Happy Birthday to Darire - with hope that 'he' will stumble across your path someday; all my love.

Z is for Zeal.

This is the last, and what I believe to be the best.
I will press that 'complete' button and think of all my readers and reviewers.

Thank you - I couldn't have done it alone.


A hand outstretched – waiting to be filled. It was heartfelt and of close whispered debates, lips moistened with low, melancholy music playing throughout a room.

The sun filtering through bright, green trees and the summer air sweeping around like a graceful ballerina. The laughs of jokes told and the sweet words that passed through parted lips. The butterflies that swooped through the long grasses and of white, long dresses that fell in waves, just like her hair.

It was beauty at its natural state, of smiles and love-filled eyes and the promises of endless days together. An unspoken vow to be together, forever.

But the piano, now, is drenched in the thick dust of years past. Each hand is empty, although sometimes yearning to be clench again with that same unwavering adoration. The white dresses hide in the back of her wardrobe and he never visits those same green trees, for fear of the tears that threaten to overflow.

That is heartbreak at its finest.

So where has it gone? Like they way that the leaves darken and fall in autumn, creating a woven path of crumpled thoughts. Or did it drift away like a message in a bottle, curving away in the tide. A room full with silence and the heavy weight that hangs on his shoulders.

He dares not play the piano again.

Yet they continue on with their lives, although without the usual zeal. Once in a while their minds cross over the summer that was, his hair whiter than the bright shine of the sun, and her brown eyes, that were deeper than any ocean. Their hands entwined and the hangings of the words around them, clutching onto the droplets of love in the air.

I will love you forever.

Then the tears that fall, spilling over their eyelashes and cascading slowly onto each cheek; breaking. The lips that keep silent and hold in the words that bubble underneath. Of Draco and Hermione, a love that was and yet is no longer; the truth that they couldn't deny any longer.

Words of love never pass through their lips again, and every star whispers their condolences.

And every night, they dream of holding hands underneath that bright, green tree in an everlasting summer; of the love between Draco and Hermione.

Beauty has passed.


The end.