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SIYE Time:21:50 on 28th March 2024
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Wish I Was There
By Calliope

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Category: Post-HBP
Characters:Harry/Ginny, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley
Genres: Humor, General
Warnings: None
Story is Complete
Rating: PG
Reviews: 16
Summary: "Hermione wrote her an entire roll of parchment just two days ago." Harry groaned. "And I can't even get past "Dear Ginny.'" Ron rolled his eyes. "That's Hermione. I have a theory that half of what she writes is just complete nonsense and since no one wants to read all of what she's written, they see how long it is and assume it must be brilliant." (A companion piece to 'A Pocketed Piece of Parchment', and dedicated to all the fans of 'Sometimes, a Very Long While' who wanted more Ron and Harry time goodness.)
Hitcount: Story Total: 4712







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Harry sat in a musty old armchair that smelled suspiciously of cat, his quill in his mouth. There was a piece of parchment in his lap with a book underneath it for a writing surface. Not for the first time in his life, he had no idea what to write.

There was so much he wanted to tell Ginny, but simply couldn’t. He wanted to tell her about the Albanian forest they were camping in with the tent containing a three-room flat they had borrowed from Perkins at her father’s old office. He wanted to tell her that he could feel how close they were to the next Horcrux, and that he was almost sure it was Ravenclaw’s cup. He wanted to tell her how much he missed her and he would give anything to have her here with him if he thought it was even a tiny bit safe.

He couldn’t tell her any of that. Because owls get intercepted, Harry thought bitterly, and letters get stolen and read, and people are tortured for information and people are possessed--.

“Hey, mate,” a weary voice interrupted his thoughts.

Harry quickly turned over the nearly blank parchment and hoisted a grin that he knew must look very forced onto his face as he turned to greet Ron. “Hi.”

Ron plopped down on the sofa opposite Harry and a cloud of dust erupted from the cushion he landed on. Ron coughed forcefully and waved his hand in front of his face. This, however, only managed to make the dust travel in a cloud like a pack of bees over to Harry and attack his nose. Harry began to sneeze.

“Sor–sorry, mate,” Ron managed through his coughs. Harry nodded vaguely and sneezed again. The piece of parchment in his lap slid off of his copy of The Dark Arts Outsmarted, fluttering to the floor. Harry lunged for it but was delayed by another violent sneeze; Ron reached it first, now pounding his chest with his fist.

“What’s this?” Without waiting for an answer, Ron skimmed the parchment and smirked. “Ah. Dear Ginny.”

Harry leaned across and snatched the parchment back, his face burning. “You write to her, too. So does Hermione.”

Ron snorted. “I’m her brother, and Ginny is basically Hermione’s only girlfriend.”

“I’m her friend,” Harry shot back defensively, not sure why he was getting so worked up.

Ron had stopped smiling. “I know.”

Harry let out a great breath and rested his forehead in his hands, screwing his eyes shut against his palms. He could feel Ron still watching him and looked up. “What?” he demanded.

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

Ron sighed. “It just…sucks, is all.”

Harry thought about it. He’d had a girlfriend for about the happiest and briefest few weeks of his life. He hadn’t cared about what anyone said about him, not even blushing when Ginny would kiss him in the corridors (without Ron around). Now Dumbledore was dead, Ginny was hundreds or thousands of miles away (though Hermione had tried to explain it to him, he still didn’t really know where Albania was) and he was reduced to spending half an hour on a letter that so far only read “Dear Ginny”… Yup, Ron was about right. It sucked.

“Yeah,” agreed Harry glumly. “It does.” He sneezed again.

Ron frowned and looked about. “Wasn’t one of us supposed to try to clear out all this dust? I don’t remember it being like this when we stayed in here last time.”

“Hermione refuses to do it,” said Harry dully. “She keeps saying how we can’t just assume it’s women’s work to clean up the tent.”

Ron stared. “But we don’t know the stupid spell! I must have tried Scourgify eleven thousand times, and nothing happened!”

Harry shrugged. Somehow, he couldn’t find this topic too interesting right now.

Ron noticed Harry’s silence and attempted to placate him again. “Come on, mate. It’s not like she can expect too much. I can barely get two sentences without giving something away, she knows it’s hard.”

“Hermione wrote her an entire roll of parchment just two days ago.” Harry groaned. “And I can’t even get past ‘Dear Ginny.’”

Ron rolled his eyes. “That’s Hermione. I have a theory that half of what she writes is just complete nonsense and since no one wants to read all of what she’s written, they see how long it is and assume it must be brilliant.”

Harry cocked an eyebrow.

Ron shrugged. “Just a theory, all right?”

“Don’t tell Hermione that theory.”

“I’m not that stupid. Do you think I want to be attacked by a flock of birds again?”

Harry managed a weak but genuine smile at the memory. “That was actually pretty funny.”

“Yeah, you think so because you weren’t the one being attacked. Why is it always me getting attacked by birds? First Pig, then Hedwig that time, and then a whole flock of them that weren’t even real!”

Harry shrugged and smiled a little wider. “Must be that animal magnetism you’re always talking about.”

Ron threw a pillow at Harry.

Harry was grinning now. “Hey, why is it me always getting attacked by pillows? I’m going to develop a fear of them, and then Dudley will have been right. Do you really want to be responsible for the one thing that fat lump is right about in his entire life?”

“Because you always deserve it.”

“If you say so.”

Ron glanced over his shoulder to the window, where you could still barely see the sun behind the trees. “Is Hermione still out there by herself? It’ll be dark soon…and it looks like rain again.”

“No,” said Harry, trying to hide his amusement at the badly veiled concern in Ron’s voice. Really it was kind of sweet…of course, Hermione might feel somewhat differently. “She got back a while ago and went into the bedroom.” He gestured to the closed door behind him. “I haven’t heard anything for a while, so she’s probably either asleep or reading.”

Ron turned back and met Harry’s eyes. The two nodded and said together, “Reading.”

“I guess I’ll start dinner then.” Ron went to the small kitchen and started making what Harry considered a wholly unnecessary amount of noise, taking out pots and pans and clanking them about.

Harry turned back to his letter, dipping his quill in ink and placing the tip to the paper as if he had a single idea what to write. He was interrupted again by the opening of a door and an irritated voice saying, “Ron! What are you doing! People may be trying to sleep in here, you know.”

“Oh, we thought you were reading,” said Ron, somewhat guiltily. He then brightened up and said, “But now that you’re up, want to help make dinner?”

Hermione huffed furiously, then seemed to melt a bit and said “Oh, all right then” with only a hint of edge in her voice.

Listening to the now-familiar sounds of Ron and Hermione bickering over dinner and the rain beginning to pound on the roof of their tent, Harry settled into his chair once more.

Really, what was he supposed to write? What did people usually write in these situations? Not being a person to receive much mail over the years, he wasn’t quite sure. An image suddenly popped into his head of a postcard Aunt Petunia had gotten from a friend in Majorca. “Dearest Petunia,” the letter had read in curly writing. “Weather’s beautiful. Wish you were here.” His aunt had complained bitterly about how Yvonne had to brag about the wonderful time she was having while she herself was stuck here in the house with the rain and chill of an English November, then had put the postcard up on the refrigerator door right next to Dudley's absymal grades for the previous term.

Harry snorted quietly. “Weather’s beautiful” wouldn’t exactly work, he reflected as he listened to the pouring rain outside. Who knew it rained this much in Albania at this time of year?

And “wish you were here”? Harry pondered this silently for a moment. While he knew he wanted almost nothing in the world more than to be with Ginny at this moment, it would also be a lie to say he wished she were with them. Trying to picture her in this Albanian forest, sharing a room with him, Ron and Hermione and going out with them every day to try to track down the next fragment of Voldemort’s soul made his head hurt. She was much safer where she was. She was much safer without him. Ginny had to stay right where she was, and knowing how badly she must want to come find them and her undefeated willpower, he could only guess what havoc saying “wish you were here” could wreak.

Harry sat for a moment more, listening to Ron and Hermione debate which pot would be best to boil the water in, having spent all this time trying to decide what to make for dinner. He then dipped his quill into the inkwell on the arm of his chair and beneath “Dear Ginny”, he wrote, “Weather’s horrible. Wish I was there.”

It was still a miserable letter, but at least it was a start.





A/N: I wonder if I didn't put a disclaimer in this, if I might actually get sued.

...

::DISCLAIMS::

Anyway, kind of a peek into what I think Harry, Ron, and Hermione might be going through, as you already saw what I think of Ginny's predicament (if you read "A Pocketed Piece of Parchment"...if you haven't, go read it!). You might think it's a bit soft, and I know they're on a mad hunt for Voldemort's soul, but it doesn't mean they have to sleep on a rock. They are still wizards and a witch.

::begs (in a somehow dignified way) for reviews::
Reviews 16
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