Caught off Guard: The Hooligan of Hogwarts

The Legend of the Timeless Knights Revealed! No Mistakes/Typos…More Chucks and Giggles…

PLEASE READ! OR RE-READ FOR THAT MATTER!

Author’s Notes: In re-reading these chapters, I was MORTIFIED to see the number of errors! I think I have mopped them all up. Also, I have made a very real effort to help clarify what a character is thinks vs. what a character is saying by putting the thoughts in italics. Until I realized that there were a few places where I would actually need italics. I have tried to substitute underlining and using bold-cased letters for italics as much as possible. Please forgive!

Caught off Guard: The Hooligan of Hogwarts

Chapter 1

          Merlin’s beard, that feels good.

          Slowly rotating his head, he made sure that the hot spray flowed completely over his face and down his back. He knew that these early morning workouts with Ron were continuing to pay off as he felt the water channel down the groove created by his flexing back muscles. The cool shower tile was a welcomed contrast to the near scalding temperatures that pooled around his feet but he wouldn’t trade the ability to take a hot-as-he-wanted-for-as-long-as-he-wanted shower for anything. Smirking to his well-lathered hands, well maybe give or take a few things.

          It wasn’t often that he found himself to be the only one in the shower room and he took full advantage of it. He unbridled his thoughts as the cascade soothed his joints. For someone who professed to have so little interest in Quidditch, credit had to be given to Hermione for making the team as strong as it was.

          Months ago, he and Ron had been bouncing ideas off of one another in the Common Room as to how Hufflepuff – previously the weakest of ALL the House teams – had come within ten points of defeating Gryffindor in a match that took place in the winter of their 6^th year. Neville, who had come down to get his Exploding Snap cards, shared something rather unexpected. According to Neville, he vaguely remembered a conversation-taking place just before Christmas Break between Susan Bones and Hermione where the quiet Hufflepuff asked the cleverest witch in school for advise. But he couldn’t recall any details. Bidding Neville “good-night”, they both waited for Hermione to return from a study group before rounding on her.

          She had no idea we would get so riled up as he remembered the look of confusion that filled her face. She said she felt bad for Susan’s House because they always got beaten so badly. While she declined to formulate strategies (As if! she scoffed), she did – in her mind – the next best thing to help them help themselves. She devised an exercise regime for the team to follow. And, not to be out done by a House whose mascot is a bloody badger, Hermione was not allowed to go to bed until she explained and designed a superior, more challenging program.

          Beginning that very week, every member of the House team was required – three times a week - to run around the lake and perform sets of push-ups, sit-ups and leg-lunges. After which, the lake would be circled two more times. What time of day didn’t matter, but it had to be done. Regardless of whether it was raining, snow had fallen or thick fog had formed.  This was to be in addition to the scheduled practises where the word “drill” took on a new definition of repetition that made the spectre of Oliver Wood proud.

          Because of his height, Ron had difficulty finding a running partner and someone who had enough strength/leverage to brace his feet when he went full-out crunch-crazy. Harry was glad to pair up. Although, if the truth be told, living together, playing on the same team and taking a lot of the same classes, once in a while he needed to run by himself just to be by himself.

          Following the contours of his arms with his eyes as he stretched them overhead, he had to admit that she was right. Despite all the initial grumbling and misgivings. By the time last game of the year took place, the team was stronger, faster and able to just do more. Reflexes seemed to be more honed. He personally found it easier to hoist himself onto his broomstick whenever he found himself dangling 50 feet from the ground. Ron was able to launch the quaffle further from the Keeper’s Zone than before and the Chasers had fewer balls knocked out of play, as they were able to hold onto the quaffle more tightly.  And, due to no other explanation, the accuracy of his Beaters improved significantly. Smiling into the steamy stream, Much to Madame Pomfrey’s chagrin, I might add!

          Calling it quits when the tap was pushed all the way to the right and he couldn’t feel any change in temperature, Harry cut the water and reached for his towels. Wrapping one around his waist and absently rubbing his hair with another, he scooped his running gear and trainers and headed back to the dorm room. Just in time, he mused.  A sweaty Seamus came stumbling in with an equally damp Dean and a shiny, shirtless Ron (will he EVER tire of showing off his abdominal six-pack?) jostling each other. From the way Seamus bolted for the loo, and the snippet of conversation he caught as he brushed past his mates, another round of  “Let’s See Who Throws Up First from Too Many Crunches” had concluded. Oh, well. So much for persuading Seamus to join the group, he thought ruefully.

          Getting dressed at one’s leisure was another item on the “Top 20 Things That Are Grand About Being Back at School”. Long, unhurried showers, though, definitely ranked higher.

          Reaching for a cup of cold water and transfiguring it into a steaming mug of blacker-than-a-Hogwarts’ robe-coffee (a decidedly handy spell Remus Lupin taught him over the summer) Harry seized the moments of peace and quiet to contemplate the plans he had set in motion. Fixing his gaze across the lake as he sipped the hot-liquid-of-the-Gods, he knew it was those of which he had yet to implement that required the most finesse.

          The sound of a body fetching up HARD against the closed door shattered his introspection. The sight of a sopping wet Seamus clad in naught but his birthday suit was the LAST thing he expected. Yanking open the dorm-room door after several failed attempts effectively cleared Harry’s mind of anything save the desire to summon Colin and his camera. Watching the naked Irishman turn around and shore up the door with both hands and a knee almost made Harry want to ask what was going on. That is, until he saw several fresh looking red welts standing out on the other boy’s whiter-than-the-underside-of-a-unicorn bare arse and thighs.

          “Toss me a wand!” Seamus called over his shoulder; “Quick!” Beads of water began roll together, drip off his body and collect around him.

           Harry couldn’t help but wonder, was that a hint of mischief lurking in his eyes?

          Out of all the salutations that clamoured for voice, “You didn’t plan your getaway?” Harry’s priority shifted to protecting… his coffee. Shaking his head, he had no idea how he was going to explain to anyone that there was now the distinct possibility of him needing psychological counselling.

          Ron’s voice carried through the thick wooded door, ”Open this bloody, flipping,” the repeated thudding of shoulders striking castle-grade wood drowned out a string of detention-worthy expletives, ”RIGHT NOW!”

          “Well… Are you just going to stand there?” Seamus pleaded as his foot began to slide out from underneath him.

           Boosting his body squarely onto the window seat in one smooth motion, ”Let’s see here.” Resting forearms on thighs, he cradled his coffee mug with both hands and suspended it between his legs. And adopted a look of careful, howbeit amused, consideration that he fixed on his roommate.

          “We know where you SLEEP Finnegan!” Dean snarled.

          Seamus lost a couple of inches as the back-and-forth-battle of two against one raged.

          “There is a six-foot-three volatile red head out there,” Harry motioned to the fingers and wrists snaking through the partially opened door, “who also happens to be one of my two best friends in the whole world.”

          Seamus, with the need for survival over-coming any qualms he may have had about propriety, pivoted so that his back was now pressed against the door.

        Note to self: apply for therapy immediately. “Mate - between you and me? I’ve got two things I want to share with you. First of all, a little mystery is a good thing. Don’t give it all away on the first date.”

          The comment went right over the lad’s head.    

          “Not to mention a muscle-bound exercise fiend,” Getting back to the very real possibility of Seamus sporting bruises well into next week,” and fellow mate who is currently dating the sister of said best friend.” Drawing over due pulls on his coffee and silently calculating how many more seconds Seamus had left, “Who are looking to beat your hairy arse.”

          “And second, if you get splinters, “ A very wicked thought crossed his mind. “It’s either Madam Pomfrey – who you must tell the true story sans Ron and Dean as to how they got there in the first place.” Maybe there is more of a Marauder in me than I thought? ” Or Goyle and Crabbe have to pull them out for you. Together. With Dean and Ron standing in attendance.” Running his tongue over his teeth, he briefly flashed to something someone had said about Hermione once: it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for, before he unveiled his final condition. ”And Colin has to take a picture as proof.”

          The ultimatum turned him the colour of ash. “You wouldn’t!”

          One of Ron’s eyes and half of his mouth could be seen at the jamb. “Take your beating like a MAN, Seamus!”           

          Trying his best to impersonate Seamus’s thick brogue, “I’m telling ye the truth. Don’t be trying to get out of this one. There will be no denying what now lies between us!”

          “So, I never got the owl on why the getaway is the secret to any good plan!” He was starting to sound as desperate as Colin did the night before. However, it was the ever-so faint, hint of anticipation that re-assured Harry that the young man slipping and sliding in front of him would survive to re-tell the tale.

          Is he actually looking forward to crossing swords with the two on the other side of the door? Harry wondered.

          Craning his neck as if he needed to visually verify, Seamus countered emphatically, “I don’t have any hair back there!”

          Muffled words drifted in to the room. “When I count to three…”

          Time and again, Harry overheard many a Hogwarts Quidditch veteran warn incoming freshman players that it was a cardinal rule of thumb NEVER to give Ron “Surgically Lethal” Weasley a chance to regroup and form a strategy. Didn’t Seamus know this?

           Judging by the whisper of fun interlaced with sincere panic; that would be a yes.     

          Transferring his mug to one hand, Harry gave a gesture and levelled a gaze that was the non-verbal equivalent of patting a small child condescendingly on it’s head, “My friend, if you hadn’t planned a contingency based on the possibility of getting caught, you can’t expect to be rescued.” There is more of a Marauder in me than I thought.

          “T H R E E!” Dean and Ron completely brought down Seamus’s defences as they combined forces and crashed into the door at the same time.

          Thinking about the best words to use when he would share this story with Hermione later, the phrases: “not nearly as naked”, “mottled with anger” and “hell-bent on revenge” would most assuredly suffice. As well as confirming that fact that Dean and Ron were wielding twisted, wet towels. Just in case she couldn’t figure out how the original marks were inflicted. Mentally recounting the tale (as it unfolded before his very eyes), he decided he would dress it up a bit by adding: it was hard to tell whether Seamus hissed the word; “Bollocks!” because he knew had no choice but to accept the challenge or that moment in time, Dean’s thick arm brushed against his body.

          Watching from his perch (with his own backside firmly planted and protected), it was apparently clear that witnessing two nearly grown boys chase a naked fool around the room, over beds, around the stove and back out into the hallway all the while wet towels were whip-snapped at said fool’s bare arse…

          … Amid promises of retribution for the tell-tale welts…

          “I’ll get you for this!”    

          And the accusations of…

          “ … Like you were the one who brushed your teeth with the minty goodness of shaving cream!”

           … Topped the Top 5 on his ”List of 10 Stupid Things Guys Do to Each Other”.

*       *       *      *       *

          Ditched by Dean in favor of an al fresco breakfast with Ginny, Ron insisted that Seamus should go down to breakfast with he and Harry.

          Anticipating an amiable ramble, Seamus dominated the conversation by vacillating between re-hashing last night’s event and re-iterating his vows of revenge for the lashing he took earlier so much that Ron’s perfunctory oh yeah’s and yeps’s were only a marginal improvement over Harry’s silence.

          “Watch it!” Ron warned, as he had to stoop to pull the heel of his shoe free of his foot. Offering a self-deprecating grin,” It’s a long way down for me!”

          “Sorry. My thoughts are elsewhere.” It was the prospect of a meal – that he didn’t have to cook himself – that had him distracted. In a very good way, he added.

          Accepting Harry’s apology with a casual, “No worries”, Ron turned their attention to the reason why he had stopped dead in his tracks in the first place. “Ready?”

         Harry couldn’t help but experience a feeling of deja vu witnessing Seamus drift his hand over the welts he had received less than an hour ago. Mate: you brought this on yourself. Despite Seamus’s plight being duly self-inflicted, Harry winged what he hoped would be consoling thought to the shorter boy; at least you aren’t fingering a pig’s tail.

          It did not escape Seamus that the question was asked solely for his benefit. It’s too late to back out now, you dolt. Lecturing himself:  When are you going to learn, Finnegan, to stop setting yourself up to be bushwhacked?  Drawing a deep breath, he spent it on one word, “Bollocks!”

          Reaching the Moving Staircases, the first round of “Don’t Break Your Arse” of the new school year began.

          The rules were simple and very Gryffindor. Each participant (the roster was comprised of every male in the House) had to descend flights of stairs by leaping down as many steps as they could  - at one time – without falling and “breaking one’s arse” on the extremely unforgiving marble. Seamus had been crowned last year’s “champion”. He earned the distinction of “busting his butt” the most out of everyone in the tournament.

          Thinking out loud that it would only be fair that he go first as he was the one who suggested the latest round, Ron bent his knees and launched himself. Fairly confident due to his reasonable standing last term, Harry quickly followed. Seamus, however, took his time.

          Sharing a landing with Young Weasley, Harry had to impart just how impressed he was with Ron’s skill. Of which had nothing to do with the physical endeavors currently being measured. “You, my friend, are a master of evil.”

          Lowering his head from where he was shamelessly watching Sir Whipped A Lot counting out loud before taking a false start on his next leap, Ron felt the need to redeem himself, “I could have done worse.” The temptation to brag beckoned, “I prefer the title: Purveyor of Wickedness.”   

          Not one to let an opportunity pass him by, especially when it is offered on a pride-laden salver, Harry arched an eyebrow at the tall red-head,” Care for a wager?”

          Crossing his arms across his chest, he deliberately took his time settling his shoulders against the cool stone that rose behind him. The vivid memory of not only having to get caught taking one of Pansy Parkinson’s dresses but specifically required to ask her to help him put it on and walk all the way to Hogsmeade and back permanently impressed upon him that clarification paved the way to self-preservation. “That he makes the jump or retains his title?”

          Harry’s proposition was overwhelmed by a victorious WHOOP! Which reverberated off the cavernous stairwell.  “Oh yeah! Nine steps in two jumps and I am STILL upright!”

          The look on Ron’s face was priceless when Seamus began his “Dance of Joy”. Flicking his eyes at the dark-haired boy leaning against the opposite banister, he’s got less of a clue than I do. Maybe we both should solicit for an evaluation and get a group rate.

          Dubiously looking down at the next set of stairs, Seamus wasn’t quite ready to over-tax his newfound ability too much too soon. Looking to buy some time and having a latent sense of suspicion that his two friends were keeping something from him, “What were you two saying? I got a little carried away with my jig.”

          There was NO WAY Ron or Harry was going to confess based on Seamus’s amateur-level ruse. Nor were they foolish enough to let on what they were up to by looking at one another. Which would explain why Ron slid his hands into his pants and pushed his body off the wall blurting, “Girls!” at the same time Harry countered, “Quidditch!”

          Scrambling for a recovery, Ron waggled his eyebrows lasciviously (and prayed that any member of the fairer sex did not decide to come traipsing down the stairs), “Girls who like…”

          “Guys who like Quidditch.” Finishing Ron’s sentence, Harry made good on a pledge long sealed and bound in blood. Not a chance I ‘m going to leave my mate flapping in the breeze.

          O.K., I’ll bite. “Oh yeah? Like who?” Outwardly, Seamus agreed or made arguments against the names tossed around by the three of them as they made their way to the Great Hall. Privately, he couldn’t help but think that, if he were in their shoes, he wouldn’t hesitate to make a bet as to whether or not he would be retaining ownership of an obscenely padded pair of skivvies he was presented with at the end of last term. Of which were jinxed in such a way that he had no choice but to wear during the entire train ride home AND on the return trip back to school. Just to make sure you bring them back was the justification made at his “coronation”.

*       *       *       *      *      *      *      *

          The Breezeway of Honour served as the most direct paths to the dormitories to and from the Great Hall.

          Attempting to lift the scowl from Ron’s face, Harry gestured to the suits of armour. “Go on. You know you want to.”

          Seamus nodded in Ron’s direction,  “We’re the only ones here. No one will know.” Thinking of a way to tip the scales that were balancing in his friend’s head, “If I see anyone, I’ll give a holler.”

          It’s not that I don’t want to, or that I might get caught doing something that will feed the gossip mongers at least until dinner, “It’s Hermione.”

          Seamus had no clue why Ron would bring up her name other than the fact that she is one of the sexiest girls in school and he is seventeen and hormonally driven, “Huh? Why’d you bring her up?”

          “Remember last year, Binns assigned us that project? About “Objects and Retained Magic”? And Hermione chose the Timeless Knights.” Ron recalled her presentation because it involved magic, battles, honour and a beautiful girl talking about manly things like battles and honour.

         Harry’s memory seemed to be on pervert mode because what stood out in his mind was Hermione in profile as she gave her lecture which gave him ample opportunity to reminiscence on just what curves alluded to by her robes matched which body part. And, oh yeah, there was some talk of valour and battles. Stopping in front of one of the Knights, he found himself to be almost as tall.  A scabbard was slung low over one of his hips and spurs jutted out from the heels of his silver boots. “It almost seems as if he is standing at attention, doesn’t it?”

          Seamus approached the one nearest to him. “Like they are ready to spring into action at any moment. Weird.”

          Ron clarified his position. “I know I have been saying it for ages about how I want to peak inside one of their visors. But, it like, I don’t want to at the same time. Get my meaning?”

         Looking as sceptical as Ron made sense, Harry countered, “You know you’re sounding a bit mental?”

         “Remember what Hermione said in her report? That the Timeless Knights were originally muggle soldiers who defied their liege to defend Hogwarts.” He couldn’t remember what she had said about the coat of arms etched into the shields that rested against the shin of each defender. Instead, he considered the strength each one had to possess to wield a halberd that stretched as high as his shoulder. “The king commanded Rowena Ravenclaw to perform some kind of blood of a kinsman sacrifice ceremony that would ensure him his victory.  But, she refused. She told him that such Dark Magic would cost him the lives of his people. So His Royal Daftness attacked The Founders and laid siege to the castle.” What was the rest of it? Oh, yeah, “ The Founders couldn’t justify mortally harming any of the Knights. The cunning they demonstrated in breaching the castle gate, the loyalty they showed one another, the bravery it took to actually battle their way into the Great Hall and the wisdom to stop when they were within feet of fulfilling their orders to kidnap Rowena once they understood why she refused King Nutters. Because each of the knights demonstrated all the attributes that each of The Founders held as the basis of their own Houses, Rowena gave them the ability to make one choice – a wish – with the condition that they would have to abide by it for all time….”

          Separating the memory of Hermione holding the class enthralled (alright, I was enthralled) and the tale she recounted, Harry struggled for details, “And they chose to eternally guard Hogwarts and the Lady they stalwartly served. Even though their ability to rise any challenge would be diminished incrementally as the years passed.”

          Seamus finished recounting the final aspect of the tale, “ And, according to legend, any Ravenclaw could call upon the bravery of the knights if she was in need of their services.” A horrifying thought caused his voice to crack, “You don’t suppose they are still…in there?”

          Harry couldn’t resist tempting Ron’s curiosity now, “So, mate… Change your mind?”

*          *          *         *          *          *         

         

          Grandly sweeping his arms as if he were presenting royalty, Harry allowed Seamus and Ron (both of whom were immediately hailed by others) to precede him into the Great Hall.

          Separating, Harry scanned the growing throng for a friendly face. A completely put together Hermione caught his attention. As did Hannah Abbott – who was standing in front of his friend with a not so pleased look on her face. Her agitation was further demonstrated by the way she kept locking and unlocking her knees. Reining in his protective instinct, he could tell by the way Hermione scratched periodically on a piece of parchment that she wasn’t being threatened. Even if Hannah was making it perfectly clear that the conversation wasn’t going the way she intended.

          Sliding out of “protector mode” Harry smoothly re-shouldered the good mood he had temporarily set aside before he gave her another opportunity to stand on her soap box and lecture him about his modis opperandi. It did not escape him, as he watched Hermione tuck unseen hairs behind her ears and keep her focus on telling Hannah something she obviously didn’t want to hear, that all the elements for A Plan were in place.

          Applying his considerable skills as a Seeker to a different kind of Snitch, Harry tacked his way through hails of his own as he closed in on his prey. “Just a few more yards….”, he muttered.

          A bludger in the shape of an evergreen clad, lavender scented arm came out of nowhere and knocked him off his broom.

          “This is for you, Mr. Potter.”, was the only explanation spared by Prof. McGonagall as she bustled off to intercept another unsuspecting Gryffindor.

          “Great. Thanks.”. Great was for his plan dashed beyond salvage as he heard Hermione bid a quiet, hasty goodbye to Hannah as her gaze touched his. Thanks referred to whatever (currently rolled and tied with a ribbon of House colours) was so important that it cost him the perfect opportunity to scare his friend out of her seat.

         Casting a casual “Good Morning” to Hannah as she made her way to the other Hufflepuffs, Harry tucked his long legs underneath the table and settled himself into his usual seat. This morning, it was to the left of the honey-hued brunette beside him. Usual for him was any side Ron didn’t claim first. Or vice versa. Unless it came to the proximity of undesirables; like certain Slytherins who never tired of using the term “Mud-blood” or an un-necessarily difficult Potions Master. In which case, she was doubly guarded.

         “So, how’s Hannah? She enjoyed her summer?” Five points to Gryffindor for nonchalance!

          Drawing together her thoughts before turning to face the green-eyed gremlin she knew was sitting just out of sight, Hermione carefully weighed her options. Uncrossing and re-crossing her legs as she came about she looked at him for the first time since last night. Why didn’t I start to pack up before Hannah came over to talk to me? By Orion’s eye, I had better come up with something star-worthy in order to pull this off. And he just gave it to me on a silver platter: she could accomplish her objective by doing one of two things. She could verbally flay him over his un-realized scheme to DELIBERATELY frighten her out of her wits. Or, better yet, she could pretend that there was NO devious plot and get back at him later.

          Hermione made it a point to twist her napkin with more agitation than she actually felt. She was annoyed.  But, in all fairness, who could blame him? Like it was his fault that she had earned herself the reputation of becoming so engrossed in whatever she was working on that the rest of the world fell away.

          Who am I kidding? It is completely beyond me to let anything go without saying something. Her ire was temporarily abated with a tried and true eye-rolling, exasperated, “Oh really Harry!” Throwing her napkin down (and effectively covering her parchment) for emphasis and switching to a tone underscored with indignation, “Just how thick do you think I am? I heard the click of your heels the minute you walked in the door”.

          Counting his physical being lucky get off as lightly as he did (no new orifices, good thing she never gets as mad at me as she does with Ron), he couldn’t resist pushing her good will a little further. Is it my fault that she’s struggling to keep a straight face? “Next time, Granger.”

          She knew exactly what he meant and her vexation returned. This time it had a twist. Let’s see him deal with this!

          “Promise?” She surprised herself at just how saucily and languid that one word rolled off her tongue.

          So, she wants to play with double-entendre? Let’s see what you’ve got, Granger. “So. You… and… Hannah?” He made sure that he said the other girl’s name in such a way that there was no mistaking the innuendo. What he didn’t say could be heard echoing off the rafters if anyone had half a mind to listen.

          Reaching again for invisible hairs to secure among her plaits, Hermione carefully sealed her inkpot and evocatively blotted her quill on a much-stained piece of cloth. Pouting with a coy, down-cast gaze, “ If I can have your word as a”, moistening her lips ever so slightly, “gentleman.” She elevated only a portion of her eyes through a veil of thick eyelashes. “She wanted to know about my… participation… in a study group.”

          Nowhere NEAR ready to give in, Harry dropped his voice to a post-shag, husky timbre. “For a class completely sanctioned and thoroughly researched by the administration?”

          There should be a law or at the very least regulations put into effect about certain men who have the ability to turn a woman’s mind to jelly just by the sound of their voice! Determined NOT to loose but wise enough to know that her nervousness was quietly growing, she had to make a bigger play. “Oh, yes. It is very competitive. There are so many… applications… to be had in the outside world. Should any one of us fall behind, there are special provisions for…extra credit.”

          Minx! Ignoring the chills that that prompted the hairs on his arms to stand on end, how far are you going to take this? “Am I to understand that this is a closed class?”

          By all the constellations in the heavens, does he have to look at me so intensely? She had to shut her eyes – she was afraid that her composure was going to crack at any moment!

          Hah! I’ve got her now! But then, why do I feel like it’s not an honest win? A small voice brought up the fact that he had an edge that she didn’t. He had knowledge… obtained over the summer… while he and Ron visited with his older brother Bill in Turkey…that was evident she had yet to…achieve. Squeezing his knuckles white, something deeply primeval roared.

          Completely oblivious to the half-moon marks embedded in Harry’s palm, she let every seductive thought she ever possessed to flow into every part of her body. In for a sickle in for a galleon, she slipped the knot of her tie loose and undid the top 3 buttons of her blouse. Depending on one of her favourite daydreams to guide her, Hermione arched her back and lifted a hand to her neck as a starting point for a slow, sensuous self-massage.

          Stroking the underside of her chin all the way down to where her pulse could be seen undulating between her collar-bones, she turned her head so that it rubbed against the back of her hand. Turning her attention to the side of her throat on a path that led to the back of her neck. Twisting her head again so that she could actually feel friction-generated warmth when she dragged her palm back toward the breath of her collarbones only to half-bury her fanned fingers underneath the placket of her fitted shirt. Confirming that she had his FULL attention by the way she heard him drag a steadying breath audibly over his teeth, she pursed her lips together one more time. Heat prickled the skin she had just caressed. Desperate to mask the sounds of pleasure she mewed as sincere, “There were so many …prerequisites. I wasn’t sure…” pretending to massage a particularly “sore” spot with feather light strokes of her thumb, “I wasn’t sure I was going to make it,” pausing dramatically as if she were catching herself from revealing something she shouldn’t, she “hastily” added, “in.”

          Oh, Miss Granger. You’ve done it now. There was no reason to hold back. He was free to “up the ante” in a way he knew she would NEVER see coming.

          Reaching out, he tenderly wrapped her whole cold hand (hmmm, nervous?) in his fingers and pulled it within inches of his face. Rotating her palm he raised it so that it was directly in front of his lips. Keeping his eyes locked on hers with a look of absolute…empathy…he blew a hot, moist breath directly between her love and lifelines. “The lengths we go to for academic excellence.” 

         That’s it. He won. I’m out.

          Unless…”Especially for professors that would do anything for you. From what I have been made to understand, they go to great lengths to ensure you completely understand the material.”

          Huh? Where did that come from? I saw her look of defeat! Deciding that silence would be the better side of valour, he kept the empathetic look on his face and his mouth shut.

          O.K, this is my last shot. Making her eyes as big and as soulful as possible, she played her trump, “I could NEVER disappoint Prof. Trelawney and Caretaker Filtch. They really are excellent, hands on trainers once you get them…going.”

          That topped the extensive, therapy-seeded list of “Top 1000 Un-necessary Visual Images Ever”.  Never had he, in his most deranged groping-for-the-nastiest-combination-to-gross-out-his-mates or extreme I-must-verbally-annihlate-Malfoy-and-send-him-wimpering-to-the-dungeons moments could he, would he, go there. It was so vile that he had to release her hand and snatched his glasses off his head just in case the mental image was emblazoned on the inside his lenses. As well as he knew his name, the alien notion of Trewlawney, Filtch, Hermione and Hannah engaged in…acts… had the potential to permanently challenge his ability to produce his Patronus. He lost. Badly.  Reaching into his pocket for his handkerchief, he hoped that Hermione recognized a “white flag” when she saw one – no matter what colour it was.

          Giving into the compulsion to rub a little salt into Harry’s open wound, “ I’ve heard Filtch provides an extensive array of costumes.”

          A long, drawn out groan vibrated in Harry’s throat at the sadistic wench who used to be his innocent-as-the-driven-snow friend. He was so “withered on the vine” that it bordered on retraction.

          “Costumes? How can you all be talking about costumes at a time like this?” Looking to console himself with anything that was edible that was within reach, Ron began indiscriminately piling food onto his plate. Eyeing the hard bench warily, he muttered, “You’d think that a place like this could afford a few cushions!” Dropping something crumpled (suspiciously the same size and colour of as the long forgotten “gift” Harry had received from McGonagall) next to his plate before slowly lowering himself opposite Harry, he seemed to be talking as much to himself as to the persons sitting in front of him.

          Feeling completely put out to begin with, not knowing why Hermione was blushing didn’t improve his mood. Further, seeing Harry’s face contorted like had just choked on something rubbed against his grain. “What’s up with you two?” Pointedly angling his chin (his hands held his knife and fork) at his best male friend who was re-pocketing his hanky, “Oi! You look like you got something stuck in your throat that you can’t quite swallow.” Scrutinizing Hermione with her shirt half open, “And you. You look like you were the one who fed it to him.”

          Harry knew he had just become another casualty on the Hermio-Slam-o-Meter. Hermione had all she could do to unsuccessfully stifle overly loud snickers behind the palm Harry had oh-so-chivalrously warmed for her.

          Whatever happened here, I can still see the debris and smell the fall-out. Ron couldn’t resist asking, despite Harry’s muttered assurance that he would fill him in later, “What have you slipped this boy?”

          “Nothing yet.” It was the level of chagrin in his voice that betrayed him.  If he hadn’t heard the words come out of his own mouth, he would have tried to plead that he was under an Imperious Curse and had no choice but to verbalize the first thought that raced through his mind that formed some semblance of an answer Ron’s query. Because, short of a time turner suddenly dropping into his lap, that would be the only way he could take back the furious flush that reached the tips of Hermione’s fingers and the razzing he was going to be subjected to by everyone in the dorm.

          Summoning the last dregs of self-control, Hermione made sure she was the epitome of propriety when she placed a napkin wrapped bundle (with all un-due ceremony) equidistant between the two boys. It was the need to speak that blew her reserve.  “Only toast.” She barely squeaked out, “And jam.”

          At that, Harry’s façade crumbled. “She knows… it’s my…favourite…and was… saving it…just for me”. He was thoroughly embarrassed that it took a couple of tries to verbalize the next few words, “… that is my favourite…” There was NO WAY he could stammer out another word. Everything that came out of his mouth was a euphemism for something sexual. Silently correcting his choice of word, down right naughty is more appropriate.

          Deciding to give the poor boy a chance to recuperate, Ron picked up his tirade where he left off, “Well, go ahead. ” Referring to the rolled piece of parchment Harry had yet to unfurl,” Open it.” The look on Harry’s face after he tugged the ribbon ends free mirrored his own as sick disbelief rivalled for abject horror, “See what I mean?”

          Hermione drew a deep breath and slowly started to count backwards from thirty.

          Harry held in his hands his list of classes and his eminent downfall. Snatching Ron’s to make sure there wasn’t some horrible error committed, he made a rapid comparison and blanched.

          Mondays: Advanced Potions – double session, Lunch, Charming the Charmed and History of Magic 360

          Tuesdays: Vectors: Practical and Theoretical Flying Applications, Diviner Level Divination, Lunch, Hypothetical and Realized    Transfiguration – double session

          Wednesdays: Charming the Charmed, History of Magic 360, Lunch, Defence Against the Darkest Arts – double session

          Thursdays: Hypothetical and Realized Transfiguration – double session, Lunch, Advanced Potions – double sessions

          Fridays: Defence Against the Darkest Arts – double session, Lunch, Diviner Lever Divination, Vectors: Practical and Theoretical Flying Applications

          “What kind of school would allow two sessions of DOUBLE Potions – N.E.W.T level no less – in one week!”? Slathering a piece of toast with marmalade, Ron managed to cram almost all of it into his mouth.

          Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen… Gross! Interrupting her own countdown, Hermione help but think: does he have to do that?

          Making a less than polite face in response to Hermione’s disapproval, he chewed vigorously before continuing on with his assessment of the dubious capabilities of the author of the students’ time tables, “It’s absolutely savage! Inhumane! Tell me. Who in their right minds could spend practically six hours a week in the dark, dank, Slytherin infested dungeons in the company of that greasy-haired GIT”?

          Still hoping that the universe would take pity on him and open up a portal to another dimension where the last ten minutes never transpired, Harry mutely stared at the platter of pancakes that fell to Ron’s plundering. No sleeping until Christmas Break; don’t forget to ask Dobby if he would deliver bread and water to the Common Room every other day… hygiene is over-rated as it is…. find a suitable vessel for bodily functions.

          Three, two…. Reaching her destination, Hermione chose a different tack. “Ron.” No answer. He was intent on coating every inch of his breakfast with syrup. “Ron!”

          Having not nearly eaten enough to flag his temper, “What!”

          Harry could see it coming a mile away. Oh, come off it Hermione! You keep him wound and the likelihood of me getting anything more than cold cereal for breakfast would be on the far side of remote. Couldn’t she tell by Ron’s mottled face that when he reached this stage, the best thing to do is to let him come down on his own?

          Finding herself in need of a distraction so that she didn’t end up tossing her tepid tea all over the man-boy sitting kitty-corner from her, Hermione tried to look at Ron as if she had never seen him before. “You know, there are very few good looking red-haired men in the world.”

          Ron’s ill-tempered smirk said what his currently engaged mouth couldn’t: Flattery will get you nowhere, Granger.

          O.K. Relax. He is just feeling a little panicked. And you know what he his like when he feels threatened. “What I was going to say is that all three of us have pretty much the same schedule this term.

          A glimmer of hope pricked at Harry’s despair. He made it a point to press his thigh against her knee in appreciation.

          Ron, though, still remained sceptical. After all, he had been exposed to his timetable a lot longer. Which meant that it had more time to fester.

          Sensing that she had gained at least a foothold, she pulled out her own schedule and tiered it with the other two. “With the exceptions of Divination and Vectors, we all have the same classes.”

         “You mean to say… that we, “referring to Harry and himself, “ won’t have to face this alone?” Ron felt like he could just see the clouds start to part. The sun wasn’t shining yet, but the potential was there.         

          “While you both are in Divination, I have Arithimancy and the Ages. Rune Casting is at the same time as Vectors.”

          It was the second time she had mentioned Vectors, but for the first time since McGonagall pressed that bloody tube in his hands, Ron was able to suppress his misery. Granted, given half a chance, it wouldn’t take much for his temper to flare again. But it was a start.

          As much as he was grateful for Hermione’s level headedness, the way she looked basked in sunlight (or moonlight – they both became her), or the promise of academic survival with sleep, real meals and the return of his relished long, hot showers, it was the prospect of “Vectors” that re-animated him.

          Madame Hooch was known to take only the very best into her signature flying class. Some years, it didn’t even take place because there weren’t enough “qualified” (by her standards) students to support the class. It was truly a fete to be enrolled. And they knew it.

            Feeding off of Harry’s excitement, Ron rolled right over him in expounding what he thought the class was going to be like. Coming up for air, Harry felt compelled to look at his briefly forgotten friend. She had her back twisted away from them and seemed awfully intent on working out the kinks in an already straightened strap on her book bag. Not to mention that he caught her whispering, “Protego” over a piece of folded parchment before slipping between her books.

          Passing the potatoes to Ron, he nudged her. “It’s only the first day.” Looking down at her, he gently added, “You haven’t even had to cast a Darning Spell on it yet.”  When did I hurt her feelings?

          How does he do that? More than once she thought the words that her tongue now gave form,” Are you? Do you have some kind of empathic ability that I don’t know about?”

          Chancing a look at Ron to make sure he had the next ten seconds without his best mate chiming in, “Only when it comes to you, Miss Granger.” Keeping his face as open as possible allowed him to know when she became… skittish? Realizing that he needed to offer some way out for her, “After ALL that we have been through, do you really need to ask something like that?” Skittish? Hmmm…number seven on the “List of Things to Ask Hermione” just made itself known. Seeing her face relax, “What the blazes have you signed up for this year?”

         Grateful for his teasing, Hermione filed his previous comment under “Things to Sort Out Later”. But her feelings were hurt. And Ron was being really disgusting in the way he kept shovelling food into his mouth. So she decided to answer his question, just not in a way he’ll expect, “Every Friday afternoon I will have a meeting with some aspect of Hogwarts Operations.”

          Another blasted bludger unseated him. “Huh?”

          Falling back on an old, bad habit, she let her voice climb to that bossy, know-it all pitch, “You know… someone who has something to do with how the school operates.” Ignoring Ron’s heated glare, “Sometimes it will be with Dumbledore, or the Head House Elf or, “ not quite suppressing her distaste, “even Argus Filtch. Hagrid is on the list as well. He is the Keeper of Keys and Grounds, you know.” Sliding her shoulder strap crosswise, “It all goes with being Head Girl.” As if that were enough to explain it all.

          Clenching jaw muscles had nothing to do with the food that remained on his plate. Ron HATED when she did that…dredged up the spectre of a ten year-old girl that he did not want to know instead of the beautiful, vibrant AMAZING individual he knew she was. The dying embers of his temper began to smoulder, ” Listen, Hermio-NINNY.” Striking back even before he knew he wanted too, “Just because I’m a lowly Prefect and not bloody Head Boy…” Sarcasm punctuated every word.

           Interrupting him was part of her strategy to purposely invoke some semblance of Ron’s ultra- wonderful, EVEN-MORE-formidable-than-her-son-when-she-is-in-a-tizzy mother. Recalling her scathing words to Ron enclosed inside his first Howler, ”Ronald Weasley! How dare you!”

          Harry surreptitiously moved the container of syrup beyond her reach. He’s in for it now. 

          Hermione knew that goading Ron in public was only going to escalate things. The view she had of his ears turning red only served to prove her theory.  But damn it, their lack of interest hurt her. The classes she had this year were just as prestigious as their precious Vectors. And Ron’s focus on stuffing his face rather than giving a passing thought to someone he called best friend made him just as guilty as Harry. Who at least made some kind effort… at something I shied away from…why did I do that?

          The likelihood of shattering a plate didn’t even enter his mind as his fork clattered onto his plate. Ron tried to hide his discomfort as he shifted for leverage. Crossing his legs at the ankle and weaving his hands around his upper arms. “How dare I? Have you listened to yourself?”

          Harry resigned himself to cold cereal.  The flagon of juice he set down where neither one of them had easy access.

          Parroting Ron, “Heard myself? How can I when my ears are full of you talking about yourself? Hmmm? Answer me that!”

          Snapping back with the first thing that came to mind, “You’re just jealous!”

          “I’m jealous of you?” Her tone indicated that she was anything but.

          Appreciating the way the milk in Harry’s bowl changed colour didn’t alter the fact that lunch wouldn’t come soon enough.

          Guilt was starting to eat away at the edges of Ron’s indignation. This is one of my two best friends!

          For her part, Hermione felt her posture unlock by degrees. This is not how I wanted to spend the first day of our last year of school with my best friends. Like I don’t have enough to do without doing this with Ron. Chewing on the inside of her lip, even if I did draw first blood.

         Unwrapping his arms, he smacked them onto the tabletop. “Yeah!”

          I don’t want to do this. Scrambling for a way where they both could save face, “You only WISH you had my good looks!”

          Not missing the “out” he had opened for her, Hermione began to brush invisible lint from her robes, “You caught me. My secret is out in the open.” Resettling her book bag and leaning her chin on her palm she let her voice become whimsical, “I wish I were the Casanova that all the girls talk about.”

          ” I may have kissed a few girls,” Ron ran out of face for the huge grin he was now sporting. Skewering Harry with a glance that just dared him to allude to their…escapades abroad, “but do they really compare me to Casanova?”

          Something sexy and dangerous glinted in the back of Hermione’s eyes.

          Watch out Ron! It was times like these Harry wished he had been born with the gift of telepathy. She’s setting you up!

         “What I said: If I had your looks than I would be Casanova and all the girls would want to be with me.” Putting a far-off, dreamy look on her face, “Hmmm,” she made sure she mimicked her cat’s purr, “Snogging Lavender Brown.”

          Never under estimate the recovery power of an adolescent male hitting his sexual peak. Conjuring a mental image of a dishevelled Hermione sneaking out of a near-empty broom cupboard wearing the same shade lip-gloss as Lavender only improved Harry’s…the turtle is out of his shell. It had been five years since he last begrudged the school rule that robes must be worn at all times while classes were in session.

          Ron’s elation superseded any “protection” his robes had the potential to provide. Just as Slytherins knew that the best lies were framed with truths, he knew that the best barbs were as well. Raising a hand to his temple, he gave Hermione his best-seated salaam before making his way to the lovely, enamoured Miss Brown.

          Having been Hermio-Road Kill not less than twenty minutes earlier, he knew she wasn’t done with Ron yet. Having to say something for his unsuspecting mate, “Is it true?

          Hermione merely shrugged her shoulders and nodded her head in affirmation.

          What isn’t she saying? “Will he be damaged?”

          Looking Harry in the eyes, she promised, “Not permanently.”

          Harry had two thoughts competing for attention in his mind as a triumphant Ron returned to the table. That piece of paper she tried to hide from him earlier was one.

          “Guess who has a date for Hogsmeade this weekend?” Overjoyed, Ron reached for the hand of the person who facilitated his rejuvenated social life, “Hermione?” Seeing her disentangle herself from the table, “Leaving already?”

          “Oh, I’ve been here a while”, she clarified.

          Why do I have a funny feeling that she is NOT referring to this morning? He watched her intently as she circled the end of the table only to sit down again. This time, it was next to Ron and straddling the bench.

          “Hermione?” He was baffled. What was she doing next to him? She may be one of my two best friends, but what will I say to Lavender if she gets any closer?

          Harry had no idea what she began to whisper in Ron’s ear. She had also eliminates the possibility of lip reading as she had cupped her fingers around both her mouth and his ear. All he had to go on was what crossed Ron’s face. Which was a series of expressions he had never seen before.

          Knowing that her work here was done, she gave Ron her sauciest wink before sashaying toward the door. Gambling on both boys gaping in her wake, she grabbed an unsuspecting Seamus by the arms and swung them both so that her mates would have an unobstructed view.

          “What ever I did, let me know so I can do it again!” Seamus called to one of the hottest girls in school that had kissed him so unexpectedly on the cheek.

          Watching Hermione flounce her way out of the Great Hall, stopping once to blow a kiss in Ron’s direction was only slightly upstaged by Ron dropping his head in a full-on Table Implant.

          “Ron,” What he desperately wanted to shake out of his best friend was: What did she say to you? He had to settle for, “Are you O.K.?”

          He could barely form words. Let alone bob his head in acknowledgement of Harry’s hail.

          For his part, Harry had a hard time understanding what Ron was trying to say in the moments following of what appeared to be abject humiliation. The red head had yet to pull his nose free from the tabletop – his forehead was still cushioned on his forearms. Harry had to work to put together the two syllables that translated to “I’m doomed” and he thought he heard something that resembled, ”girl is a menace” and a barely discernable, “needs to come with a warning label”.

          Walking the fine line between wanting to be supportive and needing to slake his curiosity, “Buck up mate. Can’t be all bad?’

          Ron lifted his head only enough to bring his eyebrows and eyes above his wrists. The last time he felt like this, he was in the cross hairs of a rogue bludger. Correction; I have been side swiped by a rogue Hermione.

          Groping for something upbeat to distract Ron so that he could ask him what she said, “At least you have a date this weekend.”

          Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. He heard his mate groan loud and piteously. I think even his eyebrows paled.

          ”Hermione said to…” This is going to hurt…

          Harry couldn’t remember the last time that girl failed to make good on a promise.

          “Hermione said…” Ron took a deep breath. Once this gets around, I’m a goner.

          Eagerness tripped over impatience. “You said that already.”

          “Hold on. This isn’t easy you know.” I’m not going to live this down for a long time.

          Summoning his courage, Ron dropped his voice in a vain effort to prevent the inevitable. “That all the girls participated in a school-wide poll and that my arse rated in the Top 5 and that I could…compromise my standing…if…I…”broke my arse”…AGAIN…between now and Saturday.” How could she know I lost? Trying to think of a consoling thought but succeeding, for that matter, how does Hermione do anything that Hermione does?      

          Prideful disbelief would be good words to describe Harry’s reaction to what just came out of Ron’s mouth. ”She said that?” Number eight on the List: find out where I rank.

          Unfolding his arms only to press the heels of his hands against his cheekbones, it was beyond Ron to meet the gaze he knew Harry was levelling at him. Sulkily directing his voice to the tabletop, “Well, I did clean it up a bit before repeating.”

          The laugh that had been tickling the back of Harry’s throat could not be caged any longer. Outright, knee slapping, all-encompassing cachinnations was avoided. Barely. Calming down enough to offer a now-smirking Ron consolation – man-style, “You, my friend, have just been s p a n k e d.”

          Pushing his plate away, Ron knew he must be on the road to recovery if he was contemplating the status of his breakfast; eggs never do taste the same after they get cold. Shrugging in defeat, there was nothing he could do but speak the truth. And give the girl some credit. “With my skivvies down around my knees and my hands wrapped around my ankles.”

          Dismissing his soggy cereal with a grunt, Harry matched his gait to Ron’s as they crossed the Hall. Gaining the corridor, the best indication Harry had Ron was coming back to himself was when he draped his arm across the taller boy’s shoulders as asked, “Was it as good for you as it was for her?” and only received a bruising blow to that soft spot just above his triceps.

          Sliding into his easy going smile, “Promise not to tell Hermione I needed a fag after she left?”

          Eyeing the corridor for a path of least resistance before stopping Ron with a hand on his shoulder with a look of wry sincerity, “Just as long as you don’t tell her that we both needed one.”