Ink and Quill

"To love is to burn, to be on fire" -Jane Austen

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She sat upon the rich mahogany wood of the worn and thoughtfully used writers table many had presumably sat beneath before her in order to carefully curate and craft eloquent words, stringing them together beautifully, destinations unknown- now long forgotten.

Though when she attempted to do the same, quite often she found her words falling over one another in rows of dominos, seeming to be sturdy and concrete but simply unstable as with one blow of the wind, they would all fall in a fury of tumbling pieces tripping over one another again and again.

She had found the piece of furniture at the bargain shop one lucky morning, hoping that by some luck of the gods she could channel the energy of those who had sat before it though truly unbeknownst to anyone now of just who had or even what they had written but she felt as though the scratches in the pristinely polished wood had given it character and it would simply look exquisite with a brand new pot of ink and quill resting upon it.

The same table now sat in her study, a fury of parchment thrown about the room, the majority vehemently crumpled around her, proving as the wake of a distructful writer's block.

She had moved to sit atop the wood, her feet taking the place atop the plush cushion she just inhabited as sitting in the chair for as long as she had was only fueling the festering frustration. Her sanity, she felt, could reasonably be questioned.

Secretions were beginning to form at her temples, like morning dew collecting atop a leaf at the crest of a midsummer sunrise.

She huffed, maneuvering her hair to hastily sit atop her head fastened by a ribbon, the only sound in the quaint space beside the frantic fluttering of parchment and the slight crackle of the warm fire that was comforting at any other point in time beside this one.

Now she used the flames as a way to permanently rid herself of the despicable imagery she had drawn up in the form of romance. A crass compository frantically conceptualized by the product of racing thoughts and swift brushes of a quill as she struggled to meet the needs of a foreign class of literature.

Everything that was resolute and concrete in this world came easy. She had long ago developed a peculiar knack for understanding such things even when it didn't come easy to the minds of most. She found thrill and excitement and especially comfort in books. Finding home and sanctuary between warn pages, showing their worth in the form of how many people thrummed through their pages and gained the knowledge residing between them.

She couldn't fathom why she had taken on such skill and craft so far out from the realm in which she was comfortable. Every witch and wizard in their world had been practically drinking out of palms of "Romilda Tauracellio," always desperately thirsting for whatever she published. Any minute piece she allowed to drip into the throws of the public was caught in awaiting hands, allowing none to slip through the cracks.

Romilda Tauracellio was known to be the brightest writer of the wizarding society.

This alone helped ease Hermione's thoughts most times as she was so sure the only way she would ever pave her way in the industry would be simply because of who she was, a war heroine. Though that was a part of who she was, she felt she was much more than a long since member of the beloved golden trio that earned their side victory against Voldemort.

She had successfully jumbled all of her papers, her thoughts with them, and was now desperately trying to place them in order but she couldn't even distinguish where they were supposed to go and she had written them. It seemed as though her mind wove the story so quickly that her hand simply couldn't keep up, the storyline and details gone, left a wisp in the wind- never acknowledged and gone too soon to even be forgotten.