool covers of night, the moons watchful gaze lighting up your smooth skin and glistening hair.

It is too hot here, it makes me feel like I've swallowed the Sahara Desert; all I can think of is you. All I dream of is you. I mope, take long walks, burn in the suns desperately unbearable stare, heal, tan, I feel golden, sun-streaked and golden for you.

The only relief I have at the moment is that Hermione and Pansy are taking it in turns to send me letters; they must have planned it before we left school. Not a day goes by without a short note.

Hermione's last one was written on the back of a page ripped out of a prayer book from her church; I never thought I'd see the day that Hermione Granger defiled a book. But then again, I'm a walking, living, breathing cliche myself, falling in love with my worse enemy, so I think I have to make allowances. She wrote that she doesn't particularly like church, her stuffy Grandmother makes her go - she prefers an open free mind rather than follow the rules of one single religion; she doesn't like the bars from freedom of thought. I get the distinct impression that Grandmother-dear doesn't approve of her Granddaughter being a witch (of all things!). Hermione'll be a brilliant writer or philosopher one of these days.

I am also glad that my present to her for her birthday is being so well used; the whole household now knows her owl Socrates on sight, and he is a most intelligent creature. It's no wonder that he and Hedwig get along so well... 'birds of a feather' and so forth.

The heat is blistering, it's making my head spin; the humidity is suffocating, sticking to my insides and it's all I can do to write this to you before heading back down to the chapel for some peaceful quiet.

All I can think of is you; all I want is for you to be beside me again.

46 days until we're together again my Love.

Think of me occasionally in your big bed all alone - you are forever in my thought and I am missing you terribly, Dear.

My fondest regards to Sirius.

All my love, forever - D xxx

A Short Explainer

I suppose this particular part of the 'Monochrome Series' needs some explaining...because there is a lot that I couldn't say because it would have given the game away.

The main thing being: Harry is now living with Sirius - who had been cleared of all charges near the end of the school year and has bought a house just outside Ipswich (a reasonable sized town - or is it a city now? - on the East Coast of England). This is something that I had to assume that you, the reader (all three of you) already knew, even though you didn't, because Draco did of course. The 'many visitors' are mainly consisting of Ron, Ginny (and quite possibly Fred & George), as well as Remus and many other old friends of Sirius.

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