Dear Darling,

Is it possible that there really are cosmic twins? That whoever is our ethereal puppet master really does make us in pairs only to split us up and wait for us to find each other? It seems to be the only explanation for my particular brand of longing, for the fact that I feel so attuned to you when I’ve not seen you in years, not even spoken to you or written to you.

Well, of course I’ve written to you, the way the Greek writers of old wrote to their own muses. You are the apostrophe I use, the image I invoke to create my fantastical tales for the publisher. And it’s gotten to the point where sometimes, as I divine different ways that you and I could one day meet, that I wonder if you are, in fact, real…if I haven’t simply willed one of my fantastic shades into existence.

But you are real. I’ve seen pictures in the Prophet. I’ve celebrated your professional successes…with your friend Blaise. I’ve spoken to your mother. I’ve read interviews you’ve given. I’ve gone and fallen ridiculously in love with your hands. When some nameless photographer manages to catch your graceful paws in a frame, I imagine them coming up to cup my face as we discuss something gently serious. I imagine that your touch on my skin would be just as expertly tender as your grasp on the snitch as you make a timely capture.

It’s not right, to love someone you’ve been taught to hate. It’s not sane to construct a wishful fantasy around pictures found in the papers, both reputable and not so much. And yet, I cannot get you out of my thoughts. You creep into the mental dead air of my life: the few moments of cerebral slowing between deciding to go to sleep and actually slipping into unconsciousness, standing in line alone at the apothecary or Gringott‘s, spending a few hours on broomstick to reach a new destination. It is you that I think about…your grey eyes, your perfect teeth, the long trunks of your legs, the way your ears stick out from your quidditch goggles.

I think about what it might be like to wake up next to you, the few, rare mornings that I would shake off sleep before you might; in my thoughts you are an early riser. It would give me a few seconds of unadulterated gawking, the kind that usually makes you consciously blush, because in my head you are a tiny bit adorably shy in morning light.

I like to look at you. It's your fault for being so beautifully perfect that I get a certain, primal pleasure from noticing each ridged muscle, each spindly blue vein in your arm, each contour of your graceful form. Don't even get me started on your Adam's apple. I am utterly unable to explain what exactly I find so appealingly sexy about your bump of distinctly masculine cartilage and I will get frustrated and annoyed when that happens and it will be all your doing. You don’t like me when I’m frustrated and annoyed.

And I don’t like you.

I don’t like you when you keep secrets. When you are gone for extended periods of time where I don't see you or sleep next to you or smile at you or laugh with you. You make me feel insecure. Because I trust you. And I’ve never loved someone so hesitant to trust someone else and it's confusing for my impatient heart. At the end of it all, I have to remind myself that I was lucky to have such an open family and try to understand at least a fraction of your experiences that are so different from my own.

We will have all manner of differences of opinion. You will be mean and acerbic. And I will forgive you because I understand you, as a person and a professional. And it will always be quidditch that gets my heart pumping and my ass out of my seat. It will always be seekers that I love steadfastly and unashamedly. You will always be my seeker with the special touch: your sure yet sensitively gentle grip that uses the three necessary fingers thumb, forefinger, and middle finger, that comes from years of quickly, smoothly clutching the snitch and winning the match. I love to watch you mingle at Christmas parties or listen to a band in the back of a bar because I see the perfect metaphor in the way you carry a bottle of butterbeer. The glass seems like an afterthought, your grip seems carelessly relaxed, but I know that your strong fingers are firm and that they tighten with your keen reflexes at the slightest notion of equilibrium change. I couldn't slip from your hold if I wanted to.

But I don't want to. I want to lie in bed with you forever. I want every morning like this imagined one. I want to wake up before you do. I want to perch my hand atop the Serengeti grasses of your blonde hair. I want to rub your sandpaper cheeks. I want to let my fingertip ski down the mountain slope of your nose. I want to be the first thing you see when you open your quicksilver eyes and grin that lopsided grin that makes my heart start beating erratically and lets my lips do all the talking. Good morning, Mr. Malfoy!

I cannot help but think that my musings are more than romantic dreaming exercises…each situation more incredible than the last. I may not have been Trelawney’s best student, but I know that these scenes are clairvoyance. That we were created with each other in mind. One day, you will walk off the pitch and into my life and our love will be as real as the parchment this letter is written upon.

And so I go on living, writing our same story over and over again for witches everywhere as love-starved as I currently am. And I hope each day when I awake that today is the day you see me about town--eating at the Leaky Cauldron, stopping by Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, on a visit to Hogwarts--and we strike out on our lifelong love affair. And until then, I keep this letter as proof that I never doubted.

Ginevra