Hermione dreams:

Dry white pages

With fine ink-black letters.

Red. The color red.

Words. Letters. The smell of grass.

Fresh snow with size 10 foot prints leading

To a castle.

A castle?

Memories whisper in the back of

Her mind like forgotten tastes.

Tastes? Her lips taste like something

She has never tasted before.

What was that word again?

That word with one gentle syllable that

Is supposed to roll out of people’s mouths,

Sweet and ready to unfurl.

Sweet

And ready

To

Unfurl.