Seeking Hermione's Bean by romulus lupin

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 5
Published: 20/09/2004
Last Updated: 11/10/2005
Status: Completed

Chapter 12: Adorable in the Morning. The final chapter, finally. Where loose ends are tied, and
things are finally resolved. But why is Harry thinking of Cindy and Carolyn wearing pink and
scattering rose petals down an aisle?




1. It's Only Hermione
---------------------



**Seeking Hermione's Bean**

**Title:** Seeking Hermione's Bean (01)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:** Humour
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Bertie Botts Beans
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** My response to **pok's** “Hermione Flavored Beans” challenge. Terms of the
Challenge: Harry gets an accidental taste of Hermione's lips and, during a Hogsmeade visit,
buys a bag of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans. He pops one bean after another into his mouth until
one flavor catches his attention—a bean that tastes like Hermione. He becomes obsessed with finding
that bean/flavor again. Hermione is concerned and vows to find out why he's acting that way and
help Harry overcome his addiction.

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR NOTES:** My apologies to everyone; it's been a few weeks since I expressed an
interest in the challenge, and dropped off two cookies on how I thought the story would go. I took
the liberty of making some slight modifications to the changes, one of which concerns the manner of
Harry's learning Hermione's `taste.'

My deepest gratitude to **andie (pottergirl786)** whose beautiful story, “Beyond A Kiss”
formed an essential part of this story. Not only for writing that and so many other wonderful
stories, but also for granting me permission to make use of her creativity.

And of course, to **pok** for the wonderful plot bunny which seems to have brought back my
Muse from wherever she last went to.

And so …

**Chapter 1. It's Only Hermione**

How can one stare at a fire and not go blind? Watching the flames, letting the dancing light
stab into your eyes, penetrating your brain—not noticing, not even blinking, seeing nothing but the
pictures in your mind?

Easy—your eyes may be fixated on the fire, but your brain (and your mind) is somewhere else. It
is as if a screen exists between your eyes and your brain: you can stare at something as if nothing
else holds interest, while behind the screen in your brain, your mind would be a hundred miles
away.

Or perhaps, a few hours, days or weeks past.

Memory is a tricky thing, indeed. I read somewhere that no one really forgets anything; the
memories are just stored in one's brain, ready for recall if and when needed—my mind flashes an
image of Snape as he pulls a silvery thread from his head and deposits it in a Pensieve—and
Dumbledore's memories of Barty Crouch Jr., and Bertha Jorkins in the Pensieve in his
office.

I blinked. Maybe that's it—I may not be able to remove the thoughts bothering me; maybe all
I needed to do is to force my mind into something else. It would be just like a Patronus: find your
happiest memories, focus your energies into that thought and drive away whatever
thoughts/memories/whatever have been driving me batty.

I collapse back in my chair.

Problem: the happiest memories I have are all associated with Hermione. Every time I needed to
cast a Patronus in a life-or-death situation (by the lake with Sirius and Hermione the first time,
in the maze with that fake Dementor, and even on Privet Drive that summer), it was the memory of
Hermione that powered the charm.

How can I cast Hermione's image from my mind by summoning an image of *her*?

I'm going to kill Gred and Forge. The moment I'm sure that old Tom's done and
buried, I'm going to *kill* those two. They may be the best pranksters since the
Marauders, but this prank has gone too far.

Oh, shite! Here it comes again…

***

*`All right**,**'* *he thought.* *`I can do this. It's only my
friend. My* **best** *friend...It's only Hermione...'*

*Harry leaned forward at last and pressed his lips gently against hers. And all of his
thoughts vanished from there.*

*From that moment, from that light, almost fleeting contact, grew something that was beyond
thought between them. Harry didn't know anything except the feel of Hermione's lips against
his: the warmth of them, the taste of them, the sheer explosion that was bursting forth within him
- from his stomach to his toes - and shooting back up again...*

*Something was happening beyond a kiss. Every nerve fiber in Harry's body was on end -
ignited, like a flame - burning through him as he deepened the kiss. And as Hermione responded, as
she pulled him nearer - one hand around his middle, the other on his chest beneath his frantically
beating heart - Harry found his hands moving, too - from her cheek to her hair, from her waist to
her back - as he tried to get nearer to her still.*

*He wondered briefly what was coming over them - and why they were behaving in such an
unrestrained manner - but what little thought he had was swiftly swept aside when Hermione's
lips parted beneath his. Shocked to find their tongues touching, Harry made a sound between a gasp
and a moan, but kissed Hermione still - rising to some challenge that hadn't been present a
moment earlier.*

*They kissed and kissed - for what duration of time, Harry had no idea - but he was surprised
and breathing heavily when Hermione finally broke away from him.*

*"Wow!"*

***

It was the Twin's `*Very Merrie Mistletoe*' that was my undoing: I'd been
helping Hermione decorate a Christmas tree in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place when she'd
inadvertently stepped under the newest Weasley Wizarding Wheezes test product. The only way to
break the enchantment was to be kissed—and it wasn't enough to be simply `kissed.'

It had to be full-out, mouth-to-mouth, lip-mashing, tongue-tasting, tonsil-seeking,
body-grabbing and heart-squeezing snogging—or maybe it wasn't. I couldn't be sure now if
they told us it had to be that way … all that Hermione and I knew was that the first and second
attempts didn't work, so we had to try again.

Well, the third one was the charm—whatever we did right broke the enchantment of the Weasley
mistletoe and we were able to go down to dinner. By unspoken agreement, we decided not to make too
much of a fuss about what happened in the drawing room—Hermione's death glare was enough to
convince the Twins to let her nonchalant “Harry kissed me” (implying that I had done nothing more
than kiss her cheek) pass. We gave the impression that there was something wrong with their
formulation (George admitted that the first attempt was a disaster which had brought both of them
to the Hospital Wing with their tongues stuck to each other!), so they must have missed out again
on the `right' mix.

Of course, things had changed between Hermione and me after that.

The funny thing is … it wasn't what anyone might have expected.

I really, truly, thought that I'd be spending seconds, minutes, hours, days, nights, weeks
and everything in between thinking about what happened that night beneath the mistletoe:
contemplating her lips, imagining myself in the same position again, going through the full-out,
mouth-to-mouth, lip-smashing—you know what I mean.

But I didn't.

Merlin help me, I didn't.

We'd kept our distance from each other after that incident—although it would have taken a
deaf bat to know that `distance' referred only to our faces. For some reason, we found
ourselves sitting closer to each other; too many times, we found our fingers touching, our eyes
spotting specks on the other's shoulder that we just had to brush off, an arm too often around
the other's waist, her head leaning on my shoulder or my nose in her hair—

Our eyes meeting each other and smiling.

But there was that unspoken barrier that kept our faces apart.

Maybe because it was all so new to us. That kiss under the Weasley's mistletoe had broken a
barrier that we'd erected between us—it had opened a door to something that was so new and
perhaps so frightening that it kept us from plunging in recklessly and with abandon.

There was simply something so magical and mystical about that kiss that we both wanted to
treasure…to hold onto forever, which was what kept both of us from even trying it again until we
were both ready and willing to do so.

In the meantime, it was more than enough to continue the way we were—save for those
`accidental' instances when we'd inadvertently touch the other and we'd smile, and I
would find myself giving her elbow a soft squeeze, or she would place an arm around me and lean her
head on my chest for a moment, and then we'd break apart and continue with whatever it was that
we were doing.

It's been driving everyone around us batty, we knew—and maybe that was part of the thrill?
More than once, people had come up to us asking if we were already an item—an `official' item,
that is—and we would simply look back at whoever was asking with raised eyebrows and state for the
record that we were simply friends.

The best of friends.

And then we'd look at each other and start laughing our heads off.

The point is, we never felt the need to repeat what happened beneath the mistletoe—it was simply
too precious and too wonderful, something that deserved to be placed within a Pensieve and relived
over and over again with a golden halo surrounding it, warming my chest and my insides with every
sensation—

Until Carolyn offered me that bean.

I'm going to kill Ron after I dispose of the Twins.

It's *his* fault: for being so obsessed with candy and food, for selecting that bag of
Bertie Botts Every-Flavor Beans from the trolley on the way to Hogwarts as a way of
`introducing' Carolyn to wizarding sweets, for getting the young girl *hooked* on those
darned beans in the first place, such that she had almost begged me (not that she actually fell on
her knees begging in the first place!) to bring her a bag of those beans from Hogsmeade…

Maybe I should add Carolyn to the list.

What's happening to me?

Why should I be thinking of adding Carolyn to the list of disposables after Voldemort's been
thrown into the dustbin? The kid had no fault in all this … she was doing what any young,
impressionable, well-brought-up and oh-so-nice kid would do when presented with a treasure trove of
sweets: she went around offering some to everyone in the room.

Maybe I should just kill myself.

After all, I did buy her those beans.

Hermione's right—why should I buy nearly a kilo of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans for
Carolyn? Just because I could … what's a few Galleons between friends, right? I passed
Hermione's reaction off as a remnant of the conditioning she got from her parents; when she
continued to glare at me, I told her that I had to bring enough for Cindy as well as the other kids
in their year—it wouldn't do to show favoritism to Carolyn, even if she was a Marauder's
niece.

To make a long story short, Carolyn went around offering everyone some of the beans I'd
brought back from Hogsmeade. As was the norm, almost everyone got some—Hermione waved her off, the
dental conditioning undoubtedly functioning at full force—and I had grabbed a handful without
thinking and started popping them in my mouth as I continued working on my Potions essay.

I've gotten used to them over the years: toss one in your mouth, give a quick bite to
release the flavor, chew if it's nice and swallow without a thought if it isn't.
Chocolate—chew; tuna—swallow; sawdust—swallow; coconut—chew; strawberry—chew; pepper—swallow… I
never even looked at the beans as I tossed them in my mouth—what's there to see, anyway? As Ron
said, all those many years ago, the color of the bean didn't have anything to do with the
flavor…it was Russian Roulette all the way, and you take your licks when they got you.

So I popped and chewed, tossed and swallowed, popped and chewed—

Until I bit some thing and the world ended.

There was nothing but the taste of Hermione exploding on my lips and mouth—that sweet, lovely,
wonderful *something* that I had tasted for the first time beneath the mistletoe in the
drawing room of Grimmauld Place. It was a taste that literally blew my mind, bringing back all the
memories in full force, reminding me again in a way that memories alone could not of
*everything*: the feel of her hands on my chest and back, the sensation on my hands as I
fisted them in her silky brown hair, the velvety feel of her lips on my own, the heat of her tongue
as she entered my mouth, the ridges of her teeth as my tongue played—

The taste.

Merlin help me!

The flavor, the tang, the zest, the essence, the aroma, fragrance, whiff, bouquet—

Did I just say `bouquet'?

When did I become Hermione?

I was drowning in the sensation, my mind and soul brought back full force to those wonderful
seconds or minutes of that night in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place, the magical snow falling
all around us and I could feel the sweat breaking out beneath my hair, my palms turning clammy and
cold—

I'm going to kill Ginny after I'm done with Fred, George, Ron and Carolyn.

Something hit my glasses at that moment, and I unthinkingly swallowed the bean, which ended both
the taste and the memory. I glared at her laughing face but she had turned away to talk to Dean and
she was popping another of the beans into his willing mouth—

Why was she wasting those beans on his big mouth?

I turned away, looking for Carolyn to cadge a few more beans from her, and Ginny hit me with
another bean. I didn't waste time glaring at her and searched for what she had thrown at
me—watched it rolling on the floor and was just about to grab it when Cindy's shoe squashed
it—

Make that six people to kill after I do old Snake-Lips in.

I feel a whimper in my throat and force it down.

I'm gonna be a serial killer.

The list of people is growing … start with the bastard who'd killed my parents and sent me
to the hellgrounds of Privet Drive; add on his pack of rabid poodles led by Lucius, Bellatrix and
Dolohov; tack on Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle just because I can—might as well include Uncle Vernon for
the ten years and five summers under his care…Add on all the people who are making me think these
thoughts--

What was happening to me?

It's only Hermione.

Lovely, wonderful, amazing, brilliant, beautiful Hermione.

My best friend.

And the bedazzling, fascinating, enthralling, enervating, lovely, wonderful and amazing taste of
her lips, her tongue, her teeth, her tonsils—

My first kiss.

My first snog—

From my one and only love—

The realization crashed through me and it was all I could do to stop myself from shaking in
awe.

I realized that I had jumped to my feet, ready to go out and do battle with anyone and
everything that was going to keep me from her, wanting nothing more in that moment but to go look
for her and snog her senseless, to bring back those breathtaking moments under the mistletoe, to
taste once again those lips, that tongue, those magically-repaired teeth, to seek out her tonsils
and—

Wreck the lovely friendship we'd built over five years and so many adventures.

And that left me cold.

What if what happened was a fluke? What if I tried snogging her and the magic of that night
didn't kick in? What if I tried kissing her and she realized that I hadn't brushed my
teeth…or that I had a piece of lettuce stuck there somewhere…or she wasn't in the mood for the
beef stew I'd had for lunch?

What if the magic of that first kiss somehow shattered if I tried to kiss her—*snog*
her—senseless?

I'd rather be dead.

Which left me with only one option: find a way to bring back the taste, the feel, the
*sensation* of that single magical moment beneath the mistletoe, when things went beyond a
kiss and I finally understood that there was something more to life than those smarmy soap operas
that Aunt Petunia adored, there was something infinitely deeper to it all than the giggling and
whispering of Lavender and the other girls, or even Ginny wasting the beans on Dean Thomas.

The problem was--how?

I nearly screamed when I heard Carolyn say with a wistful sigh, “That's the last of them,”
watched in horror as the very last bean flew from Ginny's hand towards Dean's open mouth—it
was all I could do to stop myself from leaping up to grab for the flying bean as if it were a
Snitch—

I could only watch as the bean slowly reached its arc and started descending, wondering if
*that* was the bean that contained Hermione's very essence, and holding down my sudden
rage at the thought of someone else *tasting* Hermione—

I choked down the whimper as the bean bounced off Dean's nose and fell to the floor—froze as
I saw it rolling towards me and died when Hermione picked it off the floor and nonchalantly tossed
it into the dust bin beside the fireplace—

I can't add Hermione to the list, can I?

Hmph.

Never let it be said that Harry Potter is neither resourceful or without resources. My first
thought was the Invisibility Cloak and Marauder's Map—and the passage that opened in the
Honeydukes' storage room. But that wouldn't work: (a) the only free time I would have to
implement the plan was in the evening when the shop was closed down and doing so would be
tantamount to stealing; (b) Ron would undoubtedly want to be in on it and would ask why I was going
out—

Plan B involved my Firebolt and Quidditch practice but again…the Snitch was programmed to stay
within the confines of the pitch at best, or within Hogwarts grounds only. There was no way
Professor Hootch, McGonagall or Headmaster Dumbledore would believe that I was only chasing after
the Snitch and ended up in Hogsmeade. They'd probably give me a detention with Snape who'd
go on and on about how stupid I was to even think of it, especially as I'm sure my dad had
tried that dodge before.

Plan C—my mind shut down when I realized that Hermione was in her favorite chair by the
fireplace, Crookshanks on her lap and knitting needles flashing in front of her and for the
briefest of moments, a picture of my beautiful mother flashed through my mind—a picture quickly
replaced by an image of an older Hermione with a bushy-haired, black-haired infant in her arms,
cooing nonsense rhymes to the kid as the needles continued flashing beside her—

The rogue Bludger hitting my arm had nothing on the mallet that struck between my eyes: whoever
said that plans had to be complicated? *That* was old Snake-Eyes' undoing; he tended to
run towards complicated plots and incompetent idiots to implement his ideas; all that I needed for
what I wanted were the Galleons—which I had—and a willing accomplice, which I also had.

All good plans are simple, and in the end, it was as simple as all that.

I felt my grin grow wider as I contemplated the utter simplicity of my idea—tonight, I
thought.

Operation Hermione's Bean goes into effect.

-->



2. Something About Harry
------------------------



**Seeking Hermione****'****s Bean**

**Title:** Seeking Hermione's Bean (02)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:** Humour
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Bertie Botts Beans
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** My response to **pok's** “Hermione Flavored Beans” challenge. Why is
Hermione sitting in alone in the Common Room? Why is Harry whimpering and moaning in his bed? And,
more importantly—just what is “Operation Hermione's Bean?”

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR NOTES:** My eternal gratitude to everyone who posted a review—there are far too many
to list here but please, accept the thanks from the swelling heart of a sometime writer. And my
apologies for the delay in posting the follow-up; RL has been far too vicious lately.

At the same time, I have to express, once again, my deepest deepest gratitude to **andie
(pottergirl786),** both for her beautiful story, “Beyond A Kiss” which formed an essential part
of this story as well as for taking the time to recommend this fic; to **pok** for the wonderful
plot bunny; and to a friend who shall, for the moment, remain nameless lest something I'm
working on be revealed prematurely.

You know who you are. (wink, wink, nudge, nudge :D)

And so …

**Chapter 2. Something About Harry**

There's something about a fire that lends itself to quiet contemplation and profound
thoughts, and I stared blindly at the fire in the now-quiet Common Room, my mind—as ever—working
furiously behind my half-closed eyes.

Something is wrong with Harry, and I don't know what it is.

He'd been absolutely… *chipper* the whole day today—I was sitting in the Common Room
waiting for him to come down from his dormitory when he walked in through the portrait
hole—whistling all the while and smiling to himself.

Harry never wakes up early.

He merely smiled at my raised eyebrows and said, “I had to see someone,” as he brushed off my
shoulders before running up to his room for his books and then joining me so we could walk down to
breakfast as always.

And Harry had been absolutely… *lively* the whole day: smiling his goofy smile at everyone
he met, pulling Carolyn's long hair at breakfast while pinching Cindy's red cheeks,
performing flawlessly in Transfiguration and Charms to the absolute surprise of Professors
McGonagall and Flitwick, and even answering Snape correctly in Potions—unnerving the latter into
complete speechlessness and a record day when he was unable to take a point off Harry.

More to the point, he'd been completely… *affectionate* today: brushing off my
shoulders often enough that I *had* to ask him if I had dandruff on them, squeezing my hand
quietly when it was time to leave the Great Hall after lunch, carrying my book bag as he walked me
to Arithmancy before leaving me to go to Divination (for a moment, I thought he was going to kiss
me before he turned away), laughing off everyone's comments about his actuations during dinner
even as he handed me a slice of pumpkin pie in a napkin to bring back as a late-night snack—

He'd excused himself from dinner early, however, saying that he had to see someone about
something, and shaking his head at me and Ron as we started to get up. He'd placed a hand on my
shoulder then, and squeezed it lightly; grinned in the same way he'd smiled at me the first
time he joined us at Hogsmeade and I slumped back in my chair, watching his back as he walked off
on his mysterious errand.

Ron merely shrugged when I looked at him before turning back to his full plate and his
discussion with Nicole and Jim about Quidditch; I glanced around the table to be met by shrugs from
the others, so I turned back to my dinner and the New Theory on Numerology that he'd given me
for Christmas.

He'll tell me what this is all about when he's ready, I thought.

He always does.

What I wasn't prepared for was the sight of Harry Potter in front of the fireplace when we
returned to our Common Room—focused, intent… *intense*, so much so that he totally ignored the
throng of Gryffindors coming in from dinner, everything about him directed solely on the thing in
his hand.

A bean.

A Bertie Botts Every-Flavor Bean to be exact.

An *orange* Bertie Botts Every-Flavor Bean to be precise.

I was so surprised at the sight that I froze, watching him as he studied the bean in his hand
before popping it into his mouth, staring as his jaws clench, observing the frustration that washed
over his face for a brief instant, stopping myself from gulping as his Adam's apple bobbed up
and down as he swallowed—

I was shaken from my stupefied fascination by Cindy bumping into me; I gulped and walked over to
my favorite chair and was soon engaged in tutoring Carolyn and Cindy in Transfiguration and Charms,
although I kept sneaking glances at Harry as he continued with whatever it was he was doing…

Thinking back on it now, I wonder why no one seemed to notice his solitary activity—no one even
remarked on it, no one even teased Harry about it. Maybe it was because we all respected him too
much to interrupt him when he was engrossed in something that had nothing to do with any
death-defying stunts to defeat Voldemort or catch the Snitch.

On the other hand, maybe they were just too afraid of The-Boy-Who-Lived to interrupt his simple
pleasures?

I continued tutoring the girls, sneaking glances at him every once in a while until I looked up
at one point and met his eyes—

And time stopped—

The look of disappointment and defeat on his face was something I have never seen before: not in
the moments before I hugged him in the chamber beneath the school when he told me to head back
while he confronted whoever it was that was after the Philosopher's Stone; not in the brief
moment before I fell unconscious as the Dementors surrounded us by the lake; not even as I watched
Harry walk into the Hospital Wing with Dumbledore at the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament—

There was always that burning determination in Harry's eyes, that powerful resolve to
prevail against everything and anything that life would throw his way—but in that single moment as
our eyes met, the image of a little boy in baggy clothes and broken glasses, shoulders slumped and
defeated, eyes brimming with unshed tears and mouth quivering in pain came forcefully to mind—

It felt as if someone had thrust a knife into my chest and was twisting it around—it was all I
could do to stop myself from running over and throwing my arms around him and bringing his head
down to nurse on my chest—

We both blinked at the same time; in the next instant, he was smiling and I shook myself,
wondering if I had seen what I thought I had seen. I frowned as he casually threw a small brown bag
into the fireplace and I realized that he had finished his intense study of… beans?

I nearly jumped when I felt his hand on my shoulder; I could only look up and whisper,
“Harry?”

He smiled at me and said, “Good night” softly and, for a brief moment, braced myself for the
feel of his lips on mine—only to glare as I heard the giggling of Cindy and Carolyn, and realized
that he was already halfway up the stairs to his dormitory.

I shook myself as I realized that only embers were left in the fireplace. I had been sitting in
the near-darkness for some time, a book open on my lap, shoes off and my school robes on the back
of my chair, unable to do any work except to focus on the problem before me—or perhaps above me, as
I think of Harry asleep, but hopefully not tossing and turning from whatever it is that is
bothering him.

But what *is* bothering him?

I can count on the fingers of a hand the number of occasions when Harry Potter is focused,
intent … *intense*: my little finger for the times when he's in the air, absorbed in
everything going on around him as he searches for the Snitch or figuring out a way to escape a
Hungarian Horntail; my ring finger for our classes in Potions when he knows that Snape is hovering,
waiting for the opportunity to bait him and take off points; my middle finger twitches as I
remember the moments when he's focused on learning a spell or hex which may spell the
difference between victory or defeat; my forefinger…never realized that his eyes could be such an
intensely brilliant shade of green when he is focused.

All those other times, his eyes were behind the glasses that tended to obscure or distort them.
But I removed his glasses underneath the Weasley mistletoe in Grimmauld Place…I thought that it
would help if he didn't see me clearly, that he could allow his mind to change my bushy brown
hair to the sleek, black hair of Cho, that doing so would help him ignore my round brown eyes and
see her almond-shaped blacks…

In that split second before his lips met mine I realized that his eyes were not just beautiful
(`Christmas green,' I called them) but they were absolutely …

Wicked.

I bend my head over my book, allowing my hair to do its job—one reason why I never really
bothered to have it cut short or styled or use anything on it. It was my own act of rebellion when
I started at Hogwarts—I didn't want to be like the other girls with their poised and coiffed
grandeur; I didn't feel the need to spend so much time working on my hair just so the boys
would notice me; and—I smirked at the thought—my hair was absolutely brilliant in hiding my face
from everyone.

Especially now when blood is rushing to my face, my lips feel as if they're swelling and I
fight off the urge to wrap my arms around myself as a tingle courses through my chest—

What's happening to me?

It's only Harry.

My best friend Harry.

My *boy* friend Harry.

I bite my tongue as the memory courses through me, filling every dammed inch from the hair on
top of my head down to the soles of my feet and I curl my toes in sheer delight, happy that with
everyone asleep and out of the way, I was able to kick off my shoes as I sat in my chair in the
Common Room. I wonder how I would look to the others: head down, hair over my face, a book in my
lap as always, robes off but still wearing my milkmaid costume (at least that's what Lavender
and Parvati called the school uniform), face flushed with my toes curling and fists clenching as
Harry's lips cover mine, my tongue seeking out and entwining with his, one hand in his hair and
the other under his shirt feeling his smooth, sweating skin—

Morgana's beard! What's happening to me? Why are my lips wet? Was I *drooling* just
now…

The Hospital Wing!

I better head to the Hospital Wing and see Madam Pomfrey about a Forgetfulness Potion, or better
yet, look for Professor Dumbledore and ask to borrow his Pensieve for a while so I can pull out
that memory from my brain and keep it there for a while, so I could study what happened
dispassionately: watch myself lose my mind and composure at the touch of his lips on mine, at the
feel of his hands in my hair—

Something is definitely wrong.

I slump back in my chair, fingers covering my face as I massage my not-quite-aching head, trying
to force my lecherous and traitorous thoughts out of my dazed mind…

Something is definitely, absolutely, and positively wrong.

Not just with Harry.

Something is wrong with me, too.

***

Dean Thomas bolted up, hand automatically reaching for his wand, wild eyes staring around the
dark room. He wasn't sure what woke him, just that there was something which disturbed his
sleep and he sat, still and tense, senses reaching out to identify whatever it was that had
awakened him ...

He narrowed his eyes and focused his hearing: snoring from Ron's bed—normal; mumbling from
Neville's bed—*very* normal; mumbling and moaning from Harry's bed… maybe not normal
but considering who it was and what the poor guy had been going through since their first year, not
that unusual; the curtains on Seamus' four poster waving around as if he were thrashing—
definitely not normal.

Quietly, he slipped off his warm bed, feet feeling around for his slippers—the floor was cold
and he'd be damned if he tried to confront danger while thinking about his cold feet!
Cautiously, he approached Seamus' bed and was about to yank the curtains open when Seamus'
red face popped out, a glare fit to frighten a banshee causing Dean to jump back to his bed in
shock!

“What the hell are you doing?” Seamus asked, the glare piercing Dean's eyes.

“Can't sleep…thought there was something attacking you,” Dean gulped as he tried to steady
his breathing.

“Nothing's attacking me…I can't sleep either…Harry's been whimpering and mumbling to
himself, it's driving me barmy!”

The two friends looked at Harry's still-curtained bed and hesitated. They'd been witness
to Harry's pains and nightmares before; they may have been the envy of the wizarding world for
being dorm-mates of The Boy Who Lived, but times like this, they'd rather settle for being
friends with The Boy Who Slept.

At that moment, they heard Harry whimpering, then moaning, and whimpering again… a look at each
other and they shrugged. They'd better try and wake him, they agreed silently. Much as they
wanted Ron to be the one up and doing the job, they knew Ron was too knackered from a detention to
try to wake him up to wake up Harry!

Besides, they were Gryffindors, weren't they?

Carefully, the two approached Harry's bed and pulled back the curtains—ready to dive beneath
the bed if Harry tried to hex them, but feeling awed and helpless, wondering at the sight before
them: Harry in his boxers and no shirt, a sheen of perspiration covering the skin of his back,
lying down—or was he hunched down?— a pillow beneath his hips, tossing and turning—or was he
humping the pillow?

Seamus slowly reached out a hand towards Harry's shoulder,—but his hand suddenly froze as
Harry mumbled, “Hermione's bean…must find…must get…must…Hermione's bean ...”

The two looked at each other, neither realizing they were facing near-images of each other as
they gaped, the same thought running through their minds: “What the he—?”

***

I'm going to kill Voldemort.

I silently renew my vow as I popped another bean from my rapidly diminishing supply, bit and
grimaced as the sharp taste of oregano flooded my mouth--quickly swallowing the bean, disappointed
once again in not finding THE BEAN—Hermione's bean.

I'm going to kill the old snake, not only for what he did to my Mum and Dad, not just for
what he almost did to Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets, not even for what he did to Cedric in the
cemetery… I'm going to kill him for what he is doing to me now.

It's his stupid fascination for complicated plots, I thought. Possessing Quirrell and making
the poor guy wear that tasteless turban in first year, having his old snake try to kill students in
second year (the stupid basilisk must have forgotten what the hell he was supposed to be doing—only
Myrtle ever died, and that was only because she had the sheer bad luck to be in the toilet when the
thing first came out), using the Tri-Wizard Tournament as a cover to get me to Little
Hangleton—completely overlooking the fact that he's had Barty Crouch, Jr. as Professor Moody
teaching me what I needed to get away (even the Summoning Charm that my brilliant Hermione taught
me was a suggestion from Crouch!)

If all he wanted was to kill me, he should have simply walked up to Hogwarts and challenged me
to a duel—with or without wands, what the hell was a boy supposed to do? Spit on him? But no—oh,
no…his stupid obsession with complicated strategies and intricate plots was going to be his
undoing…

BUT THIS HAS GONE FAR ENOUGH!

I nearly whimpered as I realized that I was about to crush the poor bean in my hand—what if
*this* bean was the one with Hermione within it? I might have tossed the poor thing aside in
my anger and there goes an opportunity to taste Hermione's lips once again, and the thought was
enough to cause my chest to ache in pain.

Damn Voldemort and his complicated plots!

I grit my teeth in frustration and forced my mind to the blue bean in my hand. Maybe this is it,
I thought—popped it and bit, and nearly choked as the taste of chili peppers invades my mouth. No,
definitely not—Hermione may be `hot' but not *this* hot: she was fire and passion, flame
and ardor, beauty and brains, perfection in every inch of her—

I groan as my desperate mind tries to bring back the taste of her lips, her tongue, her teeth
but nothing would come. I had thought of sneaking into Dumbledore's office—or even going to him
myself and asking to borrow his Pensieve but that was a useless exercise.

Why should I try to re-live the kisses I shared with Hermione when doing so meant that I would
be on the outside looking in? Why should I watch again and again what happened with her when all I
needed, all I *wanted*, was to feel and taste her mouth, her tongue, her lips, her hair, her
skin—

And I couldn't do it because of Voldemort and his stupid plans and schemes.

I stared at the yellow bean in my hand, wondering whether to pop it now or wait until
tomorrow—even as the thought formed, however, I was biting down and nearly gagging from the taste
of paprika on my tongue—

Simplicity is beauty and I peek at Hermione as she sat with Cindy and Carolyn—and smile at the
simple beauty I found there: Hermione with her hair over her face, a book in her lap as a finger
pointed out something to the kids, her feet crossed as her shoes wiggle from the toes within…

Simplicity is beauty—and the proof of it sat there only a few feet away.

How come the old bastard never knew that? Maybe he never had a Hermione in his life? His loss—he
may well have been the Master of the Universe if he'd had someone like Hermione beside him,
rather than his over-inflated ego inside of him.

Simplicity is beauty—not just in Hermione but even in plans and schemes, and I smile at the
thought.

Operation Hermione's Bean was the simplest of all plans: why go through all the combinations
and permutations of a thousand complicated moves and ideas when all that was needed were a handful
of Galleons and a willing accomplice? Why even bother to think about sneaking out of Hogwarts and
risk detention or expulsion for anyone, when all that was needed was for someone to simply walk out
of the castle and buy every bean in sight?

I felt my chest warm at the thought of Hermione and her knitting needles, with a bushy-haired
black haired infant in her arms making me smile before it hit me: knitting needles…clothes…S.P.E.W.
… house elves—Dobby!

Dobby was more than happy to help me when I visited the kitchens that morning, bowing and
scraping until I had to pull him up before the stack of hats that Hermione had knitted fell over.
And it wasn't as if I was abusing my friendship with Dobby—it seems that the house elves were
frequently in Hogsmeade anyway, buying needed supplies for the school and occasionally running
errands for the teachers, so what's a small mission to Honeydukes going to cost?

I felt I was walking on clouds the whole day, grinning foolishly at everyone I met and brushing
off lint from Hermione's shoulders a little too frequently, even for me. Not that she minded—I
think she'd rested her head on my shoulder or my chest a bit too often, even for her… that, and
the anticipation at having my treasure of beans in hand at the end of the day—

Only for Dobby to meet me in the kitchens with one small, tiny, petite, minor and
inconsequential bag of beans in hand, cringing in shame as he presented it to me—

“Is the only beans I could get, Harry Potter Sir,” he said, squirming as if afraid that I would
hit him, “Dobby had to go to Diagon Alley to find them.”

I must have looked like a stunned ox as I stood there gaping; before I could even ask, Dobby
answered in a fearful whisper: “Is He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Harry Potter… shopkeepers saying he
was behind this.”

Now what would Voldemort be wanting with Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans? Does he have a candy
fetish like some villain in that movie I remember seeing on the telly one summer—munching away on
the beans, thinking that he was some ogre crunching down on the bones of his enemies…

Was he munching on the beans wondering which one tasted of Harry Potter?

Ewwww—the very thought of Voldemort eating the beans to get a taste of me was squicky enough to
make me want to throw up, but Dobby's next sentence stopped me: “He didn't *get* the
beans, Harry Potter sir … shopkeepers say the Ministry sent Aurors to confiscate all the beans in
Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley.”

Huh?

Was *Fudge* also after Hermione's Bean?

Meh—what was I thinking? Fudge wouldn't know Hermione from Eve, not that he would have even
met Eve. So what was the fuss all about? Why would the Ministry even want the beans in the first
place—and what did Voldemort have to do with this?

I wanted to question Dobby further, but the bustling of the house-elves and the noise and
commotion in the kitchens during meal-times stopped me. I took the offered bag of beans reluctantly
from Dobby and headed out, trying to make the best of a bad situation: a few beans was better than
none at all, right?

I sighed and nearly spit out the taste of broccoli in my mouth—might as well have been ashes for
all I cared. What was the old snake up to that had the Ministry sending the troops out to grab
every bean in sight? The one bag in my hand was apparently all that was left, and I had to wonder
how and where Dobby was even able to get them. Must have been overlooked by the Aurors, I
thought—my luck and, a sigh, my loss. I was already half way through with the beans I had and I
still had to find Hermione's bean—

Correction.

There were no more beans in the bag.

I looked at the empty bag in my hand and felt such a wave of depression and frustration and
disappointment and, and—whatever—wash over me and I balled up the empty bag in my hand as I fought
back the tears that were threatening to spill.

It was at that moment that I looked up and met Hermione's eyes—and time stood still.

Or maybe it was my heart that stopped?

There was such a look of anxiety, apprehension, concern… *care* in her eyes: the same look
that I had seen on her face so many times before: in the room beneath the castle before she rushed
at me to hug me, in the Common Room after I learned of Sirius's `treachery' and she was
telling me that I didn't want to kill anyone, by the lake when I told her that dragons were
going to be the First Task—

I force my lips into a grin, just barely stopping them from puckering up into a kiss. I
didn't want her to worry, didn't want her asking me what was wrong—

I couldn't tell her that I was all fired up and angry at the unfairness of the world: that I
wanted to kill Voldemort, Fudge and all the Aurors in existence simply because they had grabbed the
one thing that could make me re-live that moment under the mistletoe—

I couldn't do that. Neither could I do just what I really, truly wanted to do: grab her and
snog her senseless, because … because…

Too much was at risk.

My teeth, for one. The way she hit Malfoy in third year made me wary of pushing her… given the
number of charms and hexes she knew from research made me leery of doing anything to make her come
after me. More than my teeth and general well being, there was also the loss of our friendship that
hovered over me—

I nearly jumped when I realized that I was standing beside her; I'd tossed the empty bag
into the fireplace and, disappointment weighing me down, had started the long walk to my quiet
dormitory and the warm comfort of my bed. I heard her whispering my name in a question; with a
smile, I squeezed her shoulder and wished her good night, hoping against hope that tonight would be
quiet and restful, that my mind would not be plagued with dreams of that moment beneath the
mistletoe in Grimmauld Place, or even that my dreams would not be beset with plans and schemes to
find Hermione's bean—

I felt a hand on my shoulder and I jerk in surprise, one hand reaching for my glasses, the other
searching for my wand, the somewhat familiar, harsh whisper voice of Dean Thomas breaking through
my besotted mind: “Harry, Harry—wake up!”

Huh?

What was a pillow doing under me? I wasn't dreaming of—no, no, NO! I can't be thinking
of Hermione in *that* way; all I wanted to do was kiss her, snog her even but not
*that**!* Whatever `that' was supposed to mean…

I quickly rolled over and sat up, groping around for my glasses and mumbling, “Sorry, guys—just
the usual nightmares, you know…” I finally got my glasses on and saw their worried faces clearly
and inwardly heaved a sigh of relief that Ron was not awake, his snoring suddenly music to my
ears—

“Are you sure, Harry?”

I looked at Dean with a frown—now what did he mean by that? Before I could open my mouth, Seamus
spoke up, “You OK, mate?”

I shake my head at him and force a grin, “I'm OK, Seamus—thanks for asking. It's just…”
(a sigh and a shrug) “—you know.”

“You sure, Harry?”

I frowned at Dean for a moment, but before I could respond, Seamus was pulling him away. “If
you're sure, mate… best try to get some sleep. We've got Potions tomorrow…” he looked
towards his bed for a second and scowled, “—today, actually. G'night, mate.”

With a sigh, I pulled the drapes around my bed closed, forced myself to lie still and take slow,
deep breaths, willing my tumbling mind into stillness and silence, hoping to be able to find a
little bit of rest from the still-unanswered question: “How do I find Hermione's bean?”

-->



3. It Isn't About Harry
-----------------------



**Seeking Hermione's Bean**

**Title:** Seeking Hermione's Bean (03)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:** Humour
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Bertie Botts Beans
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** What does Voldemort have to do with the price of beans in Hogwarts? For that
matter, what is Fudge's involvement in all this? And why is Hermione thinking about Tylenol at
a time like this?

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR NOTES:** My deepest gratitude, as always, to everyone who's left a review; it
does my heart good (and it makes my head swell to unbelievable proportions) every time I open my
email to find another alert for reviews posted.

At the same time, my apologies for the delay in this chapter. Aside from a horrendous RL, I also
found myself becoming confused when writing—shifting from First Person POV to the “omniscient
observer” mode that I used to be so comfortable with… apparently, my Muse has been hitting the
Firewhisky a bit too much…

Anyway, here it is.

As usual… my deepest gratitude (and all my love) to the lovely **andie**
**(pottergirl786)** who so kindly allowed me to make use of portions of her beautiful fic,
“**Beyond A Kiss**” as well as to **pok** for the lovely challenge, and to all of you who
have been so kind and wonderful enough to leave a review.

Thank you.

**Chapter 3.** **It Isn't About Harry…**

An unusually cheerful Dean Thomas stepped into the Great Hall the next morning, refreshed from a
cold shower and happy with a decision reached as the morning sun broke over the turrets of Hogwarts
School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: “It's none of my business.”

It was a decision reached with ease, after a few hours of tossing, turning and trying to shut
out the synchronized snoring of Ron and Neville while ignoring Harry's continued—though
muffled—mumbling. It was a choice easily made as he recalled Harry's embarrassment when
he'd been shaken awake—and his avowal that whatever was bothering him had everything to do with
You-Know-Whoever-It-Is and nothing to do with Hermione Granger.

It wasn't that Dean was a callous or uncaring person; it was simply that Harry Potter,
classmate, fellow Gryffindor and friend of five years was—at the heart of it all—an extremely
private person who hated involving other people in his troubles. And, while Dean was not at all
sure that going at things alone was the best solution for many of life's problems, he was more
than willing to cut his friends a bit of slack when asked… Lord knows, he thought as he made his
way to their table, Harry had more than enough troubles on his own without adding to his already
full plate.

Good intentions, unfortunately, often last no more than the time it takes to make them.

As he approached the Gryffindor table, Dean knew something was wrong.

It was just a feeling—a prickling at the back of his neck: a sensation difficult to describe,
somewhat like the feeling of entering someplace familiar only to find that the furniture had been
moved…

It took a few seconds to understand what was bothering him.

Harry and Hermione were not sitting together today.

They were facing each other across the Gryffindor table: Harry, raven hair in its usual
untamable mess, dark circles under his eyes a testament to a night deprived of sleep, staring at
his plate where he kept pushing a piece of bacon around; Hermione, eyes focused on the book propped
in front of her, a strand of hair curled around a finger—neck muscles tense as she tried to stop
herself from looking at Harry.

For a moment, Dean wondered why he thought there was something wrong with that; Merlin knows,
there must have been times in the past when they'd sat across each other, either or both of
them engrossed in some thing or other: Hermione too often buried in her books, Harry talking with
Ron about Quidditch or something else—

He started as he felt Carolyn taking a seat beside him, whispering, “Is something wrong with Sir
Harry, Dean?”

His response was automatic and honed through years of dealing with his younger siblings: “What
makes you say that, Ca?”

“Miss Hermione is worried.”

Dean smirked as he reached for the pancakes, about to comment—with his half-decade's worth
of experience—that Hermione *always* worried: about classes, grades, study schedules,
revisions, O.W.L.s, N.E.W.T.s; that Hermione usually worried about a *lot* of things, not only
about Harry—

“Her book's upside down.”

Huh?

His head snapped around, and there it was: *Hogwarts: A History* propped up on the milk jug
in front of Hermione, and he realized that the title on the cover *was* upside down. Of
course, *Hermione Granger* didn't need to have the book right side up to read it—the way
she quoted it, one would have thought that she'd memorized the dammed thing by now—but it was a
clear indication of how worried she was… and Dean knew the only time she would be *that*
worried would be if something was wrong with Harry.

And it had been so for as far back as he could remember.

Dean's lips quirked as he sneaked a glance at Miss Bossy-Boots and her Upside Down Book, a
river of memories rushing through his mind: a small, bushy-haired girl pushing herself in
Harry's face as he mounted his broom to go after Malfoy during their first flying lesson … her
tear-stained face as she pushed past them after their Charms lesson when Ron, The Once and Future
Prat, insulted her … the ruined blanket on which he'd painted a Gryffindor lion to add to the
“Potter for President” banner that Seamus and Neville made for Harry's first Quidditch
game…

They never told anyone that it was Hermione's idea, that it was Hermione who
“*persuaded**”* them to make the banner as a “show of support for Harry's first game”
(as she said in her plumiest, upper class tones), and Dean's grin faded quickly as he
remembered that first game—his excitement at seeing Quidditch for the first time, his screams of
“Send him off, ref! Red Card!” at Madam Hooch—he'd been so incensed that he'd called her
`Ref,' completely forgetting their Flying Instructor's name—and his shock at realizing,
along with the other Gryffindors, that Harry was in trouble…

He'd been so occupied in watching Harry on his broom, so engrossed in murmuring prayers to
every saint he could think of, that he'd barely heard Ron muttering desperately, “Come on,
Hermione,” beside him…he, like the others had heaved a sigh of relief when Harry was finally able
to mount his broom and only then realized that Hermione wasn't with them…

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Harry and Hermione glance at each other, and he smiled.
It was something that the Gryffindors were well aware of, and everyone who noticed sat back to
enjoy the show…

Harry saw Hermione looking at him and smiled; the latter raised an eyebrow at him and he
shrugged; Hermione then frowned and he shook his head slightly to which she gave a small nod and
turned back to her book, one hand reaching for her glass—only to pause as Harry poured pumpkin
juice into it; the moment it was filled, Hermione gave Harry a small smile before turning back to
her book.

`How in Hades do they do that?' Dean wondered. There was no doubt in his mind that whatever
it was that had transpired had *nothing* to do with empty glasses and pumpkin juice: the
exchange of looks, smiles and gestures had taken too long to be a simple “Please pass the juice,
Harry.” He glanced at his young companion and shrugged; the young girl giggled but was interrupted
by Seamus' irritated voice as he growled, “Will you *please* pass the bangers, Dean?
I've already asked you twice!”

Startled by the angry voice, Dean turned to comply but realized that Carolyn had already passed
the plate to Seamus before he could move; the latter grabbed it with a huff and tipped a generous
portion of the contents on his plate.

As Seamus poured a copious amount of ketchup over his eggs and bangers, an errant thought struck
Dean: `He's been my best friend for years… met him on the train in ninety-one when we shared a
compartment with Ernie and Justin… shared a dorm for ten months each year as well as a compartment
on the train to and from Hogwarts… partnered him in Potions, Herbology, Divination… gone into
Hogsmeade and toasted each other with butterbeer and fire whiskey since third year—

`How come we never have the kind of communication that Harry and Hermione have?'

Gah!

Where did *that* come from?

Somebody scrub my brain!

He almost jumped when a letter hit his head; shocked, he looked up to see that the morning mail
had arrived—owls flying all over the Great Hall, dropping packages, letters, parchments and
newspapers to eager students and he turned to his letter when a sudden gasp from Seamus made him
stop—his ears registering the fact that others across the hall had the same reaction to
something—

An amplified cough suddenly thundered over the Hall and he twisted in his seat towards the
teacher's table, where a grave-faced Dumbledore stood, silver hair and beard reflecting the
sunlight from the enchanted ceiling—

“I have an announcement to make,” the Headmaster's magically-amplified voice resounded in
the suddenly-hushed hall. “As you know by now, or will know by the time you have perused the Daily
Prophet, the Ministry has discovered a plot by Voldemort”—gasps and soft screams were heard all
over the hall— “to plant tampered beans in the Bertie Botts' Every-Flavor Beans factory.”

The announcement was met with a stunned silence—quickly followed by a rising murmur as shocked,
disbelieving students started talking; Dean glanced at Seamus and the two quickly looked at
Harry—neither surprised to see The-Boy-Who-Lived staring down at his plate while the hand gripping
his fork seemed to tense. Their eyes met and they nodded: Harry must have known about this, and
they turned back to the Headmaster as he continued.

“The plot was discovered by workers who saw strangers dumping bags of what looked to be Bertie
Botts Beans into the bins being readied for shipment yesterday morning. The strangers tried to
escape but were subdued by the workers, who called the Aurors in.

“Fortunately, the incident occurred before the beans were released; unfortunately, there was no
way to trace which beans they'd slipped amongst the real ones.”

Dumbledore paused as murmurs swept through the Hall; again, Dean and Seamus glanced at
Harry—both noticing that Harry's knuckles were turning white as he gripped his fork—

“According to the Ministry, the captured Death Eaters claim that this had been done before but
they had no knowledge of how long this has been going on, or even what was in those beans they
planted in the factory.

“The Ministry has stepped in to take all possible precautions to prevent any tragedy.” The
Headmaster paused for a moment, apparently gathering his thoughts, as his eyes swept the hall.
“Aurors have impounded every Bertie Botts Bean they can find in Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade and every
other wizarding establishment in Britain and the Continent.

“The Ministry is also urging everyone who may have a cache of these beans to surrender them to
the authorities. In the case of Hogwarts, I urge everyone here to surrender their beans
*voluntarily* to your Head of House; as an added precaution, I will be asking the House Elves
to check everyone's belongings to ensure that none of these beans are in a position to cause
damage to anyone.”

Dean wondered for a moment if Dumbledore's eyes had flickered towards the Slytherin table,
but the thought was shaken out of his head as he realized that goblets, jugs, bowls and plates all
along the Gryffindor table were shaking… but no one had a wand out, except for the white-knuckled
grip that Harry had on his fork.

Before anyone could react, Hermione's whispered “Harry!” made the latter blink; surprised,
Harry quickly let the fork go with a clatter—and the dishes on the table stopped their ominous
vibration. Seamus and Dean's eyes again met and both shrugged before turning back to
Dumbledore: “If anyone, and I mean *any one*, is found with those beans after noon today, that
person will face detention with Professor Hagrid in the Forbidden Forest.”

The old man's eyes swept the room and a palpable shiver ran down everyone's spines.
“Further, since we do not know how long this nefarious plot has been taking place, I urge anyone
who feels anything different, or who starts acting in a strange way, to report immediately to the
Infirmary for a check-up. Prefects—” Dean saw Hermione straightening up in her chair—“please ensure
that your charges are all right and that anything out of the ordinary is reported immediately to
your Head of House, or to Professor Sinistra in the case of Slytherin House.”

A low murmur erupted across the Hall as the students realized that Snape wasn't with the
teachers; before the murmur could grow into a roar, Dumbledore raised his hands: “And finally—”
there was just the trace of a smile on the old man's lips— “the Ministry has, unfortunately,
seen fit to call in every available Potions Master in Britain to help identify the tampered beans,
as well as to try to discover whatever it was that was done.”

Talk about the sun breaking out on a cloudy day, Dean thought—all over the Great Hall, people
were smiling from ear to ear: “Unfortunately, Professor Snape was unable to leave a lesson plan for
the day, so Potions classes are suspended.”

A small cheer rippled through the Hall; there was a look of extreme relief on Neville's
face, as well as unmitigated glee from Ron and Seamus: Potions was the first period after
breakfast, and being granted a reprieve from the torture—even for a day—was definitely something to
cherish. Before anyone could say anything, Dumbledore continued, “Please make use of the free time
wisely… Thank you.”

The din in the Great Hall resumed the moment Dumbledore sat down. At the Gryffindor table, talk
was shattered by Parvati's strident voice: “But why should”—a gulp—“You-Know-Who try something
like that? I mean, what's there to gain?”

“Tylenol.”

The Gryffindors gaped in confusion at Hermione's confident statement; she, on the other
hand, was looking at a slowly nodding Harry whose fists had started clenching again. Before anyone
could ask what that was all about, a vague memory struck Dean and he blurted: “I heard about
that.”

“So what is it, Dean?” Ron's voice rang out, and Dean turned to him.

“My mum told me about it. Years back, someone in the United States planted poisoned Tylenol
capsules—it's a popular Muggle cure for headaches—in stores and other places in… Chicago, I
think it was.”

Hermione took up the story, “Six people died after taking what they thought was a harmless drug.
When the authorities realized what happened, they pulled out all the Tylenol they could find…”

“But why should anyone do that?” A puzzled second year called out.

“No one knows,” Hermione said. “They still haven't found the Tylenol Killer. The problem is,
it spawned a lot of copycats—people trying to do the same thing, placing poisoned medicines on
store shelves and the like.”

She paused for a moment, “Maybe that's where Voldemort got the idea.”

“But why would You-Know— oh.”

The Gryffindor table fell silent. There was no need for anyone to complete the thought as
everyone's eyes turned to a slumping Harry Potter, looking oddly shrunken and withered, waiting
for someone to blame him for this latest outrage. The silence at the table stretched and
intensified; everyone was looking at everyone and everywhere else… no one willing to open his mouth
to voice an opinion—

“Father thinks that this is just a plot by Fudge to gain control of Bertie Botts Every Flavor
Beans.”

The Gryffindors gaped at the Ravenclaw with dirty-blonde hair, pale eyebrows and protuberant
eyes standing behind Ginny Weasley, her eyes focused on the still-quiet Harry Potter as she
continued softly, “It isn't always about you, Harry Potter.”

“I agree, Harry.” Shocked eyes turned once again to Hermione—they had expected a cutting
rejoinder from her at best, a hoot of laughter at Loony Luna's pronouncement at worst, but she
was serious and focused, her voice low and insistent as she continued, “There was speculation that
the Tylenol murders were aimed at causing trouble for the manufacturer as part of a takeover
attempt, although nothing was ever proved. But that doesn't mean that someone in the Wizarding
World hasn't thought of trying the same thing.”

“What are you saying, Hermione?”

“Luna's right, Harry.” The Gryffindors and the stray Ravenclaw fell silent as they watched
the developing drama in front of them: Harry and Hermione looking at each other as if there was no
one else in the Great Hall save themselves; they felt like spectators in a play involving two
people alone. “It isn't always about you… until we know if this is a plot by Voldemort or a
takeover by someone else, there's no need to think that this is a plan to get you.”

For the longest of moments, the two stared at each other, and then Harry broke his gaze from
Hermione as his hand reached out to her, briefly gripping it as he whispered, “Thank you,
Hermione.”

She smiled back at him as she answered, “You're welcome, Harry.”

The two turned to Luna Lovegood with a smile, not realizing they were holding hands as they told
the suddenly flustered girl: “Thank you, Luna.”

Luna Lovegood looked down at her feet, her blonde hair unsuccessfully covering the sudden blush
that bloomed on her face as she answered, “You're welcome, Harry—” She gave a quick glance at
their entwined fingers and whispered, “—Hermione” before turning away, only to be pulled to a seat
beside Ginny.

“How about some Quidditch, guys?” Laughter broke out along the table and Dean shook his head as
he snickered—trust Ron to open his big mouth and say the right thing at the right time. He saw
Harry grinning and doing a thumbs-up at Ron and was about to join in but was quickly cowed as
Hermione Granger stood up forcefully, bushy hair flying, prefect badge glinting—Miss Bossy Boots in
full control.

“I doubt that Dumbledore had that in mind,” she said with a glare at Ron. Before the latter
could answer, she continued, “Besides, the Slytherins would be the only other ones right now with
the free time—want some quality play time with Malfoy, Ron?”

For once, Ron had the grace to concede to Hermione's logic and nodded. Before he could come
up with another suggestion, the latter continued, “You heard the Headmaster; does anyone have
something to turn over to Professor McGonagall? I think it would be better if we get that over with
before classes start.”

A few timid hands came up: Dennis Creevey, two second years at the far end of the table… to
everyone's surprise, Lavender and Parvati who said, defensively, “What? They're not
*fattening*, are they?” -- and no one else. Hermione's eyes roamed the table and locked on
Carolyn and Cindy, sitting quietly in their chairs and she raised an eyebrow at them.

The two shook their heads as Carolyn replied, “We finished off the beans that Sir Harry brought
back the other night, Miss Hermione.”

Hermione nodded and turned: “Harry?”

A feeling of elation washed over Dean Thomas as he watched Harry: for the first time in his
life, he understood what the expression `a deer caught in headlights' meant: the shocked, wide
eyes, the frozen face, the flaring nostrils … and he wondered if he was hearing clicks in his brain
as things started falling into place: Harry leaving early during dinner last night/ finding a
focused, intent Harry in the Common Room when they got back, a small bag of beans in hand—the
mumbling that had roused Seamus and himself from a restful sleep, watching Harry toss and turn
and—hump?—his pillow before he shook Harry awake…

The words Harry had been mumbling in his sleep.

Was that Voldemort's plot, Dean wondered? To get Harry so obsessed over a bean that he would
simply waste away as he consumed bean after bean (`Lavender did say they were non-fattening,
right?') in a desperate, single-minded search for—

Dean shook his head, the frightening image of Mad-Eye Moody crashing through his mind:
Moody's scarred face, misshapen nose with a chunk missing, wooden claw-foot thumping as he
walked, roaring “CONSTANT VIGILANCE” as he approached, the DADA teacher's legendary paranoia
contrasting with a sudden question in his mind: `How could You-Know-Who even *know* about
Hermione Granger?'

`There are ways,' his mind retorted as his eyes moved from Harry to Hermione and back. Rita
Skeeter in fourth year, the Slytherins—his eyes jumped to Malfoy and his cronies who had their
heads together—and, with a shake of his head, anyone not blind as a bat who's had a chance to
watch the two for any length of time would know.

He shook his head as he watched them, feeling a wave of sympathy course through him as he
watched his dorm-mate squirm under Hermione's gaze. `He's really suffering,' Dean
realized. `He can't very well tell Hermione that he's been thinking—*dreaming*—about
her bean…”

“I *don't* have any more of those beans, Hermione—why don't you believe me?”

Dean blinked in surprise—had he been wool-gathering too much that he'd missed out on whole
blocks of the conversation? His eyes quickly scanned the table, and he knew trouble lay ahead:
there was no doubt in his eye that every corner of the Great Hall was being scanned by Gryffindors
(and one seemingly lost Ravenclaw): no one wanted to watch Harry and Hermione having it out over
something seemingly so trivial…

Except, as everyone in Gryffindor knew, there was seldom anything `trivial' between those
two.

Especially if Harry's life was in danger.

For some reason, Dean's mind locked on their third year—returning to Hogwarts after the
Christmas break to find Harry and Ron not on speaking terms with Hermione, and learning the reason
why when Ron started ranting on and on about Harry's Firebolt which, apparently, Hermione had
turned over to McGonagall. The funny thing was, Dean thought now, that *Harry* never said much
about the whole thing—it was as if Ron was the affronted one, Ron whose Firebolt had been taken
away—

And Harry?

Dean had tried to talk with him about it, but Harry had dismissed him with a single sentence:
“Hermione thought she has her reasons…” and refused to say anything more about it. Which was
strange, Dean thought again—Harry should have been the injured party, he should have been more
emotional or angry about it, but it seemed as if Ron had anger enough for both of them…

Unless, even then, Harry knew that Hermione could be right—but would not admit it to
himself?

“It's not that I don't believe you, Harry! You've been acting…”

Uh-oh, Dean thought. Here it comes—if there was one thing the Gryffindors knew, it was that
Hermione was obsessive when it came to studying, but if there was one thing that the Clueless
Wonder (formerly known as The-Boy-Who-Lived) *didn't* seem to know, was that
Hermione's favorite subject was Harry James Potter—and her next words confirmed that
supposition:

“—*strange* ever since you brought those beans back for Cindy and Carolyn the other
night.”

The look on Harry's face was priceless—but he shouldn't have been surprised, Dean
thought. Of course, the Clueless Wonder wouldn't have a clue: he never really understood that
Hermione studied him the way she prepared for her Potions exams since way back in First Year:
diligently, completely…obsessively. If there was any action or reaction that Harry Potter would
make in any given situation, Dean would have laid odds that Hermione would know it.

Right down to Harry's gaping, trying to breath, open-and-shut mouth.

“What's wrong with you, Harry?”

Dean looked away as he felt his eyes rolling—he thought he'd finally escaped his mum's
soap-opera obsession when he went to Hogwarts, but these last few minutes more than made up for it.
If there was one thing he never would have figured out, it was to hear Miss Bossy-Boots' smarmy
tone as she asked—no, *whispered*—that question at Harry. It had all the intonations and
harmony of drama in it, but Dean knew that there was nothing dramatic or pretentious about it: he
knew, as well as everyone else in Gryffindor, that when it came to Harry Potter, all of
Hermione's defenses dropped.

Now if only she drops her knickers—

The urge to slap himself silly fought against the compulsion of his face to meet the table—where
did *that* come from? Granted, Dean thought, he was a hormonal male teen, but some things were
just too beautiful, too wonderful and too precious to be thought of in any other way: if he had to
think of Harry and Hermione doing “that,” it would have to be preceded by the whole nine yards: the
Great Hall decked out with flowers, the smell of incense floating in the air, Hermione in white
with Harry waiting for her, Ron at his side with Ginny walking down the aisle ahead of her… a
wedding feast with Harry and Hermione feeding each other's faces with cake… her garter being
grabbed by Ron and the bridal bouquet flying in the air to be caught by—Luna Lovegood?

The craving to slap himself silly was replaced with a yearning to start yanking his hair out by
its roots as he heard Harry's melodramatic, pleading response: “Nothing's wrong with me,
Hermione… I just need some time. Please, Hermione…”

Dean wanted to leap to his feet and shout, “Just *snog* her, you idiot!” but he held
himself in check—even a wizard's long life can be cut short by playing with fire, and there was
no way in the world that he'd tempt fate by doing that. Not when the person he was going to
shout at was the only one in living memory who'd survived the Killing Curse as well as escaping
Dementors, basilisks, spiders, dragons and even the Dark Lord—while the other one knew enough hexes
and curses to make a goat shudder!

“Harry…”

The sound of a gong echoing through the Hall broke Dean's rapidly building frustration—it
was the warning sound to alert everyone that classes would be starting, and the Gryffindors grabbed
the opportunity presented to escape the soap opera they found themselves in.

As well as, in a classic case of male bonding and mutual assistance, to give Harry a chance to
escape from Hermione

It was Colin Creevey who had the courage—or the sheer bloody-mindedness— to make the first move.
In a loud voice, he said, “Let's go get your beans, Dennis—Ginny and I have classes with
Professor McGonagall in a few minutes.”

For a moment, rage flared in Dean's mind at the little runt mentioning Ginny in the same
breath as him; a thought quickly replaced by his realization that the two *were* a year below
him, supplemented with a sigh of relief as he remembered that Potions—which was his first class
after breakfast—was suspended for the day.

He watched as Colin turned to Hermione and said, “I'll bring the beans with me to Professor
McGonagall if that's all right?”

Hermione nodded at the offer, and looked at Lavender and Parvati who had also stood up, saying
they would also fetch their beans to turn over to Colin—a statement quickly affirmed by the others
with beans to surrender. The discussion had given Harry his chance—the moment Hermione finished
with the others, all she could see was Harry's retreating back as he scampered out of the Hall
and she stood silently, chewing her lower lip in that most Hermione of all gestures and then, with
a resigned sigh, she picked up her book and shoved it into her bag.

“I'm going to the library; Colin, make sure that you turn over all the beans to Professor
McGonagall or there'll be hell to pay.”

“Sure, Hermione,” the young man said, all aglow with the responsibility that had been placed on
his shoulders as well as the knowledge of having done a favor for the icon of his fan club.
Colin's moment of glory faded quickly, however, as Hermione sent him a glare that said, in no
uncertain words, that she knew what he had just done—and he should be watching his back, as well as
his camera, in the days ahead.

Dean slumped in his chair as he watched as Hermione and the others leave the Hall, the
resolution he'd reached earlier that day in tatters as his mind went over everything that had
occurred since he'd stepped into the Hall. He sighed as he thought about what had to be
done—and nearly jumped out of his chair when Ron Weasley sat across from him, Seamus and Neville on
either side.

“All right, mate,” Ron said. “What's going on?”

-->



4. Spilling the Bean(s)
-----------------------



**Seeking Hermione's Bean**

**Title:** Seeking Hermione's Bean (04)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:** Humour
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Bertie Botts Beans
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** Chapter 4: Spilling the Bean(s). Why is Ginny crouching in corridor outside the
Great Hall with Luna Lovegood? What's going on? And where's Harry?

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR NOTES:** My apologies to everyone; real life has been a pain in the glutaeus maximus
and I have had neither the time or the energy to write after a couple of hectic weeks. As usual, my
deepest gratitude to **andie (pottergirl786)** whose beautiful story, “Beyond A Kiss” formed an
essential part of this story. Not only for writing that and so many other wonderful stories, but
also for granting me permission to make use of her creativity.

I must also mention **Excalibur** whose beautiful story “**The Ties That Bind**” gave me
an idea about something I needed to work into this chapter. Thank you for that idea—and also for
your reviews!

And of course, to **pok** for the wonderful plot bunny.

**Chapter** **4****.** **Spilling the Bean(s)**

“All right, mate. What's going on?”

I shook myself the moment the words were out of my mouth—what the hell was I doing? Why was
I—Ron Weasley, Gryffindor Prefect and Quidditch Keeper, best friend and long-time companion of
The-Boy-Who-Lived and The-Smartest-Witch-In-A-Generation, keeper of the secrets of Harry Potter and
Hermione Granger—asking *Dean Thomas* what was going on with my best friends?

I knew what other people thought of me: Potter's sidekick. The glory-seeking hound who
somehow or other had attached himself to Harry Potter in first year and never let go; who was with
him when he went after the basilisk in Second Year, the guy that Sirius Black tried to kill in
Third, the git who broke up his friendship with Harry Potter in Fourth only to come slinking back
after the First Task, who'd constantly bickered and fought with Hermione from first year
onwards to the point that a lot of people—even Harry, the clueless prat!— thought there was
something going on between us when anyone with half a brain would know that I loved nothing more
than getting Hermione in a snit because she's too goody-goody to hex me for teasing her—which
was why I enjoyed getting her dander up rather than trying to bicker with Ginny…

The redhead who was rich in over-achieving siblings but nothing else… and I sighed to
myself.

Times change; people change… and there's nothing like a life-or-death situation to make one
realize just what's important in life.

Even if it had to take quite a few of those life-or-death situations to drive the point
home.

Hey, I know I'm dense… I've had to accept the fact that Hermione was right when she said
I had the emotional range of a teaspoon. I should be walking around with white hair and a beard to
rival Dumbledore's after everything I've gone through with Harry and Hermione: sacrificing
myself on that giant chessboard beneath the school in first year, walking into Aragog's lair
and then diving into the Chamber of Secrets in second year with my broken wand, standing up to
Sirius Black in third year with my broken leg and dizzy brain… joining Harry in the Ministry of
Magic because I thought it was going to be another great adventure to tell my kids!

Sheesh—I still shudder whenever I think of the way I was.

The walls of Hogwarts had nothing on me when it comes to density.

But some things are just too obvious.

Harry and Hermione, for example.

I don't know when I first realized it… scratch that—it wasn't a matter of
`realizing' as much as *accepting* the fact that there was something special between them.
Was it in first year when she hexed Neville with a Full-Body Bind when Harry said, “Do something”?
Or maybe in second year when her letter arrived and had three mentions of Harry in the first
paragraph alone—four if you counted `Dear Ron, and Harry if you're there…'?

Come to think of it, the only concern she ever showed me in that letter was that I was going to
do something illegal that would get *Harry* in trouble—what about *me*?

Third year was the Broomstick Servicing Kit she gave him for his birthday—and the first question
she asked when we met up in Diagon Alley was, “How's Harry? Have you seen him? Is he all
right?” Not even a word about my vacation in Egypt, and we had to walk all over Diagon Alley with
Hermione looking everywhere for him as we bought our school supplies, tense and unhappy until the
moment we spied Harry outside Florean Fortescue's…

And fourth year… do I have to go through the litany again?

Do I even have to add all the times when she just seemed to *know* what Harry was thinking,
or all the times when she'd just grab his arm when she was frightened, or the hours she'd
spend in the hospital wing whenever he was injured, or—

Or all the times when Harry seemed to know what *she* was thinking; all those moments when
they'd just look at each other and they'd start acting as if they were sharing a single
brain—

Brains.

I shudder at the thought. Merlin knows—those brains in the Department of Mysteries still haunt
my every nightmare. Not just the brain wrapping itself around me—now I can laugh at Dean's
accent as he goes into his Dr. Frankenstein's (whoever he is!) `I can transfer the brain into
his body' routine—but the horrible assault of thoughts, memories, emotions, feelings and
everything else that the brain looking for a body to rule poured into me makes me shake like a
mouse in Hedwig's beak.

If there was one benefit that the therapy gave me, however, it was that I had been forced to
re-live my memories over and over, trying to separate that which was mine and those of the brain.
And the process had made me re-think everything that I had ever known… and made me re-examine so
many things about myself and my actions over the past five and more years…

“RON!”

I nearly fell off my chair at the shout—blinking rapidly, I realized that Dean Thomas was in my
face and I realized that I'd been wool-gathering as he'd asked me something. I stared at
him blankly for a moment and made a grab when he was about to stand up and leave, apologizing for
my inattention and asking him to repeat his question.

And gaped when he did: “How do you feel about Hermione, Ron?”

Thank Merlin that Colin had gone up to his dormitory with Ginny to get the beans—I don't
think I can stand another picture of “Oblivious Ron” going the rounds. As it was, the look on
Dean's face made me realize that I had pulled off another of my patented `blank'
looks—probably the one which had me looking from Harry to Hermione and back as they'd talked
about something about which I totally had no clue until something or other made me realize what it
was they were talking about…

“Ron?”

Dean's eyes were boring into mine in the way that I'd imagine some Legilimens Master
would be doing it, and I had to look away for a moment. Dean has been a good friend, I reflected…
and thought back on the time I'd spent with him, Seamus and Neville in Fourth Year when I'd
let my density run away with me, acting like the injured party in a relationship simply because I
couldn't conceive of the thought that Harry would be keeping secrets from *me*, his best
friend.

But Dean had straightened me out on that point: and he'd cut me down with a style and manner
that would have done justice to the way Bill or Charlie would have talked to me. Maybe it came from
being the eldest in his family, I reflected… or maybe because he was so good at drawing and
sketching, often seeing details and small things that would have passed the clueless ones like
me.

Dean may be no Hermione Granger when it came to grades, but he'd shown all the courage and
heart of a Gryffindor at various times in our classes… and at the same time, he'd shown us all
what friendship and supporting others meant—even if he was not part of the Trio.

I shook myself as his voice broke through once again… and I knew I had to face the question
squarely. Whatever was happening with Harry—and Dean's worried face told me that he knew
something—it also had something to do with Hermione.

And when it comes to Hermione…

“I-I...”

I took a deep breath and let it out, answering at the same time as the air left my lungs: “I
love her, Dean… but not in the way Harry loves her.”

I turned away as I hear a collective breath escape Dean and Seamus and Neville, who were sitting
on either side of me. From somewhere in a far-off corner of my mind, I heard someone saying in a
voice that sounded strangely like mine: “I love her, Dean… but Harry's *in love* with
her.”

I looked and saw sympathy and understanding in Dean's eyes, and heard whoever it was who was
speaking in my voice whisper, “And she's in love with Harry.”

I nearly jump as I feel two hands on my shoulders, and realized that Seamus and Neville had a
hand on my shoulder as I heard Dean's soft voice, “I'm sorry, mate.”

***

In a small alcove outside the Great Hall, a pair of teary brown eyes met a pair of sympathetic
blue eyes that, for a briefly confusing moment, appeared to have lost their characteristic
dottiness before both turned away from each other, hands dropping to sides, each holding what
looked to be a long piece of flesh-colored string.

“Well,” Ginny Weasley whispered quietly, seemingly to herself. “At least he's realized
it.”

“But has he accepted it?” Ginny blinked as she turned to her companion, but Luna had turned away
from her and continued in her `normal,' Luna-is-detached-from-the-world voice: “Unrequited love
is a painful thing to have.”

“Speaking from experience, are we?” Ginny teased, softly but felt disconcerted when Luna's
protuberant eyes focused on her.

“Speak for yourself, Ginevra Weasley.”

She opened her mouth to retort but just as quickly shook her head, her mane of brilliant red
hair obscuring her suddenly shamed face. It was one thing to tease the young Ravenclaw: she was,
too often, an easy mark to laugh at because she was quick to laugh with you—but it was quite
another thing to have the tables turned…

Before the moment could turn embarrassing, however, Luna lifted her end of the Extendable Ears
and said, with a slight smile at her friend, “I think we better get back to business?”

Ginny smiled and with a slight nod, turned back to the conversation they were eavesdropping
on—but the words they heard caused their mouths to drop open in shock—and a moment later, to jerk
the Extendable Ears away from their ears as a muted roar resounded from within the empty Great
Hall: “*WHAT?*”

***

“You-Know-Who's going after Harry, Ron…” Dean Thomas looked away for a moment as he gathered
his breath and his courage together. Steeling himself for what he was about to say, he blurted:
“And he's using Hermione to do it.”

Dean dove under the table as Ron rose from his chair with a roar: “*WHAT**?*”

Being in Gryffindor isn't all it's cracked up to be, he thought to himself as he cowered
under the table, waiting for the whoosh of a cast hex to fly around the Great Hall, hoping that
Seamus and Neville would be able to manage the enraged Ronald Weasley before any major damage could
occur.

“Dean?” Seamus' voice floated in the air above him. “You can come out now…”

He cautiously peeked out from under cover and saw a straining Neville and Seamus holding down
Ron in his chair; the latter, red-faced and with bulging veins fighting to break loose from the
two. The moment he saw Dean, he started cursing: “Take that *back*, you, you—You're
mental! Hermione'd *never* do that… she'd rather be dead than give Harry up to,
to—”

With a sigh, Dean drew out his wand and pointed it at Ron; the latter's eyes suddenly
bulging even more as he said in a soft, calm voice, “Ron, if you don't calm down and
*listen*, I'm going to cast the Full-Body Bind on you so you can hear what I'm
saying.”

Ron opened his mouth, but Dean quickly overrode him: “I didn't say that Hermione's
involved in this; I said You-Know-Who's *using* her to get to Harry. There's a
difference, you thick-headed lunk!”

“Yeah,” Seamus Finnigan piped up from his position beside Ron, “It isn't that she's
gonna be shagging Harry to death!”

Dean rolled his eyes at that and briefly thought about Stunning Seamus, a thought he quickly
discarded as he saw Ron's ever-more bulging eyes. He quickly lifted his wand in a threatening
gesture and watched as, with a major effort of will, Ron took a deep breath and relaxed in his
seat. The others, seeing this, also relaxed but both kept their arms loosely around Ron, both
realizing that Ron's explosive temper may only be set on `Simmer,' not `Boil.'

Before Dean could say a word, however, Neville interrupted him: “Ron's right, Dean… it seems
a bit much that You-Know-Who would be trying to use Hermione to attack Harry—”

“Will you guys *listen* first?” Dean replied as he rolled his eyes in a gesture so
reminiscent of a certain Gryffindor they all knew that Ron, Seamus and Neville had to laugh. When
Dean was sure he had their attention, he slowly—and logically—walked them through his observations
and deductions starting two nights before when Harry brought the bag of beans from Hogsmeade—the
beans that Carolyn had shared with the whole dorm; Harry's actuations yesterday when he'd
been incredibly animated and seemed to be walking around on a sugar high—

“Remember the look on Snape's face, Ron?” Dean blinked at Neville's gleeful expression
and grinned… Ron's and Seamus' faces were a study in bliss as it was a rare day in hell
indeed when Snape was unable to take points off Gryffindor, but Harry's quick responses to
Snape's verbal quiz and the perfect Potion he'd brewed that day saved the day.

“Anyway,” Dean continued, “he left dinner early—remember, Ron?”

The redhead nodded. He'd wanted to join his friend but stopped when Harry shook his head at
them; besides, he remembered that he'd had to serve out a detention with Filch for trying to
hex Goyle in the boy's bathroom on the ground floor—and blinked in surprise when Dean recounted
what happened when the others returned to the Common Room.

“He—*what?*” he finally stammered.

“Harry was sitting there, cool as you please—staring at a bean before eating it,” Seamus broke
in, interrupting Dean. Neville was nodding beside Ron, apparently seeing the scene in his
mind's eye as Seamus continued: “He was acting real strange, mate… you know, he'd be
looking at it as if it were the first time he'd ever seen the thing, turning it over and over…
there was a moment when I thought that he'd *smell* the darned thing—”

“And then he'd pop the bean into his mouth and look as if he wanted to throw up…” Dean and
Seamus looked at Neville, who blushed at their surprised look. “Hey guys, you're not the only
ones worried here, you know…”

“So what happened?” The other three turned back to a now-worried Ron, and Seamus and Neville
relaxed in their chairs on either side as Dean took up the tale, telling Ron about waking up and
seeing Harry humping his pillow, mumbling about…

Dean suddenly stopped and took a deep breath as Seamus braced himself, surreptitiously palming
his wand in case he had to stun Ron. Neville, seeing the tension build up in the other two, slowly
began sliding away from Ron, although the latter merely leaned forward, eager to find out whatever
it was that had caused Harry to act so strangely…

“What, Dean? *What* was Harry mumbling about?”

“Hermione's Bean.”

***

The roar of a feral lion was a whimper compared to the bellow that emanated from the Great
Hall—a sound loud enough to cover the noise of two sets of jaws dropping to the floor as well as
the sound of two stunned girls falling to their knees, their sense of balance disrupted by the
assault on their nerves from Ron's scream of rage—

Moments passed as the two shaken girls stared at each other, both shaking their heads as they
tried to clear the ringing in their ears, although neither could say whether they were also shaking
their heads in denial at what they'd just heard…

With a quick nod, they silently agreed to forego any conversation or discussion and quickly
reactivated the Extendable Ears…

***

A grimacing Dean Thomas pulled his fingers from his ears as he tried to shush a livid Ron
Weasley from opening his big mouth even further and spilling the beans into the Great Hall. He knew
what Ron's reaction would be, as did Seamus and he was thankful as he saw the burly Irishman
stop Ron from climbing the table to try and attack him as Neville gaped to one side, and Ron
continued to gulp air and as he tried to articulate the very same questions that had been
assaulting his mind earlier that day: “How can
Volde-*gulp!-*He-Who-gulp!-You-Know—Whatever!—even *know* about—”

But it was Dean's and Seamus' turn to gape as they watched Ron suddenly deflate as if
air had been let out of an exploded bag, slumping in his chair and whimpering softly, his eyes
focused on something or someone far away. Their eyes met briefly in wonder, and then Dean's
eyes flicked momentarily to the Slytherin table; Seamus' eyes followed his and he nodded,
thinking that that Ron had made the same connection as they did and feeling a momentary
satisfaction that they had guessed correctly and not made a wild guess.

They didn't know how wrong they were.

Ron wasn't thinking about ferrets, Slytherins or Rita Skeeter.

His mind had locked on something else: a fat grey rat with a missing finger that was sleeping
when he'd shown him to Harry… the rat he'd tried to turn yellow in order to impress the
clueless Boy-Who-Lived with his ability to do magic… the rat that had been Percy's before it
was handed down to him… the rat who'd slept in his bed, who'd chewed on his sheets, who was
fond of Fudge Flies and other treats from Honeydukes… whom he'd defended and protected against
every effort by Hermione's cat to murder him…

Wormtail.

Also known as Scabbers.

The Wizard once known as Peter Pettigrew of the Marauders.

Now a loyal servant of Vol-er, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named… and Ron's mind conjured up a memory
of Harry's horrified voice as he described the unholy ceremony where Scabbers had sacrificed a
hand but which had brought You-Know-Who back to flesh and blood life…

The bloody bastard didn't need any junior Death Eaters or even Rita Skeeter to know all
about Hermione…

And his eyes locked with Dean in frightened understanding as he whispered, “What the hell do we
do, Dean?”

For a long moment, Dean sat quietly and the others waited with bated breath. This should be
Harry and Hermione's task, Neville thought to himself, but with Harry out of the picture and
none of them willing to tell Hermione what was going on (he shuddered at the thought of walking up
to her and telling her, “Hey, guess what? Harry's been dreaming about your bean…”), and looked
up to see Dean straightening in his chair, a look of fierce determination on his face—

***

Ginny realized that Luna's worried eyes were on her and she gritted her teeth; like Ron, she
had made the connection to his one-time pet rat and the amazing story that Ron and Hermione had
told her that first summer at Grimmauld Place when she had nearly fainted at the sight of Sirius
Black, Wizarding Enemy No. 1, sharing the same living space as her.

The revelations of that day had her mind in a whirl—and made her realize, once again, the level
of trust that Hermione and Ron shared with Harry… and drove the thought, like a stake through her
heart, that there was no way in the world that she could ever catch up with Hermione in the ways
that would matter the most to Harry. It had been that revelation which made her drop her fairy-tale
dreams of ever coming true and she opened her mind and heart to other people—like Michael Corner
last year, and Dean Thomas this year.

A flicker of movement caught her eye and she turned—and again felt her jaw, along with her
heart, dropping to the floor as she saw a scrawny, dust-colored creature scampering down the
corridor. She immediately started patting the pockets of her robe and uniform, frantically
searching for something as she whispered harshly, “Mrs. Norris!” to Luna Lovegood.

The Ravenclaw's eyes bulged even more than they usually did and Ginny felt a rush of
sympathy as she heard a whimper escape the other girl's throat. Luna opened her mouth to say
something but Ginny had found what she was looking for—and quickly shoved the orange half of a
Puking Pastille into the other girl's mouth.

In seconds, Luna Lovegood was bent over the floor, hand to mouth in an effort to stop the bile
from flowing out her throat—and Ginny had an arm around her just as Argus Filch came stomping up,
screaming, “Got you, you little—what in blazes is happening to her?”

Luna had looked at him, eyes bulging, face distressed, a line of drool flowing out of a corner
of her mouth and the old man gawked. Ginny grabbed the opportunity: “It must be the beans, Mr.
Filch… we were heading to classes when she suddenly felt faint and started retching…”

“Take her to Madam Pomfrey!” the frightened caretaker roared. “And take a care not to throw up
on my floors, Missy or I'll have the both of you in detention…”

Nothing more needed to be said, and the two young girls quickly scuttled off, with Ginny cursing
under her breath at the inopportune timing of the cat and the caretaker, wondering what Dean meant
with the last words they'd overheard:

“We fight fire with fire.”

-->



5. Fighting Fire With Fire
--------------------------



**Seeking Hermione's Bean**

**Title:** Seeking Hermione's Bean (05)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:** Humour
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Bertie Botts Beans
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** Chapter 5: Fighting Fire With Fire. What exactly did Dean mean when he said,
“We'll fight fire with fire?” And where did Harry go? Why did Hermione skive off Arithmancy?
And what is Hagrid's involvement in all of these?

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR NOTES:** My deepest, everlasting gratitude to everyone who has ever read or posted a
review for this. As someone said, “Reviews are the lifeblood of the amateur writer's life.” It
is nourishing, it is lovely, and it feeds the writer's soul and enthusiasm for his work.

Aside from everyone who has reviewed, I must thank **pok** for the wonderful plot bunny!

And once again, my deepest gratitude to **andie (pottergirl786)**, whose wonderful story
“**Beyond A Kiss**” provided the spark of inspiration for this work, and whose beautiful story
“**In Pieces**” had one of the most touching and vibrant imageries of H/Hr anyone can imagine—so
touching that I cannot help myself from using it in my own work again and again.

Thank you, **andie**—and don't let RL get you down!

Without further ado…

**Chapter 5.** **Fighting Fire With Fire**

A winded Hermione Granger rushed into the Common Room, ignoring the Fat Lady's flustered
questions about what she was doing there during class hours. Hermione dashed around the room, saw
it was empty and, without even a calming pause, ran up the stairs to Harry's dormitory,
flinging open the door—to find no one there.

`He's probably gone straight to Divination,' she thought, and silently berated herself
for her panic attack—and the fact that she, more than any others, was to blame.

She'd barricaded herself in the library after breakfast, acquiescing to Harry's unspoken
plea to leave him alone and she'd immersed herself in Ancient Runes—and became so engrossed in
deciphering a particularly intricate passage that she'd forgotten to check the time.

The growling of her stomach reminded her of lunch; reluctantly, she'd stopped working and
marked her notes and hurried off to the Great Hall—only to walk in and see her year-mates already
finished with lunch and preparing to leave.

Harry wasn't with them.

And no one had seen him since he'd left the Great Hall that morning.

It had taken considerable willpower to keep from hexing Ron and the others into the next
century—that, and the thought that she was to blame for not checking on him herself.

The others had to leave for a Divination session with Professor Trelawney; they'd fallen
into the habit of leaving lunch early to get to the North Tower on time. Ron's effort to calm
her by saying that Harry was bound to show up for class hadn't helped—how could they get word
to her that Harry was fine when they were all the way *there* and she was in Arithmancy?

Dean's comment that they'd let the spirits tell her almost got him hexed; but Sir
Nicholas stepped in, volunteering to join the Gryffindors in Divination and promising to get word
to her in class.

But she couldn't help herself—she couldn't allow herself to relax until she was sure
that Harry was safe. As the others left, she quickly grabbed a couple of sandwiches and an apple
from the table and lit off for Gryffindor Tower, the voice of a worried, scared and frightened
eleven-year old ringing in her ears: “Books! And cleverness! There are more important
things—friendship and bravery and—”

And Harry.

There was nothing, at this point, more important than Harry… and her mind flashed a swift
kaleidoscope of her memories with Harry Potter. She had never skived off classes because of him;
but it was only because she had never been faced with that choice.

And she knew, as her feet speeded up, that there was never any choice.

Harry needed her.

And she needed him… between books and cleverness, and friendship, bravery and—yes, love, she
knew where her priorities—and her heart—were.

Only to find that he wasn't there and—from the immaculate look of the place (no doubt from a
house-elves cleaning)—he hadn't even been in the place since breakfast. She slumped on the
steps to the boys' dormitories and berated herself again—no doubt Harry was in the
incense-shrouded tearoom by now, rolling his eyes as the old fraud started off the class by
predicting that Harry will be attacked by a swarm of beans intent on stinging him to death…

And jumped when something cold pressed on her shoulder—her wide eyes seeing Sir Nicholas de
Mimsy-Porpington floating in front of her, a worried look in his eyes. Before she could utter a
word, the Gryffindor ghost spoke: “Harry wasn't there, Hermione—unless he'd arrived before
we did, or after we'd left but we hadn't seen him.”

She bit her lip as the ghost continued, “Professor Trelawney wasn't feeling well. She had a
note floating on the stairs”—Hermione nodded, remembering the narrow spiral staircase leading to
the trapdoor to the Divination classroom—“saying that she needed to recharge her Inner Eye and the
students were to prepare for a test next week.”

Hermione felt her heart dropping at those words, and closed her eyes tightly, trying without
success to picture where Harry was right now. There was something very, very wrong here, she knew…
and her mind quickly replayed everything that had been happened the past few days and she began to
wonder—what *did* Voldemort place in those beans?

There was no doubt in her mind now; Luna's words to the contrary, and her own belief that
the Dark Lord couldn't be so *stupid* as to be using beans to get Harry… what else was
there to think? He'd been acting strangely since the night he'd brought those beans for
Carolyn, and Dumbledore's announcement this morning had shaken and angered him enough to almost
blow up the Gryffindor table without a wand!

“The others have gone looking for him, Hermione.” She blinked at the ghost's soft voice and
nodded. She tried to say something, but Sir Nicholas interrupted her: “You'll find him,
Hermione.”

She gaped at the ghost's confident tone as he continued: “No one knows Harry better than
you… if there's a way to protect him, I know you'll find it.”

Hermione felt the blood rushing to her face and tried to force it away, but she could only nod
wordlessly as Sir Nicholas smiled. “We may not have been as brilliant as you, Hermione, but some
things are just too obvious.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. What else was there to say? She lowered her face, letting her brown
hair hide her flustered face and nodded as the ghost took his leave, promising to look around and
tell Harry that she was looking for him.

After a moment, Hermione took a deep breath and consciously marshaled her forces to the problem
at hand—but felt her breath hitch as a wave of fear washed through her: *where was he?* Her
eyes flicked to the windows of Gryffindor Tower, moving from one to the other swiftly, hoping to
see his familiar form zooming around the skies on his Firebolt and she gripped her disappointment
tightly as she realized that there was nothing outside but blue skies and clouds.

The library? She found herself giggling at the thought: the only times Harry would be found in
the library at this time would be if he was with her—and she had her wand pointed at his head.

The kitchens! He hadn't been down for lunch—and he hadn't even had much of a breakfast!
But even as she stood, she stopped: by the time she arrived at the kitchens, he may very well have
gone and she would be back at square one, not knowing where he'd gone to…

Hagrid! Again, the thought was quickly squelched—Hagrid was a teacher and he was probably
introducing a class to Blast-Ended Skrewts, hippogriffs or other such creatures right now…

Professor Dumbledore? Doubtful… if there was one thing that Hermione knew, it was that Harry
still felt uncomfortable about going to the Headmaster with his troubles. Not unless it was
something really, truly *big*… and she doubted that Harry would go to Dumbledore to tell him
about his obsession with beans…

Remus? There was no way to get in touch with him since their former DADA Professor was working
for the Order, and she somehow doubted that Harry would want to talk to the last of the
Marauders—

“I'm an idiot,” she whispered to herself even as she spun around and rushed back into the
dormitory where she threw herself at Harry's trunk and opened it, quickly rummaging around but
stopping, her mouth a wide `O' of surprise as she found a framed photograph within.

It was a picture that she was intimately familiar with since a framed copy was also hidden in
her trunk: a picture taken of the three of them in first year, standing in a row, smiling at the
camera, Ron nudging Harry with a lop-sided grin every now and then. The Hermione in the picture was
touching Harry's arm and glancing at him every so often when he would turn and beam back at her
even as she smiled back, her heart in her eyes—

Her breathing stopped as she realized that the glass covering the picture was smudged; she
closed her suddenly teary eyes and bit on her trembling lip as she imagined Harry in his lonely
room at Privet Drive, staring at the picture of the three of them, touching the glass covering
their faces as he counted down the days until he could leave to go to the Burrow or Grimmauld
Place—

It was easy to imagine… she had done the same thing so many times to the frame containing the
twin to this picture in the summers before she'd met up with him. A small smile and a warm
blush crept up her face as she remembered her reunion with him the summer before fifth year and all
its horrors: leaping on him in her excitement, nearly crushing him with her hug, almost suffocating
him as her hair covered his face, vaguely aware of Pigwidgeon zooming round and round their
heads—

She shook her head and peered at the picture in her hand, something about it catching her
attention and then leaning back on her heels as an even warmer blush flooded her face: were those
the imprint of *lips* on the glass above her face? Was he *kissing* her face…

With a shake of her head, she set the picture aside and continued rummaging. Those were
questions for another day, she thought and smiled when her fingers touched parchment and she pulled
it out.

She sat on Harry's bed as she took out her wand and, with a deep breath, tapped it quietly
and said, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

The ink lines began to spread like a spider's web from the point that her wand had touched.
They joined, they crisscrossed, they fanned into every corner of the parchment; words blossomed
across the top, proclaiming:

*Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs*

*Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers
are proud to present
THE MARAUDER'S MAP*

She eagerly scanned the parchment for the dot signifying Harry's location, seeing
Dumbledore's name in the Headmaster's office, McGonagall's and Flitwick's dots in
their respective classrooms, Trelawney's dot alone in the North Tower… felt her heart in her
throat as her quick perusal showed nothing of Harry Potter—

She closed her eyes tightly and took a deep breath. `I will not panic, I will not panic, I will
*not* panic,' she thought. With an effort, she opened her eyes and began quartering the
map methodically—finally smiling when she saw Harry's name on the map and quickly stifling a
cry of surprise as her eyes bugged out—

`Ronald Weasley' was with Harry—standing, sitting, leaning or kneeling close enough to him
that their names were practically on top of each other, and her brain continued yammering a denial
that she was seeing what she was reading…

The *Astronomy* Tower?

Like every student before her and since, she knew what the Tower was famous for—and it was
*not* for the academic pursuit of either astronomy or astrology. For her two *male* best
friends—who had been the best of friends even before they met her—to be up there when there were no
stars to be seen meant that… meant that…

*Ewwwww!*

She realized that she'd been shaking her head violently, her hair flying around as she tried
to shake the thought from her mind… wondering even as she grew dizzy from her actions whether
*this* was part of Voldemort's grand scheme: not to destroy Harry Potter physically, but
to ruin his reputation. She could almost see Rita Skeeter's acid-green quill writing the
headlines: `Harry Potter's *Real* Heartache: The Boy-Who-Lived and The-Boy-He
Lusts-For'—

*A**r**rrrgh!*

She fought back the impulse to tear at her hair and almost gave in to the impulse to slap
herself silly: where did she get off drawing *conclusions* on the basis of a few slim,
possibly *slimy* facts? There were a hundred reasons why the Marauder's Map would picture
them as being practically on top of each other—stop that!

They were *boys*—they'd hugged, they'd backslapped, they'd grab each other,
whooping in the same way they always did when they won a Quidditch match… Hermione bit her lip as
she remembered the team's aerial pile-up in third year after their victory over Ravenclaw,
Fred's arms around Harry's head in a grip so tight that it seemed Gred was going to tear
his head off… the team floating to the ground even as the Gryffindors started sprinting to the
field, Ron in the lead…

While she slunk off to head back to the Common Room, tears falling down her cheeks at being
unable to run out to the field with the others because Ron wouldn't talk with her—

*BANG!*

Hermione spun around before the thought could form fully in her mind, quickly thrusting the Map
under Harry's bed even as her wand came up, face blushing and trying to stammer an explanation
to Dean, Seamus or Neville as they entered their dormitory—

And heard her voice squeaking in surprise at the sight of two young girls standing in the door,
both apparently not expecting anyone to be there at that hour: “Cindy? Ca? What are you doing
here?”

***

“Are you sure about this, Dean?” Neville's worried voice broke through the taller boy's
thoughts and he turned to his two companions with a sigh, stopping them in their rapid walk to
Hagrid's cabin.

“You've got any better ideas, Neville?” The other boy shook his head and Dean turned to
Seamus, who shrugged his shoulders in silent acceptance. Dean turned and started walking again
towards Hagrid's hut.

Dean would have preferred a classroom, but finding an empty one may have proven difficult—to say
nothing of having to contend with Peeves, Filch or any teacher who may be roaming the corridors.
The only classroom they could be sure of being empty was Potions, since Snape was not there, but
who wanted to spend more time than necessary in the dungeons?

Ron's suggestion set the plan in motion—they'd caught up with Hagrid during lunch and
asked permission to use his hut for their `meeting,' explaining only that they were going to
discuss something important with Harry and he'd readily agreed, saying that he had classes that
afternoon and promising that he'd be leading them (and Fang!) away from the hut so they could
have their meeting in peace.

But finding Dobby had been their luckiest break so far: Trelawney's indisposition meant that
they could move their plan's timing up, but that had been compounded by Harry's absence
from the area. They—Ron, Seamus, Neville and himself—were already planning to split up and search
the castle for Harry when they'd run across the house-elf with his mountain of knitted hats,
and the others gaped as Ron called out, “Dobby!”

“Yes, can I helps you, Ron Wheezy?”

They bit back their laughter at Ron's glare, but then shook their heads as Dobby approached
them: they'd thought that Hermione's fascination with S.P.E.W. was nothing more than a fun
diversion and had signed up to avoid her steely glare—but to actually meet a house-elf? A freed one
at that?

“Have you seen Harry, Dobby? He didn't show up for lunch or—”

“Harry Potter's in the Astronomy Tower, Ron Wheezy.” The four of them had blinked at each
other at that but snapped back as the little creature continued, “Dobby had to bring Harry Potter
some lunch there because Harry Potter didn't want to go down… he said he wanted to clear his
head and think…”

Dobby suddenly clamped his hands over his mouth, a stricken expression coming over his face as
he whimpered, “Harry Potter asked Dobby not to tell anyone! Dobby must be punished for betraying
Harry Potter—”

Dean, Seamus and Neville's eyes bulged as they watched the elf run full force into the wall
and start to slam his head against it, but Ron quickly grabbed him and held him at arm's length
even as Dobby tried to kick, “Stop it, Dobby! I'm sure Harry didn't mean *me* when he
said that—I'm his best friend, right?”

The struggling house-elf stopped and looked at Ron, big, fat tears running down his cheeks and
Ron continued looking him in the eye. Dobby suddenly slumped, “Yes, Ron Wheezy—yous is Harry
Potter's best friend. You and Miss Herminny is Harry Potter's bestest friends…”

“So he wouldn't mind if you told us where he is, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Wheezy.”

“All right then,” Ron said as he put the house-elf down. “In fact, I think—no, I *know*
he'll be grateful to you for telling me where he is.”

Ron turned to the rest and said, “All right, I'll go fetch him… meet you at Hagrid's
hut, all right?”

He turned away but was stopped by Dean's voice, asking Dobby if there was a way to bring a
blackboard and colored chalk there. Dobby had sneaked a look at Ron, who'd nodded although he
was puzzled at Dean's request; Dean had ignored his look, keeping that part of the plan to
himself for the moment.

He shook himself at the door to Hagrid's hut; after a moment's hesitation, he pushed
inside and looked around in awe. Seamus and Neville crowded in after him and stared. Though
they'd had Hagrid as teacher for several years, and had known him since he'd brought them
across the lake to Hogwarts in their first year, this was the first time they'd ever entered
his home and they gaped for several minutes at the interior.

“All right!,” Dean said to himself as he saw the blackboard beside the enormous bed in the
corner. He went over and checked the box of colored chalk; satisfied, he drew out his wand and
murmured a charm. Silently, chalk flew out and attacked the board, quickly drawing out and filling
in a sketch that would have made Leonardo da Vinci proud: a female form in the Hogwarts uniform,
complete with skirt, knee-high socks, robes and school tie.

A moment's hesitation, and the chalks started moving as the head formed: bushy brown hair,
chocolate-brown eyes, straight nose, angel's bow lips, strong chin—

The colored pieces of chalk dropped to the ground as Dean's concentration was broken by the
shocked exclamations of his dorm-mates: “What in Hades is *that*?”

***

Cindy and Carolyn's mouths flapped open in astonishment, unable to answer the question that
the unexpected person in the boys' dormitory had asked. Hermione stared at them for a moment,
and felt herself standing straighter, shoulders squaring, eyes glaring—unconsciously mimicking
Minerva McGonagall on the warpath.

“Girls?” Her voice would have done justice to her mentor's demeanor, and the two young girls
audibly and visibly gulped. “Aren't you supposed to be in class?”

They both gulped—they *were* supposed to be in Transfiguration, and the sight of Hermione
in her McGonagall persona brought the fact home. They were busted, they knew that, but neither one
was quite prepared to explain to Hermione just *what* they were doing there—

“We—ah—we were looking for you, Miss Hermione.” Hermione's eyebrow raised at the obvious lie
coming from Carolyn, but stopped when Cindy quickly leaped in with an explanation: “We met Sir
Nicholas on our way to class. He said he was looking for you, and to tell you if we saw you that
Divination has been cancelled and that Sir Harry didn't show up…”

For a long moment, Hermione stared at the two young girls but her expression was blank; her mind
obviously running over the explanation and fitting facts and knowledge into it. Cindy and Carolyn
relaxed—they *did* meet Sir Nicholas and he *did* give them that message for
Hermione…

“All right.” The girls relaxed but quickly turned white when she continued in a cold voice: “I
can believe that Sir Nicholas saw you, but that doesn't explain what the two of you are doing
*here*, when it's obvious that you should be in *class*, and there is no way you
could have known that I would be *here*.”

“What are *you* doing here, Miss Hermione?” The glare that Hermione gave Carolyn made the
young girl leap behind her friend, squeaking in fright—and Cindy tried to moisten her suddenly dry
throat as she received the full benefit of Hermione's infamous death-glare.

“We—ahh—we were worried about Sir Harry, Miss Hermione,” Cindy tried, but Hermione's
skeptical eyebrow made it clear that she didn't believe them. Cindy glanced at Carolyn and the
other girl nodded; turning back to the glaring Hermione, Cindy whispered, “We were going to borrow
Sir Harry's Invisibility Cloak.”

“And why, may I ask, would you need to borrow Harry's Invisibility Cloak when Harry's
not around?”

“We were going to look for Dean and the others, Miss Hermione.”

Hermione's unrelenting glare finally broke the Terrible Two's resistance and the story
stumbled out: that they'd overheard Ginny and Luna talking during lunch about something the
boys were discussing… that whatever it was apparently had something to do with Harry… that they
thought they had time to try and find them after Transfiguration but Sir Nicholas' news about
the cancellation of Divination and Harry still missing had made them change their mind…

She held up her hands as they got to that point in the story and the two young girls fell
silent. “All right,” she said, “I think I know what happened after that but one question,
girls—what were Dean and the others talking about? Or rather, what were Ginny and Luna talking
about that they'd heard from the boys?”

Cindy and Carolyn simultaneously shrugged and shook their heads but for a brief moment, Hermione
caught a glimpse of something passing between them. There was something they weren't telling
her, she knew, but she quickly decided it as unimportant. With a silent gesture, the two young
girls sat down on Ron's bed as she bent to grab the Map from beneath Harry's bed.

She quickly checked it and heaved a sigh when she realized that Harry and Ron were moving away
from the Astronomy Tower and heading towards… towards what? A broom—

`SHUT IT!' she mentally roared at her traitorous brain—they could be going out to meet with…
there they were: Dean, Seamus and Neville were in Hagrid's hut, but Hagrid wasn't there…
there he was, at the edge of the Forbidden Forest with a group of Gryffindors and
Ravenclaws—including Ginny and Luna…

Hermione bit her lip, thinking quickly and then, with a soft sigh, murmured, “Mischief managed.”
She watched the lines disappear from the Map and turned towards the door, her mind in a turmoil as
she considered what to do next…

“Can we join you, Miss Hermione?” Startled, she blinked at the Terrible Two, looking back at her
with pleading eyes. For a moment, she considered leaving them but quickly rejected the idea.
Knowing them, nothing short of a Stunning Curse would put them out of commission and stop them
following her; even taking the Invisibility Cloak would only guarantee that they'd be caught as
they sneaked around the castle, and that would only cause more problems for Harry…

With a sigh, she turned back to Harry's trunk and pulled out the Cloak, smiling as she
remembered all the times that she'd been under it with Harry and Ron… especially the first time
when it was only Harry, herself and Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback—

“I'm going to regret this,” she muttered to herself as she held the cloak out and the two
beaming young girls quickly stood on either side of her as she draped it over them. She suddenly
stopped and removed the cloak. Cindy and Carolyn exchanged worried looks but kept quiet; softly,
she told them, “I know you won't blab about this to *anyone*; if you do, Harry won't
speak to either of you ever again.”

The two vigorously nodded and, with a sigh of resignation, she activated the map and checked
that the coast was clear. With that, she replaced the cloak over them and started the long walk out
of the Common Room towards Hagrid's hut, wondering what it was the two were keeping from
her—and wondering what the other boys were going to do to Harry.

***

“What d'ya mean `what in Hades is that?' It's Hermione—”

“I *know* who it is, Dean! But what the hell is *she* doing here!”

Dean Thomas took a deep breath as he rolled his eyes, reminding himself once again that being in
Gryffindor meant that you were brave but not necessarily smart. Sighing, he patiently explained his
reasoning: “We agreed, didn't we, that You-Know-Who's plan is to get Harry addicted to
those beans, by giving him a *taste* of… uhm, Hermione. Right?”

The other two nodded, and he continued. “So, we also agreed that the best way to stop
You-Know-Who's plan is to… err, fight fire with fire. *Right?*”

Again, the others nodded.

“What do we know of Harry, guys?” Dean asked. Seamus opened his mouth to reply and abruptly
closed it, looking shame-faced. “Exactly. He may be the greatest thing since canned beans but when
it comes to *some* things…”

He turned to the blackboard, for all the world like a darker-skinned Professor Snape with his
robes swirling around him. “What do you think, Neville? We're just going to *talk* to
Harry? `Describe' some things to him?”

The other boy shook his head and Dean smiled, gesturing at the blackboard grandly. “This, my
friends, is a *visual* aid—a picture is worth a thousand words, and this will help Harry to
understand *what* he needs to do when he… uhm, gets the *opportunity* to do what he has
to do.”

Silence reigned in the hut at his speech, to be broken by Neville's small, stricken voice:
“Does it have to be Hermione?”

Dean cocked an eyebrow at Neville but the latter continued, “Harry'll *kill* us if
we—uhm, *disrespect* Hermione in any way…”

Dean rubbed his face for a brief moment before dropping his hands and looking at his companions.
“Who do you think we should use as a model, guys?” He gestured with his wand, and the drawing
disappeared—quickly replaced by a rather tall figure in robes and pants, with red hair, freckles, a
long nose—

“*EWWWW!*”

“We can't use Ron, can we?” Dean said, reasonably. “For one thing, he doesn't have a
`bean' (Dean's hands gestured quotation marks in the air), so…”

Another wave of his wand, and the original image reappeared but, instead of Hermione's face,
this one had long red hair, freckles, smiling lips—

And Dean jumped back, stumbling to the floor as Neville leaped up, wand in hand, fury in his
eyes, roaring, “NO! I thought you were *dating* her, you git!”

Dean's eyes bugged out in shock and fear; before he could move, however, Seamus was on
Neville, pulling his wand down—the other boy quickly dropping his hand, eyes wide and blood
suffusing his face, mouth opening and closing as he tried to form words—

***

In the clearing where Hagrid was conducting his class, a pair of brown eyes met a pair of blue
eyes—the shocked look on their faces a mirror of their expressions that morning when Dean explained
what The Nameless Git was up to. They'd been busy trying to devise ways and means of following
the boys after their classes, and were shocked to see the three walking towards Hagrid's hut.
Luckily, the had kept the Extendable Ears in their pockets, a few quick charms and the ends were
lodged against the hut's windows and they both turned their attention back to drawing and
naming the parts of the Bowtruckles they were studying.

“Hey, you two! All right, there?” They quickly composed their faces as they turned to Hagrid,
who was looming over their drawings and quickly nodded to him. Thanks to Hermione's guidance,
they'd known that Bowtruckles would be part of this year's curricula, and had kept their
sketches and notes prepared. Luckily for them, Hagrid had enough Bowtruckles so that they could
work in pairs, unlike the threes that were the norm the previous year.

As the gentle giant lumbered off to check on the others, they turned again to each other but
their expressions had changed: Ginny's face was blushing while Luna's smile had a hint of a
smirk lurking within…

***

“Wow, Neville!” Seamus said as he held on to the now-shocked boy. “ I didn't know you felt
that way about Ginny—”

“I—ah—err—”

“It's all right, Neville,” Dean said as he stood up, brushing his robes. “Ginny and I are
dating, but not in *that* way… she's just trying to wind Ron up, so if you want to ask her
to a date in Hogsmeade, I won't stand in your way.”

Neville gulped at that, but Seamus spoke up: “Better make a move soon, Neville, else some other
bloke may try something you wouldn't like.”

Neville looked down at his feet, face blushing even worse than Ron or Ginny's red hair.
Unknown to the three, Luna's eyebrows had quirked at Ginny; the latter, her face a match for
Neville's if they could only have seen it, merely nodded at the other girl's unspoken
question. Ginny didn't see a look of wistfulness wash over Luna's eyes at her nod; the
other girl quickly turned back to their Bowtruckle and continued to act as if it were the most
interesting thing in the world.

“All right, then,” Dean continued briskly. “Who should be our `model' for this?
Lavender?”

“NO!” Dean merely cocked his eye at the embarrassed Seamus as Neville gaped at him. Before
Seamus could say a word, Dean continued—Ginny's image disappeared from the board to be replaced
by another girl with straggly, dirty blonde hair, pale eyebrows—and Dean was nearly blasted back by
the collectively loud “NO!” of Seamus and Neville.

Before he could even close his mouth, Seamus said in a frightened voice, “Ron will kill us!”

Dean didn't bother closing his mouth at that, as Neville took up the explanation: “You
didn't see how Ron was glaring at everyone when Luna approached us this morning… I thought I
was looking at a red-haired Hermione!”

“Yeah,” Seamus chimed in. “Didn't you wonder why Lav and Parvati didn't even make a
whimper? I thought they were going to hide under the table when Ron looked at them.”

***

In the clearing, it was Ginny's turn to smirk at a blushing Luna Lovegood whose face,
unfortunately, was covered by her waist-length hair. Before Ginny could even say a thing, Luna
looked up and Ginny was the one to lower her face, unable to tease the suddenly-crying girl as they
listened to the conversation in Hagrid's hut…

***

“Why hasn't he even made a move?” Dean asked, puzzled. Before the others could react,
however, he answered his own question: “Because he's a dense, insecure, pathetic git who's
scared of asking a girl—*any* girl—out on a date.”

“Well, he did ask Fleur Delacour for a date in Fourth Year,” Neville commented. “And you know
how well that turned out.”

“I think he's planning to ask Luna out for the next Hogsmeade weekend,” Seamus put in.

Dean grinned. “So I guess we'll just have to be supportive of the dumb prat and make sure
that he *asks* Luna, right?”

The others grinned and nodded, and he continued, “Let's talk to the girls and Ginny about
this—it's the least we could do to keep our star Keeper up to form. Agreed?”

***

Luna looked up to see Ginny nodding vigorously and her smile would have been enough to light up
a moonless night. Neither said a word, however, as their attention turned back to the conversation
in the hut…

***

“Back to business,” Dean was saying. “Who do you think? Susan Bones, Hannah Abbot, Mandy
Brocklehurst…” The others were shaking their heads at each name and suddenly nodding as Dean
continued, “Harry doesn't feel *anything* for them, does he? And feelings are everything
in what Harry has to do with Hermione, right?”

He suddenly paused, thinking and quickly gave his wand a wave. “There's always Pansy
Parkinson—”

***

Four throats simultaneously gave out an “Ewwww!” of pain—unknown to the three in the hut, people
were looking in surprise at Luna and Ginny. The latter quickly waved Hagrid and the others off,
saying that the Bowtruckle had stuck its tongue out at them, and they quickly returned to their
tasks…

***

“We're talking about someone with a `*bean*,' Dean!” Seamus stopped, thinking for a
moment. “Maybe you should invite *Malfoy* to this lecture—the git probably doesn't even
know what a `bean' looks like!”

***

Hagrid's students suddenly jumped and looked wildly at the eruption of laughter from Ginny
and Luna, both of whom were doubled up on the grass, holding their stomachs as their hilarity
consumed them. Hagrid lumbered up, worried but as he approached, Ginny pulled out her wand and
pointed it at Luna, saying “*Finite Incantatem**!*” through her laughter. Hagrid and the
others looked on puzzled until Ginny's third attempt finally made Luna calm down.

Quickly catching on, the other girl also pulled her wand from behind her ear and said the same
incantation at Ginny, who quickly stopped her (unnoticed by the others) by now forced laughter.
Ginny quickly stood up and glared around her; the other students stepped back from the force of
that look as she said, “Someone cast a Tickling Charm on us—who was it?”

The others shook their heads and a worried Hagrid started looking around, his beetle-black eyes
quartering the area and resting, for a moment, on his hut. Before he could make a move, however,
Luna spoke up, “Whoever did it might be gone already, Professor Hagrid.”

The giant looked at her and slowly nodded, “Aye, lassie—that may well be. Are ye al'right
now? Ginny?”

The two girls nodded at him and he turned back to the class, “Al'right! Back to work, the
lot of ye, c'mon!”

Ginny and Luna grinned at each other and went back to work, both of them surreptitiously poking
their ears where the Extendable Ears rested…

***

The hilarity had died down in the cabin although giggles and snorts kept coming from the three
sitting there. Dean finally stood up and wiped at his streaming eyes, with a wave, Pansy's
image was erased from the board. “I needed that,” he said to himself and grinned at the other two
who gave him a thumbs up. Before he could wave his wand again, however, Neville spoke: “I still
think we shouldn't use Hermione, Dean…”

“Neville's right, Dean.” The tall boy frowned at Seamus' unexpected support but bowed
his head as the Irish boy continued, “I mean, maybe we should take things slow, you know?
Harry's liable to hex us if he walks in and sees Hermione on the board there…”

Dean thought about that for a moment and sighed—they did have a point. He glanced through the
window and saw Harry and Ron approaching Hagrid's hut. If he had been a little more observant
in that moment, he would have noticed that the ground behind the two was also moving—as if an
invisible someone or someones were following the path that Harry and Ron were making to
Hagrid's cabin.

He quickly turned back to the blackboard and with a wave, the pieces of chalk quickly flew and
rendered another drawing on the board. Seamus and Neville gaped at the drawing, Seamus turning to
Dean, saying, “But that's—”

“A bean! I know, but quickly—”

There was a knock on the door and they heard Ron's voice outside, “Guys? Harry's
here.”

Before anyone could move, Dean strode over and flung the door open and greeted the two
Gryffindors outside: “Harry! Ron! So good of you to come!”

Unknown to each other, the Weasley siblings had blinked at that announcement—both of them
wondering how *Percy* could have apparated into Hogwarts. Before Ron could close his mouth,
however, Dean had ushered them in, leading a befuddled Harry Potter to a chair and pushing him into
it.

Harry's eyes looked around him swiftly, noting all the familiar sights of Hagrid's house
but narrowing as he saw the serious looks on his dorm-mates' faces. His eyes narrowed even more
when he saw the blackboard by the bed—and the drawing of a bean on it.

“Dean,” he began in a dangerous voice, but the other boy held a hand up and he shut up.

“Relax, Harry—you're among friends.” Dean turned slightly as he said, “Would you like some
tea?”

Harry turned in the direction Dean was facing; the distraction was enough for him to miss the
sight of Dean's wand hand rising and he had no time to move as the shout came: “*PETRIFICUS
TOTALUS!*”

-->



6. Professor Thomas' Lecture
----------------------------



**Seeking Hermione's Bean**

**Title:** Seeking Hermione's Bean (06)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:** Humour
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Bertie Botts Beans
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** **Chapter 6: Professor Thomas' Lecture**. Why did Dean cast the Full-Body
Bind on Harry? Why didn't Ron, Seamus and Neville do anything? And what is Hermione going to do
about it?

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR NOTES:** Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, especially **Curt
(Excalibur)** who pointed out some grammatical errors that my Drunken Muse missed :D, and
everyone who has encouraged me in working on this fic.

One thing though. I know some people find this a bit dragging and may be taking a long time to
reach the “logical” conclusion. I do agree but please keep in mind that (a) I'm trying to write
humour here—something I've never tried before :D; and (b) while we *know* what Harry has
to do, as I said in one review, “Getting there is half the fun.”

I'm having fun writing this; I hope you also feel the same.

Thank you.

**Chapter 6. Professor Thomas****' Lecture**

“You're scary, you know that?” A shocked Harry Potter blinked—it was the only part of his
body that could move—and focused his eyes on Dean Thomas: shoulders slumped, hands by his sides, a
sincerely apologetic look on his face. Harry tried to speak, to say something to the classmate
he'd known for years but who, he realized now, he had never really tried to get to know beyond
classes, studies, meals and the occasional Hogsmeade weekend but his mouth was clamped shut by the
Full-Body Bind.

“Not just because of all that `Boy-Who-Lived' crap you have to put up with, but you've
been keeping things bottled inside you—” Dean held up his hand at the surprised look in Harry's
eyes and the protest on Ron's lips—“I know you've got Ron and Hermione, but remember how
you were last year?”

A whimper escaped Harry's throat and he tried to blink back the tears as the memories of
that agonizing year ran through his mind—the weeks at Privet Drive and the Dementor attack, the
hearing before the Wizengamot and Dumbledore's distance, the lessons from Snape and
Umbridge's quill, Grawp and the Inquisitorial Squad, Cho's tears and the battle in the
Ministry… and… and…

“You were ready to lay into Seamus the first night we got back and things only got worse…”

Harry swung his eyeballs and saw a red-faced Seamus staring out a window and he shuddered from
the effort to break free of the hex. He wanted nothing more to do at that moment but apologize for
being a prat to his dorm-mate, something that he had been unable to do even when Seamus had told
him he believed him when the Quibbler interview had come out—

“It was a good thing that Hermione came up with the DA…”

Harry closed his eyes—chalk up another thing to thank Hermione for as the filmstrips in his mind
started running amuck with images of everything that Hermione had ever done for him: from lessons
to walks, from Chocolate Frogs to his Broomstick Servicing Kit, from stopping him from jumping
after the Veela to setting up the interview with the Quibbler—

And all he ever gave her in return was grief and more grief: Detention in First Year, Petrified
in Second, Dementors in Third, Howlers, bubotuber pus and insults in Fourth… a howl that came out
as a whimper escaped his throat as he watched a streak of what looked like purple flame pass across
her chest—

And he blinked at Dean's pained voice: “I wanted to *help*, Harry but you never wanted
anyone but Ron and Hermione and even they had a hard time with you…”

He thought that he was biting his lip but he wasn't—and he could only blink as tears ran
down his face …

“I'm not doing this for you, Harry—I'm doing this for me. I'm doing this for
*us*: we've wanted to help you, but you've always tried to do things by yourself, you
stupid prat—”

If he could have hung his head in shame, Harry would have done so; frozen in his seat as he was,
there was nothing to do but listen—and admit to the truth of Dean's words. He *had* tried
to do things by himself but he could never have gone as far as he did, or lived through everything
that life and Destiny had thrown at him, without his friends: Ron and Hermione as they made their
way through the obstacles to the Sorcerer's Stone… Fawkes in the Chamber of Secrets…
Hermione's Time-Turner… Hermione again at one o'clock in the morning, eyes red and
radiating exhaustion from every pore until he succeeded with the Summoning Charm… Hermione, Ron,
Luna, Ginny and Neville in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic… the members of the Order as they
burst into the room and dueled with Malfoy, Lestrange and the others… Dumbledore and Voldemort in
the Atrium…

“This isn't about you alone, Harry—it's for all of us.”

His eyes locked with Dean's, hoping that he could convey his gratitude and understanding of
what the other boy was trying to do… and he shifted his eyes, catching the others as they smiled
and nodded—Seamus giving him a thumbs-up—before closing his eyes as he felt his insides sagging in
relief even as his body remained stiff and unmoving in his chair.

***

“I didn't know Dean cared that much,” Cindy whispered beneath the cloak and Hermione shook
her head.

“Neither did I,” she answered as she leaned against the window of Hagrid's cabin, tears
pooling in her eyes. Dean's a good friend, she thought and her face burned with shame as she
remembered that Dean's life had—literally—hung on a thread.

Or rather, on the heels of a young girl.

They had been maneuvering carefully towards the window when Carolyn stepped on a stone and
stumbled—dragging down Hermione and Cindy with her as they tried to break her fall just as Dean
cast the Full-Body Bind. Hermione tried to jump up but the two girls were holding on to her
arms—and Dean's calm, soothing voice stopped her before she could even pull her wand and charge
the door.

She shook her head—it hadn't happened, and it will *not* happen again. `One thing for
sure,' she reminded herself, `I will never, *ever*, act, speak or think harshly about any
of them ever again. `Cross my heart and hope to—”

The last word died in her throat as her eyes widened. She had looked up into Hagrid's cabin
as her mind wandered but hadn't really registered what was inside. It was only when Dean moved
that she realized that there was a blackboard in the room… and on the board was a colored drawing
of—

***

Dean stood still for a long moment, grimacing as he contemplated the bean that he had magically
drawn on the board. `What the hell was I thinking of?' he thought as, with a wave of his wand,
erasers quickly leaped to the board and started working; another wave and a murmur and the erasers
flew to an open window and started slapping together, dislodging the chalk dust they'd
gathered.

He watched the cloud of dust for a moment, but was so deeply engrossed in framing his next words
that he didn't notice the dust clinging for the briefest of moments to a large, shapeless form
before being blown away by the wind.

Turning back to Harry, he rolled his shoulders and neck, for all the world like a man preparing
for a heavy burden, and straightened his robes. When he spoke, all trace of his earlier camaraderie
was gone… in its place was a cool, professional—almost pedantic—Dean Thomas.

“You've been acting strangely the past few days, Mr. Potter,” he began in a voice
reminiscent of Professor Binns but with all the demeanor of Remus Lupin at his finest. “And Miss
Granger is right—you've been acting oddly since the day you brought those beans for Miss
Galloway and Miss Wright.”

He ignored the look of panic he saw in Harry's eyes and congratulated himself for casting
the Full-Body Bind; the way the git was acting, he didn't doubt that Harry would have been out
and running for the Forbidden Forest, screaming, before they could do anything.

Time to focus the discussion, he thought. “We know what Miss Granger means to you, Mister
Potter… and what *she* feels for you. The problem is—”

A deep breath, “We think that You-Know-Who knows—”

***

Hermione's head dropped on the window sill in front of her, ignoring the gasps of Cindy and
Carolyn, biting her lip to keep from screaming. She knew it… she'd suspected as much—but she
hadn't wanted to believe it.

Simply because she was not sure if *she* was the one Harry had been obsessing about.

How could she be sure that Harry felt that way about her? Plain, bushy-haired Hermione
Granger—not the exotic beauty and athletic grace of Cho, not the English rose that was Lavender or
the buxom blonde beauty of Hannah Abbot—even the fiery hair and maturing loveliness of Ginny.

Plain, boring, brainy Hermione—

“But I don't think you're ugly.” The bemused voice of Harry in fifth year resonated in
her head, and she bit her lip as the memory danced in her mind. He had been bewildered then,
totally surprised at her statement and—she realized now—his bemusement had come because he had
never, *ever* thought of her as ugly. He may not have realized that she was a girl until the
Yule Ball… he may have accepted her all those years for what she tried to be—friend, companion,
*brain*—but for Harry Potter, the simple fact had always been… she had never been ugly in his
eyes.

She felt her breathing slow, become shallow as her lips flushed and warmed—before she could
command her brain to stop, the memories of Grimmauld Place and the Weasley mistletoe exploded in
her mind: the searing heat of his lips on hers, the feel of his tongue as it entwined with her own,
the taste as her own tongue entered his mouth and explored, the feel of his beating heart as her
hand pressed him closer to her—

Her fists clenched as a wave of anger roiled through her. `That *bastard**!*' she
thought. `Where the hell does *he* get off doing this to me? What sort of sick, besotted
*arse* is he that he wants to kill Harry by using *me,* probably wanting Harry to die
even before I even get another chance to taste his lips—'

And felt her brain break as Dean's next words blasted through her ears: “You were
dreaming—and *talking*—about Hermione's bean last night.”

***

Harry closed his eyes and tried to grit his teeth as he struggled against the magic holding him
down, trying to work his throat and mouth so he could vent the frustrated scream he so wanted to
yell: “*Voldemort has NOTHING to do with this, you nitwits!*”

He'd come to that conclusion as he sat in the Astronomy Tower that morning, applying
whatever powers of logic and concentration he possessed—and realized that Voldemort and his Beans
had *nothing* to do with him.

All because of a single, irrefutable fact: *no one* knew about the passionate kiss that he
and Hermione shared under the Weasley mistletoe that night in Grimmauld Place.

It was that single beautiful, wonderful, wondrous, mind-blowing event that changed him.

And no one knew about it but Hermione and himself.

Not Scabbers who'd been unmasked in Third Year and hadn't been with them since; not Rita
Skeeter whose claim that Hermione was two-timing him with Krum turned half the wizarding
world—including Mrs. Weasley—against Hermione; not Malfoy and his wannabe Dark Arses who would
never see anything in front of them but Granger the Mudblood… not even Ron or Ginny, for crying out
loud!

No one knew but Hermione and himself.

And he'd come to the only possible conclusion about Voldemort and his Beans: coincidence,
nothing more.

More importantly, he'd come to a decision: the only way to deal with this was to talk it out
with his best friend.

Hermione, not Ron.

He'd checked his watch, counting down the minutes until her Arithmancy class ended and he
could go and meet her as she left… he'd asked her to walk with him by the lake, as they'd
done before when he had a problem, and he'd pluck up the courage to tell her how he really
felt—

Only to have it all blown away by Ron bursting into the Tower and *dragging* him here,
ignoring Harry's every question and attempt to slow down, muttering about meeting up with the
others so that they can *talk* it out, disregarding Harry's every effort to explain that
there was *nothing* wrong with him… walking into Hagrid's hut to be hexed by Dean of all
people—

To learn that Dean knew about Operation Hermione's Bean.

Which meant that Ron, Seamus and Neville already knew.

And only Merlin knows who else.

***

“Harry?” Dean frowned at Harry's closed eyes—had Harry Potter *fainted*? He was about
to ask for a bucket of water to throw on him when the latter's eyes opened, and Dean heaved a
sigh of relief—only to step back at the sheer magnitude of pain and frustration that radiated from
those eyes.

Without a second thought, he dropped to one knee beside Harry's chair and his dark eyes met
Harry's stormy greens: “Harry mate, we *understand*… we're all guys here, right? We
*all* have those thoughts—you want to snog Hermione, Seamus wants Lavender in a broom closet,
Ron would just love to get Luna alone in Hogsmeade, and Neville's gonna ask Ginny for a
date—”

“*WHAT?*”

“Shut it, Ron—or do you want me to tell Parvati to tell Padma that you're gonna ask Luna to
go to Hogsmeade with you this weekend?” Ron's angry face quickly paled at the threat; before he
could get his mouth in working order, Dean continued, “Besides, Neville and I discussed it already…
like *gentlemen*, you know? Neville knows that if he has any… uhm, *inappropriate* ideas
about Ginny, Harry and you will have a go at him—and I'll take over what's left! OK?”

“Maybe we should get Luna in here to calm him down, Dean,” Seamus said as he gestured out the
window, “Ginny and Luna are out there with Hagrid—”

“NO!” Ron and Neville stared at each other for a moment and quickly turned away, their red faces
rivaling each other. Before Ron could say anything else, Neville mumbled, “I thought we were
talking about Harry here, not us.”

“Quite right,” Dean said. He glared at the two of them and glanced at Seamus, who smirked back
and said, “The floor is yours, Professor Thomas.”

“Thank you, Mr. Finnigan.” Dean took a deep breath as he turned back to Harry, his professorial
demeanor back in place.

“We believe, Mr. Potter, that You-Know-Who has found a way to use your hormonal drives against
you. By creating an obsession for Miss Granger, he believes that he can turn you into a babbling
idiot—or worse, deprive you of the proper nutrition while you continue consuming those beans,
searching in vain for the one that would give you the taste you've been craving for.

“Am I accurate in my assessment, Mr. Potter?”

Taking Harry's silence for assent, Dean continued: “It would seem, therefore, that the
solution is simple: rather than seeking out a bean which would only satisfy your mental fantasies
and keep you captive to his evil plot, I believe a better approach would be—

He paused for a moment, and said in a rush: “Find Hermione, drag her to the Astronomy Tower or
the nearest broom closet and snog her senseless.”

“YES!” Seamus cheered with his fist in the air. “Took you long enough,” Ron said as he rolled
his eyes. Before Neville could add his input, however, Dean Thomas held up his hands for
silence.

“Unfortunately, as Mr. Potter well knows, such a… *simplistic* approach may not be enough
to thwart You-Know-Who's evil machinations.” Four pairs of eyes locked on him at those words.
“Snogging Hermione senseless would only match what those beans are meant to do… while physically,
and *emotionally*, satisfying, it would not be enough to break the obsession that
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named infused into those beans.

“Mr. Potter cannot very well snog Miss Granger 24/7.” At the puzzled looks of the two
pureblooded wizards, he elaborated, dropping out of his pedantic mode: “That means twenty-four
hours a day, seven days a week.”

Reverting to his teaching mode, he proceeded, “What would happen, for example, if Mr. Potter
wakes up in the middle of the night with a… uhm, *craving* for the taste that he loves? He
cannot very well sneak into the girl's dormitory for a midnight snack—the protective wards will
prevent it.

“Neither can he keep Miss Granger awake and by his side at all hours of the day and night. What
do you think would happen if she doesn't have any time for her studies or her preparation for
next year's N.E.W.T.s? And do you honestly think Madam Pince would *allow* Mr. Potter into
the library when all that is on his mind is to find Miss Granger for a snogging session?”

The room fell silent, a sense of horror spreading among them, until Ron said in a stricken
voice: “Hermione will be *hell* to live with—you know how she is about study time!”

“She might end up hexing Harry if he keeps her from studying,” Neville put in with a
shudder.

“Precisely.” The word was delivered in Dean's professorial mode but he dropped the act as he
turned to Harry. “Actually, Harry—you had the right idea, although I would lay bets that you were
going to go at it the wrong way.”

Harry's rapidly blinking eyes signaled his puzzlement at the turn of the lecture; Seamus,
Neville and Ron exchanged grins while Dean maintained his serious face as he continued, “You said
you needed to find Hermione's bean, Harry… the question is, do you know *which* bean to
look for?”

“Or more importantly,” Seamus broke in, “*what* to do with the bean in question?”

One look at Harry's wide eyes answered that question—and the four boys looked at each other,
nodding, and then Dean spoke. “Guys, would you stand here, backs to the blackboard? I need to put
our visual aid together.”

The three Gryffindors complied, fidgeting nervously as Dean pointed his wand at the chalk,
closing his eyes as he focused his thoughts, feeding his magical energy through his hand and his
wand, muttering the charm that Flitwick had taught him when his developing artistry had caught the
Charm teacher's eye… Minutes ticked away as he concentrated until he finally opened his eyes,
smiling at what he had wrought—“Oh, shite.”

Surprised, the others glanced at the blackboard and Harry, sitting frozen in his chair, could
only wonder at what was going on: Seamus echoing Dean's words, Ron's strident voice
exclaiming, “What the hell?”… and Neville releasing a loud, surprised “*Merde!*”

Dean, Ron and Seamus blinked and he blushed, muttering “So I picked up some words from
Great-Uncle Algy, all right? But what do we do about—*that?*”

Dean raised his wand but Seamus grabbed it, hissing: “We don't have *time*,
Dean—Hagrid's class—”

Ron glanced nervously out the window—he knew that Ginny and Luna made it a habit to have tea
with Hagrid after their class and he had no intention, right now, of being caught by Luna in a
confined space—especially with his dorm-mates knowing his feelings for the blonde eccentric.

He looked at Dean and forced himself to say the words—“Do it, Dean”—saw the others nodding in
agreement—and stepped away from the blackboard at the same time.

***

Hermione goggled, her ears vaguely hearing the surprised “Eeeek!” of Cindy and Carolyn, even as
her arms were pulling the two girls closer to her, trying to turn their heads away from
Hagrid's window.

With a strength that surprised the two, she turned away from the window and started dragging
them away—Cindy and Carolyn put up only token resistance for the moment, but the waves of pure
anger radiating off Hermione frightened them and they followed, keeping up with Hermione as best
they could while keeping the Invisibility Cloak around them, as they tried to erase the picture
that had been seared on their young brains.

It was a beautifully rendered drawing of Harry and Hermione facing each other while holding
hands, filled in with exquisite detail—fingers intertwined, Hermione's bushy hair and his
trademark unruly locks, her eyes with the light of love shining through, and the smile on
Harry's face making it obvious that he returned Hermione's feelings in full.

Neither one was wearing Hogwarts robes.

Or any other clothes for that matter.

-->



7. The Consequences of Being Harry
----------------------------------



**Seeking Hermione's Bean**

**Title:** Seeking Hermione's Bean (07)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:** Humour
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Bertie Botts Beans
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** Chapter 7. “The Consequences of Being Harry.” How does Harry react to Dean's
stunning portrayal of Hermione and himself? And what will Dumbledore, McGonagall, and Hagrid—to say
nothing of Ginny and Luna—have to say about it?

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR NOTES:** Thank you for your reviews. :D Especially to **Paracelsus** who gave a
most insightful comment on what happened in the last chapter, and everyone else who took the time
to post.

**Chapter 7.** **The Consequences of Being Harry**

“Yeh got fifteen minutes to finish up.”

Ginny shook herself at the sound of Hagrid's gravelly voice and smirked, grateful again for
the advanced information from Hermione about the creatures that fifth-year Care of Magical
Creatures were to cover, and thankful that she'd picked up some of Hermione's study habits
over the years.

But she let out a sigh of frustration as she listened to the goings-on inside Hagrid's
hut.

*What*, in Merlin's name, was going on in there?

She'd exchanged worried glances with Luna as they heard the boys' frightened cursing,
frowned at her brother's terse command: “Do it, Dean!”—and raised her eyebrows as Dean's
bland professorial tone came down the thread of the Extendable Ears: “Ten points to Gryffindor, Mr.
Finnigan, for pointing out something that most people overlook: it is not so much *which*
beans to look for, but knowing *what* to do with the beans once you find them.

“Or rather… what to do with *THE BEAN* when you find it!”

She'd raised an inquisitive eyebrow at Luna, only to be met by a shrug from the blonde
Ravenclaw. At that moment, Ginny would have given up quite a lot if only to have a chance to
*see* what was going on there—and found herself wondering what Dean's “visual aid”
was.

Ginny had always been awed at Dean's natural talent: the boy was *good*. He had an
uncanny ability to capture details which an ordinary person would miss: the way Neville bit his
tongue as he pored desperately over his Potions book, the frown on Ron's face as he studied the
chessboard, the look of surprise on Parvati's face when she lost at Exploding Snap, the shimmer
of their school robes as they walked around the castle… the way Harry and Hermione looked at each
other when the other wasn't looking.

Those sketches were the most endearing of all, for it showed Harry and Hermione at their most
vulnerable: not as The-Boy-Who-Lived or The-Smartest-Witch-in-a-Generation… but ordinary mortals
who went through the same heartaches that everyone did: falling in love, the fear of rejection, the
blushing and stammering when caught unaware by the other.

It made them *human*, and she shook her head at how easy it had been to miss out on that
single, simple fact. She'd grown up in a world which held Harry Potter in awe and she had
fallen prey to the same thing: squealing in delight when the Twins said they'd met Harry on the
train, hiding in her bedroom when he stayed at the Burrow the summer before her first year,
avoiding his eyes when they joined him in the Leaky Cauldron in her second year…

Too bad that neither one had ever seen Dean's sketches of them, she thought. Dean had kept
them hidden, respectful as he always was of his friends' privacy—especially Harry's innate
shyness. It was only by accident that Ginny had seen them—she and Dean had been having a friendly
tussle one time and the sketches had fallen out… and she respected Dean's principles too much
to blab about those sketches to anyone.

“I wonder if Dean is using *those* sketches as his visual—”

The thought was cut short as she realized that Professor Snape was now in Hagrid's hut; she
shook her head as she realized that *Dean*'s voice had changed, taking on the Potion
Master's tone and manner: “Respect, affection, and *gentleness* are the key to handling
these beans, Mr. Potter. While they may not be as important as THE BEAN, improper handling will
lead to monumental failure in your quest.”

She felt her eyebrows rising as Dean's voice continued in her ear: “You do NOT grab and
squeeze them like a *cow* where force and pressure are needed!

“You treat them with RESPECT, with AFFECTION, with TENDERNESS—”

And nearly jumped at Dean's suddenly raised voice: “Am I *clear*, Mr. Potter?”

She shook her head to clear it of Dean's commanding voice, one question dancing around at
the fringes of her mind: `What, in Morgana's name, do *cows* have to do with
*beans*?'

***

To say that Harry Potter was stunned was putting it mildly.

He was sure that his brain had jumped out the window, screaming at the sight that seared his
eyes before he closed them tightly in pain—

Especially the way chalk-Hermione was looking at his counterpart in Dean's magically-drawn
picture: eyes shining, the corners of her lips curved oh-so-slightly upward as she smiled, her
expression so softly tender and totally *loving*—

`Is *that* why Krum was asking me vot there vas between me and Herm-own-ninny?'

In that moment, he knew that his brain hadn't abandoned him—the coherent thought blasted
through the confused mass of his skull like a bolt of lighting on a dark and gloomy night, and his
brain started responding… focusing on that oh-so-surprising moment in Fourth Year when the older
boy confronted him, and his utter disbelief that eighteen year old Viktor Krum, Star Keeper of the
Bulgarian National Quidditch Team and Durmstrang's Tri-Wizard champion, thought that
*fourteen**-*year old Harry Potter was an equal… a *rival—*

But the drawing of him looking back at Hermione intruded, and he could feel his face heating up
as his mind barraged him with questions: `Is that how *I* look at her? Is that the look I give
her whenever she says something that makes sense, whenever she performs some bit of magic so easily
and so flawlessly, the way I look at her in the Great Hall during meals, in classes, in the Common
Room, as we walk around the castle every day—'

“Oh yes, I forgot—of course, if it was darling *Hermione's* idea—”

The waspish, angry voice echoed in his mind and he wondered if *that* was what other people
saw: the way he *look**ed* at Hermione, the way he *smile**d* at Hermione…

Did everybody else see what he was too blind to see? That *he* and Hermione… that
*she* and him…

A roiling wave of sensations assaulted him and he wondered why his head didn't explode from
the blood pounding in his ears, obscuring whatever it was that Dean was nattering on and on about…
his throat tightening as he tried to control his harsh breathing… scrunching his eyes even more
tightly as he struggled with a new thought, a sudden epiphany: `Had he been *blind* all these
years?'

He couldn't take it anymore… he had to see it, he had to be sure of what he saw—and he
opened his eyes and stared—

Whatever charm Dean used had apparently imbued his drawing with the same quality that wizarding
portraits and photographs shared: the Harry and Hermione on the board were no longer facing each
other.

They were facing *him*, still holding hands but looking down modestly at their feet—and his
eyes bugged out even more as Hermione's drawing burned itself into his brain: her long, bushy
hair, eyes downcast but with a soft, demure smile on her angel's-bow lips… the gentle curves of
her chest… the flat stomach with their deliciously defined contours which flowed delicately around
her belly-button…

It was only then that he realized that the Harry and Hermione on the blackboard were not wearing
any clothes.

And that Dean's wand was jabbing at Hermione's thighs—

***

“What's that in your ear, Ginny?”

Forever after, Colin Creevey knew he would never fear death—because he'd looked into the
blazing brown eyes of the Grim Reaper in the milliseconds after he'd asked the question, and
snatched the thin thread and the flesh-colored plug from Ginny Weasley's ear.

He'd always thought that his encounter with the basilisk in First Year was the worst
experience of his young life; *this*, however, was much worse—for he was looking into burning,
flaming eyes that even Salazar's basilisk would have run screaming from in fear!

That he would survive to tell the tale was due only to Luna Lovegood suffering a fit in that
exact, same instant—or so it seemed, for the ditzy Ravenclaw was thrown to the ground as if
Stunned… an action immediately followed by a low BOOM! that had the entire class on their feet,
heads swiveling like owls trying to locate the noise… quickly followed by the sight (and sound) of
a door bursting open with a lividly enraged Harry Potter stalking out of Hagrid's hut: unruly
hair sticking out in all directions, fists clenched tightly and veins standing out, eyes straight
ahead, steam pouring out his ears, and everyone—even Hagrid—stepping back from the palpable waves
of anger emanating from the young man.

Before anyone could even close their gaping mouths, Luna Lovegood was on her feet and stumbling
towards the hut, a heart-rending cry escaping her throat: “RONALD!”

***

It felt as if Hagrid had punched her in the ear.

It was the only description she could think of as she lay on the ground, eyes staring at the
deep blue of the afternoon sky, trying to shake off the ringing in her ear—her addled brain trying
to make sense of what happened…

She remembered Colin Creevey approaching Ginny, asking her red-haired classmate if there was
something in her ear… she was about to pull the Extendible Ear out but hesitated as she heard
Dean's triumphant voice proclaiming, “*This* is where to find Hermione's bean—”

Only to have Hagrid punch her ear—

She stumbled towards the hut… felt an arm around her and tried to push away, intent on reaching
the hut where she knew her Beloved lay… calming down only when she realized that it was Ginny
helping her get to the hut… vaguely, she realized that Hagrid was ahead of them, his long strides
leaving them behind… she tried to run faster but was hobbled by her throbbing head…

She heard Hagrid shouting, “Stay back!” as they approached the hut but she would have none of
it—

Luna pushed into the cabin, squeezing herself behind Hagrid's broad back with Ginny close
behind—heard herself screaming “RONALD!” again as her eyes took in the sight of the blasted room
and its Stunned occupants: Dean on the floor with Hagrid's crossbow across his chest, Neville
and Seamus to one side, apparently knocked out by the hams and pheasants that had fallen from their
places on the roof—Ron's long nose and red hair sticking out from beneath a large, broken
blackboard beneath which he slumped on Hagrid's large bed.

She tore at the board covering Ron, lifting it through sheer adrenaline and not even thinking of
using her wand—Ginny helping her before turning away to check on the others, both of them hazily
hearing Hagrid's muffled voice shouting, “Hospital Wing!”

***

Within minutes, a flash of flame from the fireplace announced the arrival of Madam Pomfrey who
took one look before moving towards Ron, whose head was now cradled in Luna's lap. A quick wave
of her wand and she nodded at Luna: “He's all right, just knocked out,” before turning to the
others, her wand waving as her experienced eyes ran over their faces…

Another flash heralded Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore, both holding tightly to Fawkes'
long golden tail; the heads of the school stared in disbelief at the chaos of Hagrid's normally
untidy room.

The Deputy Headmistress quickly went over to the school nurse who started talking even as she
bent over Dean: “Stunned, the lot of them but no major injuries, except for Mr. Weasley, who seems
to have taken a hard knock on the head. Misters Finnigan, Thomas and Longbottom are all right—some
bruising but they'll wake up soon enough.”

Madam Pomfrey suddenly straightened, a puzzled look on her face: “There's no sign of a
direct magical attack on them—they seem to have been knocked out by various things thrown at them
with great force.”

The Deputy Headmistress frowned at first but nodded as the nurse gestured at the scattered hams,
pheasants and other objects around the shattered room—and blinked as she realized that Luna
Lovegood was there, cradling Ron's head in her lap. She noticed that Ginny was also in the room
and she scowled at the faces looking in through the blown-out windows of the hut. Before she could
dismiss the curious crowd, however, Madam Pomfrey continued: “I'd like to bring Mr. Weasley to
the hospital wing for observation; I've had to remove some splinters from his face and arms
which may be infected—”

“And the others, Poppy?”

Madam Pomfrey turned a grim smile on her school superior and gave an evil smirk at the tone in
the Deputy Headmistress' voice: “There's no need to bring them to the Hospital, Professor.
A simple `*Ennervate*' should wake them up.”

Professor McGonagall nodded at that, and turned to Ginny and Luna. “Miss Lovegood, Miss Weasley…
will you be able to help bring Mr. Weasley to the Hospital Wing?”

Dumbledore spoke up from beside the door where he had been speaking in low voices with Hagrid,
“Poppy can handle it, Minerva. I believe”—turning his twinkling eyes to Ginny and Luna—“that Miss
Weasley and Miss Lovegood would be of some assistance in our… ah, *investigation* of what
happened here?”

Before Ginny and Luna could drop their jaws, the Headmaster plucked the Extendible Ear from
Luna's collar, where it had stuck in her haste to run to Hagrid's hut.

“A most ingenious device, wouldn't you agree, Miss Weasley?” Ginny blushed and stared at her
shoes as Luna found solace in gazing longingly at Ron's bruised face. “Your brothers would be
proud of the uses to which you've put their work.”

“Albus—”

“I don' remember havin' a chalkboard here.”

The others blinked at the puzzled Hagrid, who was holding the blackboard that Ginny and Luna had
removed from Ron in his massive hands.

“I see,” Dumbledore said, although it appeared that he wasn't sure what it was he saw. He
turned to the windows, where he saw Colin and his Ravenclaw counterpart. “Prefects?”

The two nodded and quickly began leading the others back to the castle, quickly followed by
Madam Pomfrey with Ron floating beside her. As soon as they were some distance away, Dumbledore
turned to the pieces of the blackboard that Hagrid had stacked in the middle of the room. A few
quick, economic gestures and a muttered incantation… and they were all staring at the repaired
blackboard: empty except for a scorched and blackened area at the center.

Before anyone could make a comment, a thick Irish brogue was heard: “Wha' happened?”

***

Seamus Finnigan opened his eyes and sat up, fighting against the pain that was emanating from
his forehead as he tried to remember what had happened. His last conscious memory was of Dean
pointing his wand at the board, his joyful and triumphant voice saying, “*This* is where to
find Hermione's bean”—and then being flung on his back as something *invisible* hit him…
staring up in horror at a massive ham heading straight for his head… the adrenaline surge that
helped him escape being brained by the thing—only to hit his head on a fallen pheasant…

He drew his knees up and laid his still-aching head on them—and heard an icy voice that made him
wish that the ham had done its job properly: “Well, Mr. Finnigan—would you care to explain what
happened here?”

Seamus raised bleary eyes to the voice—shuddered as he realized that Professor McGonagall and
her twin were glaring at him—and replied: “Meep?”

***

Neville Longbottom blinked his eyes open and smiled—Ginny was talking with Hagrid, and the sight
of her worried face was a soothing balm on his aching head.

The feeling of serenity lasted for all of a split-second however, as his memories clicked into
place: what was *Ginny* doing here? He turned his head carefully and found himself wishing
that he were in the Department of Mysteries again: *anything* was better than facing the group
staring at the blackboard from hell which was the cause of his current situation. The thought
quickly faded, however, when he heard Seamus' voice beside him and he quickly closed his eyes
and lolled his head to the side; discretion, at this point, was the better part of valor and
he'd be damned if he would let the others realize that he was awake.

His hope of escape was dashed however, as he felt a presence beside him and heard Professor
Dumbledore's firm voice: “Enervate!”

***

Seamus cringed as McGonagall and her twin raised their wands at him; in the next moment, he felt
a cooling sensation wash over him and he blinked as he realized that McGonagall did not have a
twin… saw Hagrid looming over him and felt himself being lifted into the chair so recently occupied
by Harry… heard Dumbledore reviving Dean and Neville… and released a sigh of relief when he glanced
at the blackboard and saw that the `evidence' had been erased by Harry's burst of
magic.

He caught his companions' eyes and inclined his head towards the board—the answering nods
and hidden grins sending a surge of confidence through him, and he felt himself relaxing…

Until Professor McGonagall stepped in front of them and he found himself facing the cold eyes of
his Head of House.

“None of your blarney, Mr. Finnigan,” McGonagall said in a cold voice. “The truth now,
quickly.”

He gulped, glanced at Dean and Neville on either side of him who gave him encouraging nods…
opened his mouth, and began: “It's Harry Potter, Professor…”

***

Dean was sitting on his hands; a sideways glance at Neville showed that his dorm-mate had done
the same thing and he kept his face serious as he listened to Seamus' rolling brogue explain
what had been going on since breakfast that morning. If he hadn't sat on his hands, Dean knew,
he would have been on his feet clapping, whistling and cheering Seamus' masterful
performance.

He'd always smiled whenever Seamus claimed that he'd kissed the Blarney Stone when he
was a child; as far as he was concerned, Seamus had been *born* with the Blarney Stone in
hand, given his natural gift for story-telling—and the proof was right in front of him as Seamus
detailed their observations, their deductions, and the plan they had put together in the Great Hall
that morning… and the reason they had kept their plans to themselves.

“Harry's always been a private person, Professor,” Seamus said. “You remember how he was
last year… we all wanted to help him, but he always refused.”

Silence fell across the room as memories of Harry's pain-filled fifth year flitted through
their minds: they'd all had a taste of Harry's explosive temper and violent mood swings
throughout the year… and the adults in particular harbored some guilt at not having been able to
help Harry as much as they should have.

Seamus lowered his head and looked away from the adults as he emulated Dean's pained voice,
“I'm not doing this for you, Harry—I'm doing this for me. I'm doing this for *us*:
we've wanted to help you, but you've always tried to do things by yourself, you stupid
prat—”

Turning back to his Headmaster and Head of House, he whispered, “This isn't about you alone,
Harry—it's for all of us.”

A loud sniffle made Dean look up and he smiled as he saw Hagrid blowing his nose into a large
handkerchief—and realized that even McGonagall was teary-eyed at Seamus' masterful performance.
His glee faded, however, as he saw Ginny staring daggers at him.

`Uh-oh,' he thought, pushing down hard on the panic welling up in him. `Ginny knows
something, but *how*? She was with Hagrid the whole time—”

His head snapped back as McGonagall's voice sounded in the room: “But why would Mr. Potter
suddenly blow up? You were only trying to help him…”

Seamus looked away for a moment before continuing, “I'd guess he didn't take kindly to
our advice, Ma'am.”

“And that is?”

A deep breath, and it came out in a rush: “Find Hermione, drag her to the Astronomy Tower or the
nearest broom closet and snog her senseless.”

“I see.” Dumbledore's quiet comment diverted Dean's attention from the priceless
expressions of surprise on McGonagall and Hagrid's faces. “Well then, Harry's reaction
doesn't surprise me… he is, after all, a very private individual.”

The wave of relief passing through the three boys was palpable although they tried to hide it
immediately. They realized that they'd reacted too soon, however, when Dumbledore trained his
eyes on Dean while addressing Seamus: “And the blackboard, Mr. Finnigan?”

“Sir?”

“It seems that whatever magical energies Harry released—and I must admit that your… uhm,
`suggestion' could have set Harry off—one must wonder why it was directed at a blackboard in
this room.

“A blackboard, I must add, that Hagrid—who lives in this room—has never seen before.”

“Oh.” Seamus chanced a quick sideways glance at Dean, a look that conveyed both apology and
defeat, and continued. “Dean felt that it would help if Harry had a”—a pause as he cleared his
throat explosively—“a visual aid on hand.”

“A visual aid, Mr. Finnigan?” McGonagall's voice had gone back to its arctic freeze, and
Seamus and Dean visibly paled.

“Urhm… we felt that it would help if Harry can, ahhh, *visualize* the mechanics
of—gulp—snogging Hermione, Ma'am.”

“I see.” Dumbledore's calm voice and seeming acceptance of the statement made Dean sag in
his seat—but he quickly straightened up as the Headmaster's eyes impaled him. “Would you care
to demonstrate, Mr. Thomas?”

Gulp.

There was no way out of this, he thought, and he stood, feeling like a man with a date with a
noose. Dean took a deep breath as Hagrid handed his wand to him, and he faced the scorched
blackboard. He wasn't sure what had happened with his first spell—it wasn't as if it was
the first time he'd made use of that charm—but he couldn't find an explanation as to why
the drawing turned out that way.

`Probably a naughty blackboard,' he thought to himself—and felt a wave of elation pass
through him. *Harry* had blasted the board in his anger, he realized. Whatever mischief that
thing had—and he suddenly wondered if *Peeves* had possessed the thing without anyone
knowing—Harry's anger should have exorcised whatever insolence or tomfoolery it had.

Feeling more confident, he took his stance, closed his eyes and focused on the blackboard. His
mind quickly flipped through his sketchbook, fixing on separate pictures of Harry and Hermione as
they sneaked glances at each other in the Common Room—and he smiled as he remembered the utter
cluelessness of his friends. With the feeling of cheerfulness at its height, he murmured the charm,
enunciating properly and precisely… feeling his wand move in the prescribed manner effortlessly,
and allowing his magical energies to *flow*…

Soon enough, the sound of chalk rubbing on board stopped—to be quickly replaced by sharp breaths
from the others in the room and a shocked, “*Du lieber Gott!*” in McGonagall's voice.
Frowning, Dean opened his eyes… and froze.

Seamus had said that Dean's visual aid had something to do with Harry snogging Hermione—and
the board displayed that in all its glory: Harry and Hermione's lips fused together…
Hermione's small hands fisted in Harry's unruly hair… one of Harry's hands in the back
of Hermione's head while the other was on her waist, pulling her closer to him…

And as before… neither was wearing any clothes.

Dean Thomas fainted.

***

“Mr. Thomas!”

One of Dean's most treasured possessions was the sketch he'd rendered during Harry's
battle with the Hungarian Horn-tail: the dragon breathing fire, yellow eyes blazing as it followed
Harry on his broomstick, its spiked tail twitching dangerously…

Right now, he could replace the Horntail in that sketch with McGonagall's face and nothing
would have been amiss.

McGonagall had revived him and he found himself wishing that she'd just get on with it and
kill him rather than ranting about what he'd done, and he hung his head in shame as the verbal
abuse flowed—much of it surprising, as he'd never known that the always prim and forever proper
Minerva McGonagall even *knew* those words.

“Professor McGonagall!”

The Headmaster's firm voice abruptly cut off his Deputy's tirade and Dean took the
opportunity to say something in his defense: “Professor, I didn't mean…”

“Silence, Mr. Thomas!”

“Minerva!” It was a tone of voice that none of the students had ever heard—and one which both
McGonagall and Hagrid had heard all too infrequently over the long years of their association with
the Headmaster. It was firm and commanding—a voice that would have effectively cut off a bickering
crowd without the need for the Sonorus Charm—and the room was enveloped in a cone of silence.

“I believe Mr. Thomas.” Dumbledore quickly held up his hand at the look of surprise on his
Deputy's face and said, “The castle has been around for longer than either of us, Professor
McGonagall—and it undoubtedly has secrets that we have yet to discover, like the room that Harry
used last year for”—a sudden twinkle in his eyes—“Dumbledore's Army?”

A soft snort came from the others in the room, and a small smile appeared on McGonagall's
face at the name of Harry's secret DADA class. Dumbledore continued, “I suspect that this
blackboard which, I assume you asked some house-elf to procure”—Dean nodded vigorously at this—“has
been kept hidden in some unused classroom, probably because it has a tendency to… do its own thing,
as it were.”

Professor McGonagall's mouth tightened at that; although she could see the logic behind the
explanation, she wasn't that prepared to accept `magic' (inadvertent or otherwise) for
something like *this*.

“Rather than censuring these children,” Dumbledore nodded at the three Gryffindor boys, “they
should be rewarded for taking the initiative of trying to help a fellow student who, alas, often
has the unfortunate tendency of acting without thinking things through.”

There was a sad note in Dumbledore's voice which Dean and Seamus caught; neither of them
noticed that Neville, Ginny and even Luna were nodding their heads slowly. He trained his suddenly
twinkling eyes on Dean: “I should be awarding you boys twenty points each for trying to help
Harry”—the sudden grins on their faces were quickly wiped away as they saw McGonagall scowling at
them—“but I doubt if Mr. Potter would feel the same way after the spectacle that you have
caused.

“So let us just consider this incident closed.”

The three boys grinned, avoiding McGonagall's angry glare and wisely keeping their elation
hidden. “I would suggest, however, that you avoid Mr. Potter until Miss Weasley can explain the
situation to him.”

The three quickly nodded… none of them were willing to enter their dormitories right now,
until—as Dumbledore suggested—Ginny was able to explain the situation to Harry.

“If there is nothing else…” Dumbledore looked around him and nodded. He turned to Hagrid, his
twinkling eyes flashing at full force: “I hope Poppy has left the Floo open in the Hospital Wing;
no doubt Miss Weasley and Miss Lovegood would want to be there when Mr. Weasley wakes up?”

“Oh yes, Headmaster, thank you!” The three boys snickered at the breathless gratitude of Luna
Lovegood, each of them wishing that they could be in the Hospital Wing when Ron woke up to
Luna's attentions. Their snickers died, however, at the glare that Ginny gave them—and Dean
found himself sweating at the thought that the red-headed girl knew more than she was letting
on.

“As for the three of you,” the three turned to the Headmaster, “I assume that Hagrid would be
needing some help—”

“Tha's all righ', Perfessor,” the genial giant said. “Seein' as it was Harry who
actually did the damage… anyways, I think I'd best be havin' a talk with tha' boy
soon.”

“All right then.” He turned to the students again and said, with a smile, “Dismissed.”

The three professors stood quietly as the students left: Ginny and Luna using Hagrid's
fireplace to Floo to the Hospital Wing; the three boys taking their leave and walking out the door.
Within seconds of the door closing, a loud bray of laughter was heard, and Minerva McGonagall
turned her beady eyes on her wizarding superior.

“Albus, you surely don't believe that bull—”

“Of course not.” Hagrid and McGonagall gaped at him in surprise; Fawkes, who'd been quietly
sitting in a corner of the room suddenly flew up and settled on his shoulder, his soft croon
seemingly asking a question as Dumbledore stroked his feathers.

“But—”

“You must admit, Minerva, that their hearts were in the right place—they did want to help Harry
with his problem.” Their eyes inadvertently flicked to the blackboard where the naked Harry and
Hermione were still engaged in exploring each other's tonsils—McGonagall and Hagrid blushed and
turned away. “As for Misters Thomas, Longbottom and Finnigan… do you honestly believe that Miss
Weasley would be able to keep the *true* story of what happened here from Miss Granger?”

A short pause and Hagrid's soft voice breathed out even as Fawkes gave a small warble that
sounded more like a chuckle than a song, “Merlin! She'll *kill* them when she finds
out…”

“Indeed.” The smile on the old man's face was on a par with his twinkling eyes. “Of course,
the question is who will find them first: Harry or Miss Granger?”

The grins on Hagrid's and McGonagall's face were now close rivals to Dumbledore's
own, but McGonagall quickly frowned. “And Harry's… problem?”

Fawkes gave a warble that this time sounded more like laughter than chuckle and Dumbledore
smiled as he stroked the phoenix's red and gold feathers. “Indeed, old friend.”

He turned to the other two. “I think we can leave that in Miss Granger's more than capable
hands.”

McGonagall's eyes flickered once again to the blackboard with its moving drawings, and
giggled. “Or Miss Granger's more than capable mouth.”

A rumbled snicker from Hagrid, a short bark of laughter from Dumbledore, and another warbled
chuckle from Fawkes—and the Headmaster drew his wand. A quiet “Scourigify!” and the drawing was
erased, leaving nothing behind but a memory.

-->



8. Sentinel in the Common Room
------------------------------



**Seeking Hermione's Bean**

**Title:** Seeking Hermione's Bean (08)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:** Humour
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Bertie Botts Beans
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** What happened when Hermione fled Hagrid's hut? Are Cindy and Carolyn safe? Will
the Terrible Two be scarred for life? And… is that a basilisk in the Gryffindor Common Room?

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR NOTES:** My apologies to everyone for the delay in this chapter; RL has been worse
than ever before—which led to my Muse going off on a drunken binge and I had to leave off on
working on this for a while.

As usual, my deepest gratitude to everyone who reviewed… they make me smile and constantly pose
a challenge to me to do better in every way.

**Chapter 8.** **Sentinel in the Common Room**

Silent as a ghost (which he was), Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington entered Gryffindor Tower,
nodding a quiet `hello' to the dozing Fat Lady in her portrait. There was no real reason or
need for him to be here, he knew… except to look in and see if Hermione had been able to find Harry
Potter.

He smiled at the all-too familiar Common Room with its squashy armchairs and sofas, the always
roaring fire (magically conjured to give off warmth in winter and a cool breeze in hot weather),
everything neat and in its proper place from the cleaning that Dobby the House-Elf had given it.
And there was Hermione—sitting alone, staring at the roaring flames… a fist rhythmically beating a
silent tattoo on her chair's arm.

He was about to drift closer but paused, realizing that Hermione was murmuring monotonously…
repeating a most uncomplimentary word like a mantra.

With an elegant shrug of his ghostly shoulders, Nearly-Headless Nick decided to leave the young
woman alone. The way she was acting left no doubt that she'd found Harry Potter; unfortunately,
it seemed that her mission had some rather uncomfortable outcomes… and he would much rather not be
there to see what would result from it.

He sighed as he floated out the wall. `Young love,' he thought. `So beautiful to see but
hell on those who go through it.”

Another elegant shrug and he drifted off; he should just be in time to catch The Grey Lady as
she left the library.

***

That prat! That great, stupid, stumbling, bumbling, blundering *PRAT**!*

Did he have to do that? Of all the stupid, brainless, dim-witted things that Harry has ever
done—and she considered herself the authority on all the daft things that Harry had ever
done—*this… this**… this…!*

Hermione continued beating the armchair with her fist. If he's been obsessing about me, she
thought—and for a brief moment, the memory of their kisses beneath the mistletoe drove all thought
and breath from her—he should have just come to *me*! Even Dean, prat that he was and is,
could see the solution to Harry's damnable bean obsession: “Find Hermione, drag her to the
Astronomy Tower or the nearest broom closet and snog her senseless.”

She would have snogged him senseless in the middle of the Great Hall with teachers, elves,
ghosts and students watching if that was what it took to break him from his obsessions.

Hadn't she laid her life on the line for him and with him since First Year? Making their way
through the castle towards the Philosopher's Stone, encountering the Monster of Slytherin
because she wanted to help him, revealing the Time-Turner and riding behind Buckbeak to rescue
Sirius, and… and…

Unthinking, she rubbed her stomach, the memory of Dolohov's curse once again replaying
through her mind, and she shuddered.

She had gone the distance with Harry year after year… laid her life on the line more than once
for him and with him… what more could she risk losing that she hadn't offered before?

Their friendship.

She gritted her teeth as a wave of fear washed through her at the thought… was that why Harry
hadn't approached her? Was he so afraid that grabbing her and snogging her would ruin the
friendship and companionship they'd built up over the years… destroy the level of trust,
affection and love they had for each other?

But it shouldn't, she thought blankly. It shouldn't. What's a simple kiss between
friends—even if that “simple” kiss had burned itself into her memory… made her wake up in the
middle of the night with the sensation of his lips pressing on her… the feel of his tongue as it
entwined with hers…

She shuddered as the sensations and emotions of that night razed through her, and she felt sweat
breaking out on her head—and blinked as she thought, `maybe that was the point.' By unspoken
agreement, they'd kept quiet about what happened that night beneath the mistletoe… they never
spoke of it to anyone, even themselves—

And, although they'd been far more demonstrative and affectionate to each other than
friendship would warrant…

CRASH!

She jumped to her feet, wand in hand, eyes narrowed… and saw Crookshanks looking at her, trying
to look innocent beside the fallen wizard's chess set beside him. For a long moment, she glared
at her pet—who seemed to be grinning self-consciously back at her—before glancing up the stairs to
the girls' dormitories, and sighing to herself. Cindy and Carolyn were still up there… still
barricaded in their dormitory, and she shook her head as the memory of their return from
Hagrid's hut rushed through her mind…

She'd entered the Common Room silently, Cindy and Carolyn at her heels; the two young girls
quickly collapsing on a sofa while she stalked the room, muttering under her breath, mumbling
something about casting hell and damnation on the boys in Hagrid's hut…

Only to stop as she heard soft giggling from the sofa where the two girls were seated.

She'd glared at the two, sitting red-faced as they held their hands to their mouths, trying
to stop the laughter that was threatening to erupt from their throats… until they finally lost
control and started laughing their heads off, holding on to each other as tears coursed down their
rosy cheeks and she could feel the anger within her warring with the contagious hilarity—her mind
locking on Harry's shock as Dean petrified him… Dean's “professorial” voice as he walked
them through his analysis… Neville's “*Merde!*” and blaming his Uncle Algie in the next
breath… the boys' surprise at Dean's drawing, and… and… and—

Something must have shown on her face, she reflected—because she found herself hit in the face
by twin cushions. Before she could clear her head from the assault, Cindy and Carolyn were racing
up the stairs—

She ran after them, only to hear them locking the door to their dormitory, and she smirked,
remembering the door in the third-floor corridor she'd opened with Harry's wand—

“Alohomora!” She grinned as the lock clicked open—only to encounter major resistance as she
tried to open the door… pushed harder and realized that something big, and heavy—heavier than Cindy
or Carolyn or even their trunks—was behind the door…

“*Open this door! Cindy! Carolyn! Open this door!*”

“*No!*” the muffled response came back. “You're going to memory-charm us, Miss
Hermione…”

She stopped at that—she hadn't even thought *that* far ahead although, thinking about
it, Obliviating had its merits. But first, she had to get there—“Why should I do that, girls? Come
on, open up in there!”

She heard Cindy's muffled voice: “Because you're *embarrassed* at what we saw, Miss
Hermione.”

She'd sputtered at that accusation, but Carolyn spoke up: “There's *nothing* to be
embarrassed about, Miss Hermione… in fact, I think you and Sir Harry looked…”

A pause.

“Cute.”

Cute? *CUTE?* Hermione's anger boiled over—that *bastard* had made fun of her, and
these two thought it was *cute?* She was about to cast a *Reducto* on the door when
Cindy's voice came through: “Dean's a wonderful artist, Miss Hermione.”

*“**What?**”* she'd screeched—Dean had *abused* her and these two were
acting like art *critics*?

“You have to admit, Miss Hermione,” Carolyn's reasonable voice came through, “Dean's
drawing was *perfect*—it's just what everybody sees everyday!”

“I don't parade around the Common Room with no clothes on,” she'd roared as she kicked
at the door, “and neither does Harry!”

“We're not talking about your *bodies*, Miss Hermione,” Cindy's patient voice
replied through the barricaded door. “It's how Dean caught the way you look at Sir Harry when
you think he's not looking…”

“And how he looks at you when *he* thinks you're not looking…”

“Dean caught it perfectly.”

“It's exactly what everyone sees everyday, Miss Hermione.”

“Except the two of you…”

“You're both too busy trying to avoid looking at each other…”

“Maybe you completely missed it…”

She'd leaned her head against the door as the two girls inside explained… she found herself
sliding slowly to sit on the floor, wand held loosely as she slumped on the corridor.

“What are you saying, girls?” She'd said, quietly and almost to herself, and shook her head
as a muffled response came through the door.

“You're in love with Sir Harry, Miss Hermione…”

“And Sir Harry's in love with you.”

She didn't reply but remained slumped in the corridor… a few minutes later, she slunk off to
the Common Room and her favorite chair where she sat down, her mind a roiling cauldron of
conflicting emotions… Harry in his corner with his beans… her midnight realization that something
was wrong… Dumbledore's breakfast announcement… learning that Harry hadn't shown up for
lunch… running to his dormitory to check on him and Sir Nicholas telling her that he wasn't at
Divination… Cindy and Carolyn in Harry's room… the boys in Hagrid's cabin…

Had it been only two nights before when Harry brought those beans home for Carolyn? Was it only
last night that she watched him as he played with his beans? And only this afternoon when Dean
began his “lecture”… and drew that… that…

She gritted her teeth as the image on the board flashed in her mind. She had to admit that the
girls were right—she had been shocked at the way that she and Harry were looking at each other in
that drawing. What was surprising was that Dean had so precisely captured her feelings and emotions
whenever she risked staring at Harry—and her realization that Harry's face reflected the way
*she* looked at *him*.

But her surprise quickly turned to rage as she remembered what the *rest* of the drawing
was…

Dean's voice echoed in her mind: “You said you needed to find Hermione's bean, Harry…
the question is, do you know *which* bean to look for?”

There was only one reason she could think of for such an anatomically correct rendition of Harry
and herself; and it was that revelation which made her drag the two young girls away from the
window… it wasn't that Cindy and Carolyn would be scarred for life or would lose respect for
them after seeing them in all their naked glory—it was what Dean was planning
*after**wards* that made her run like a scared rabbit, dragging the two girls with
her.

She wasn't going to leave the girls to a pornographic show if she could help it.

*Especially* if Dean's peep show starred Harry and herself!

She realized that she was pacing the Common Room, recognized that her building anger was
refusing to be bled off by physical activity, felt her bushy hair tingling with electricity—heard
the portrait-hole open as a wave of sound crashed in, and she spun around, eyes flashing, to meet
Natalie MacDonald's startled eyes head on.

***

The end of the class day was always a noisy and rowdy time in Gryffindor as the students
returned to drop off books and bags and freshen up before heading to the Great Hall for dinner or
other recreational activities. Since they could not all enter at the same time, there was an
inevitable backlog on the outside, causing the corridor to boom with laughter and raised voices—a
sound matched from the inside as the separate groups converged and headed for their dorms or the
corners they'd staked out for themselves and their friends.

This time, however, those outside realized that there was only silence from inside; soon enough,
the noise on the outside died down as puzzled looks were exchanged and they began clamoring to get
in, some heckling those ahead of them to get moving, and finally pushing their way to the front so
they could enter quickly—

Only to freeze in their tracks at a sight they'd only heard of but never saw in all its
power and majesty: a fuming Hermione Granger in the middle of the Common Room, glowering at each
person who entered, waves of anger slamming into them for a moment before fading away, leaving them
pale and shaken…

Seventh-Year Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet finally understood why Fred and George would only
grumble and moan whenever Hermione stopped them from their “product-testing” the previous year—one
look into Hermione's flashing eyes sent a cold shiver down their spines, and they slunk off to
their corner where they exchanged quiet whispers as they kept glancing at the sentinel in the
Common Room.

Lavender and Parvati climbed in and paled at the sight. They'd had to endure Hermione in
their dormitory during their O.W.L.s and it was an experience neither wanted to repeat. They fled
for the safety of their dormitory, wondering what Ron had done to set their dorm-mate off, their
inquisitive minds quickly focusing on Dean and Seamus, wondering if the two would share what was
undoubtedly a juicy piece of gossip.

And so it went as the Gryffindors entered and froze before slinking, scurrying or scampering for
their dormitories to dump their books before returning stealthily to the Common Room—to wait for
what, no one knew, only that something extraordinary was about to happen and eager to see what it
was.

***

`That prat! That great, stupid, stumbling, bumbling, blundering *PRAT**!*'

The audio tape in her mind had gone into its seemingly unending loop, and Hermione continued to
pace the Common Room, unheeding of the Gryffindors entering—all of them shocked at her presence and
palpable anger, all of them avoiding her space as they went to their dormitories and quietly
returning to watch the drama unfold.

`Did he have to do that? Of all the stupid, brainless, dim-witted things that Harry has ever
done—and I consider myself the *authority* on all the daft things that he's done—*this…
this**… this**'**—**“**Arrrgh!**”*

The growl of anger made everyone in the room look up; eyes blinked and mouths dropped at the
sight of Hermione Granger standing still but shaking with rage at someone or something…

`Do you really think I'd do something like that to you, Hermione?'

Heads ducked all over the room as Hermione's heated glare flashed around, looking for the
source of that voice—and blinked as she realized that no one had spoken to her. She glared and
everyone quickly turned back to what they were doing—watching from the corner of their eyes as her
shoulders slumped, bushy hair flying all over as she shook her head hard, realizing that the
voice—so much like Harry's—was in her head.

Hermione stood still, gently massaging her temples as she thought of Harry and Ron, probably
still in Hagrid's hut with the rest of the Gryffindor boys, laughing hysterically at Dean's
antics, and a cold wave of anger coursed through her, making her shake and clench her teeth, her
fists, her toes—

`I would *never* do that to you, Hermione.'

The voice in her head paused for the briefest of moments before continuing: `Ever.'

`Will you get out of my *head!*' she screamed to herself, stamping her foot in
frustration, making the Gryffindors jump in surprise. `What the hell are you doing in my head,
anyway?'

`Sorry.'

She lowered her head in shame, feeling a wave of loathing pass through her at the tone of that
voice—hating herself for making him feel so undeserving and unfit to be in her head.

`How many times have I heard him say that, in that very tone of voice?' she asked herself,
and shook her head. `Not often enough, really… Harry had never *verbally* apologized to me for
every stupid little thing that he'd done over the years—everything from the moment he mounted
his broom to go after Malfoy in first year to the look he gave me when I thanked him for giving me
`The New Theory of Numerology' for Christmas…'

And Hermione shook her head again as she remembered Harry's face when she greeted him, his
eyes full of abject apology for giving her another book when he could have given her something more
personal—`like that foul-smelling perfume that Ron gave that I could only call `unusual'
because that was *precisely* what it was…'

She sighed. How could she tell him that he had nothing to be sorry about? She loved the book he
gave her; it made her appreciate how highly he thought of her, how much he really listened even
when she thought he wasn't listening. She had wanted to start bawling when she opened the
package and saw the book—her mind suddenly replaying the moment in the Common Room in third year
when they'd approached her with the Firebolt he'd gotten back from Professor
McGonagall.

`Typical boy,' she thought. `He couldn't tell me outright that he was sorry even then; I
knew that he was working his way around to it as he asked me how I was doing… suggesting that I
drop a couple of subjects… and then telling me that Arithmancy looked terrible—'

“Oh no, it's wonderful!” Hermione felt hot tears pooling in her eyes as she remembered that
moment. She'd been so depressed during those days when both Harry and Ron ignored her; even
though she kept her head high and continued to tell herself that it was all for the best. In spite
of McGonagall's and Hagrid's constant reassurance that everything would work out in the
end, she'd been miserable and wretched—until the moment Harry approached her. “It's my
favorite subject! It's—”

She could feel her teeth grinding down as the memory of what followed washed over her: Ron
shouting, the bloodied bed sheet in his hands, accusing Crookshanks of killing his stupid rat—

She forced the memory away, choosing instead to focus on her thoughts of last Christmas as she
held Harry's gift in her hands, smiling at Harry's thoughtfulness, shaking her head at the
notion that even if it had been two years since she'd told him that Arithmancy was her favorite
subject, he *still* remembered…

`I remember everything about you, Hermione. You're my best friend…' sounded the voice in
her head.

`Then why didn't you tell me, Harry? If I'm your best friend…' She answered him in
her head, unaware that the Gryffindors were staring at her in fascination as she stood in the
middle of the Common Room, seemingly in deep conversation with someone they couldn't see.

`Do you think I could?' Hermione shook her head at that; she could almost see his
embarrassed face right now, shuffling his feet, hands in his pockets, looking everywhere and
nowhere at the same time. `It's a guy thing, Hermione and… and…'

`I'm a girl? Is that it, Harry?'

He'd be hanging his head about now, she thought… ashamed and mortified of his hormones and
his thoughts, unwilling to face the fact that he would be thinking in that way about her, that he
would not be thinking of her as his best friend… that he would be having those `inappropriate'
thoughts about someone who's been with him since first year…

Hermione closed her eyes and tried to breathe deeply, fighting the conflicting emotions running
rampant through her mind and her body: one, a blinding, towering rage at the stupid bumbling oaf
who was her best friend; the other, a wave of sympathy and understanding for the lonely boy
who'd never had much of a childhood, who'd had to be rescued from his barred and locked
room in second year, who had literally begged that they send him food when his pig of a cousin was
on a diet…

She wanted to scream, to bawl him out for embarrassing her like that but at the same time
wanting to hug him, embrace him like there was no tomorrow, feeling her head threatening to explode
from the conflicting emotions of anger and concern coursing through her—

A flushed and excited Colin Creevey rushed in and froze in front of Hermione as his eyes met the
cold murderous eyes seen through the lens of his camera and the translucent body of Nearly-Headless
Nick—the eyes of the basilisk that impaled him as he tried to sneak to the Hospital Wing to see
Harry in his first year…

He was still frozen in place as the portrait-hole opened again and he felt someone behind
him—and a cheerful voice crying out, “Hi, Hermione!”

***

Dean had been in high spirits the whole afternoon—well, make that since they'd escaped
Hagrid's hut with some bruises and cuts, leaving the scene of the crime with no detentions or
points taken from Gryffindor… shaking his head at the magnanimity and understanding of the
Headmaster, unable to mask his glee at the stunned look on McGonagall's face as Dumbledore
defended them…

Without a word, the three boys had gone straight to the Hospital Wing to check on Ron, each of
them sniggering in anticipation of what they would find there—bursting in unannounced to find a
befuddled Ron Weasley, his head in Luna's lap as she ran her fingers through his hair while she
talked with Ginny who was sitting all composed on the bed next to Ron's, smirking to herself as
she watched her brother and her friend…

“Luna,” Ginny said in a feigned long-suffering voice, pointedly ignoring the three boys
who'd come in. “You *promised*—we've got OWLs this year, and you promised to help me
in my revisions—”

“Ronald said he'd tutor me, Ginny.”

“Hmph,” the red-head sniffed. “He didn't even offer to tutor *me* in anything, just
said that I can study as well as he did…”

“Oof!” Neville felt the breath knocked out of his body as twin elbows slammed into him from
either side, the short stab of pain announcing their presence to the oblivious Ron and Luna
Lovegood. He quickly straightened up, and said, “I'll be happy to tutor you, Ginny—that is, if
you wouldn't mind?”

He saw Dean's and Seamus' grins at this but didn't move—his eyes were suddenly
locked with the fixed and angry eyes of Ron Weasley who was doing an impressive imitation of a
basilisk as their eyes locked. The moment was broken, however, when Luna ran her fingers through
Ron's hair and he turned to look at her. Ginny, however, quickly leaped in—“Why, thank you,
Neville! That would be great… but wouldn't you rather be going to Hogsmeade than tutoring
me?”

Neville successfully sidestepped the elbows of Dean and Seamus, felt grateful when he realized
that Ron was glaring at Ginny, and said, “Well, we can do both, I think… we can get up early so we
could get a headstart on the coursework, go over to Hogsmeade for a break, and come back to
study.”

“Are you asking me for a *date*, Mr. Longbottom?” Neville's face turned as red as
Ginny's fiery locks but he quickly nodded and grinned as Ginny continued—“Thank you, I
accept.”

They'd left the Hospital Wing soon after, any discussions about the events in Hagrid's
hut glossed over, except for one thing—and Dean's smile widened as the three Gryffindors walked
back to the Common Room—Harry's outburst aside, he felt that he'd done a good day's
work: Ron and Luna seemed to be getting on famously, Neville and Ginny were going to be spending
time `studying', Seamus and Lavender were OK while he and Parvati were, well…

He shook his head, however, as he remembered his other dorm-mate—and sighed. He'd known that
Harry was someone special, ever since he'd learned of the legend of `The Boy Who Lived'…
and the legend had only grown with each year that passed: challenging The Nameless Prat in first
year, defeating Slytherin's monster in second, capturing Sirius Black in third, winning the
Tri-Wizard Tournament in fourth—fighting Death Eaters and The Dark Lord himself last year—

But the sheer power that Harry took to break out of the body bind as well as blast the
blackboard and Hagrid's hut in the same instant—

Dean shuddered as Dumbledore's words came back to him: “I would suggest, however, that you
avoid Mr. Potter until Miss Weasley can explain the situation to him.”

Unfortunately, there was no way around it… they needed to get to their dormitory to change and
freshen up before heading down for dinner. They'd asked Ginny to go ahead of them but she'd
refused to leave Ron to Luna's tender mercies for the moment; sighing, they'd agreed. The
only thing they could come up with was to have someone—probably Colin or his brother—check out
their dormitory before they ventured up there. If Harry was there, they'd simply hide out until
he left for dinner; if he wasn't there, they could sneak up and change or grab a quick shower
before he showed up.

Or, and Dean grinned as he gave the password to the Fat Lady, if *Hermione* were there,
they could ask her to keep Harry calmed down until they were done. No need to tell Hermione
anything, he reflected—Ginny had promised not to tell her, not unless she wanted her brother's
blood on her hands!

The portrait swung open and he quickly climbed in, feeling rather than seeing Seamus and Neville
following closely… and there was their salvation!

He slipped past Colin Creevey, giving the younger wizard a puzzled look as he passed, and called
out in a cheerful voice, “Hi Hermione!”

And gaped as he realized that her wand was moving up and pointing at him, and found the time to
gulp as he heard her voice cry out: “*Stupefy!*”

***

“*Protego!*”

The reaction was instinctive—Dean, after all, had been with Harry and Hermione's underground
DADA classes from the beginning—but even he was surprised at the sheer power behind Hermione's
curse. He knew the Shield he'd thrown up held—just barely—as he felt himself pushed back a few
paces… blinked as he felt a chunk of stone graze his shoulder, realizing that his shield had
deflected the Stunning Curse upwards, gaped as Hermione readied herself for another curse—and dived
to the floor as he heard Neville behind him yelling, “*Expelliarmus!*” quickly followed by
Hermione's “*Protego!*”—and tried to make his thin frame even thinner as the flashing,
scarlet light of the deflected Disarming Charm slammed into the surprised Neville, hurling the
latter backward into the wall where he slid down to the floor.

There was a moment of silence and then shouting was heard—and Dean cowered on the floor, lifting
his head for a moment as hexes flew around the room interspersed with flashes of white light. He
felt his jaw drop as he realized that Lavender and Parvati had jumped in to defend their
boyfriends—and gaped at the sight of Hermione Granger dueling with the two as the Gryffindors in
the Common Room peered out from under overturned tables and chairs—except for Colin Creevey who had
his camera to his face, taking pictures as he dodged the ricocheting hexes. His first thought was
to start crawling back to the door to get out, but stopped as Seamus' voice cried out,
“We've got to *help* them!”—turned back to see Lavender teetering as a Full-Body Bind
encased her, nearly jumped as Seamus leaped to his feet with a cry only to be blasted backwards as
a Disarming Charm hit—looked around and realized that Neville was still out cold… heard a thud and
wondered if Parvati or Hermione was down… felt a presence in front of him and looked up, and
wondered what the inside of a meat locker felt as he stared into the steely, blazing eyes of
Hermione Granger, and whimpered as her cold voice wafted down: “Where is he, Dean?”

For what seemed like ages to him but was in fact only a second or two in objective time, he
stared at her angry face, his mouth opening and closing as his life flashed before his eyes, the
events of this day swirling past him in brilliant color—especially the moment when Harry's
curse or hex or whatever it was rushed past him to blast the evil blackboard that, he had no doubt
now, was the cause of all this mayhem—felt a hand on his robes pulling him up, and sagged
unsteadily on his feet when he realized that it was Hermione's hand fisted on his robes.

“Who?” He cringed, wondering how a school owl had made its way into the Common Room, and shook
himself as he heard the same owl hooting and realized that it was his voice…

“*Who?*” There was no mistaking this enraged voice, however, and he forced himself to look
as Hermione roared in his face, “Where's Harry Potter, you nitwit?”

There was only one answer he could give, and he gave it: “Meep?”

He felt himself flung back and marveled for the briefest of moments at Hermione's strength,
felt himself slipping weakly to the floor as he landed on his back—and heaved a sigh of relief as
he watched Hermione's back exiting through the door.

He remained slumped for a long moment, hearing the Gryffindors stir as they realized that
Hurricane Hermione had left the area, excited jabbering beginning to rise—and a sudden dread
silence falling all over again as the portrait-door opened, and he prepared himself to faint when
Ginny Weasley's red hair appeared over him, her excited voice preceding her: “What happened? I
just saw Hermione storming out—”

The youngest Weasley took in the sight of the devastated Common Room and the sprawled bodies of
Parvati and Lavender, Seamus and Neville and her eyes caught those of Dean for a single moment
before expressing the same thought that had jumped into their heads: “I wonder how she found
out?”

They both blinked at Katie Bell as she said, “I sure hope Harry's found a nice, deep hole to
hide in… his life won't be worth beans when Hermione finds him.”

In a moment of silent understanding, Dean and Ginny looked at each other, the same thought in
their minds: if they never heard the word `beans' again, they would be eternally grateful.

-->



9. Crash and Burn
-----------------



**Seeking Hermione's Bean**

**Title:** Seeking Hermione's Bean (09)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:** Humour
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Bertie Botts Beans
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** Where was Harry Potter during the duel in the Gryffindor Common Room? Why is Filch
standing in a puddle of water? And is that Dumbledore and McGonagall in a broom closet?

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR NOTES:** I would like to thank the many people who left reviews and reminders to me
to continue with this story. RL, combined with a massive writer's block as well as some
interesting discussions at both the portkey forums and the H/Hr LJ community diverted me from
focusing on this work.

My thanks to **emma**, **mary6707**, **Frau_Sparrow****, Sannihun**, and everyone
else who has posted a review.

And most especially to **Jordan (pok)** who provided the challenge which was the grain of
this story, and to **andie (pottergirl786)** for the original inspiration that put this story on
track.

Without further ado…

**Chapter 9. Crash and Burn**

Drained.

Emptied.

Hollow.

The aftershock of what she had done hit Hermione just minutes after she stormed out of the
Gryffindor Common Room—slamming the portrait of the Fat Lady aside with such force that the
venerable old lady was toppled from a sound sleep… shoving past a startled Ginny Weasley who took
one look and ran for the Common Room… raging up and down the corridor outside before the adrenaline
crash hit and she staggered, bracing herself against the wall for a moment before her knees gave
out and she slid to a sitting position on the cold floor, pulling her knees up and hugging them
even as her now-teary eyes let go.

She buried her head on her knees, soft whimpers escaping her throat, a memory from her third
year echoing and re-echoing in her mind: “We attacked a teacher… We attacked a teacher… Oh,
we're going to be in so much trouble—”

Except that she hadn't attacked a teacher.

She'd hexed a student.

Correction.

She*'d* hexed *f**our* students—all of them her year-mates, all of them her
housemates.

Why?

Because she lost control.

She bit her lip at the thought; if there was one thing that would have radically changed her
classmates' opinion of her…

`Books! And cleverness! There are more important things—' Her words to Harry in the chambers
beneath the school. *That* was how she'd defined herself for Harry… even then, she'd
kept part of herself hidden—simply because she'd been embarrassed at her loss of control just
moments before when she'd hugged him so tightly, her fear of what he was about to face
overcoming her iron will and control—

Control.

It was the one thing which truly defined her… the one thing that made her what she was, the only
thing that had kept her sane and whole during her childhood in the face of the taunts and jeers of
her primary school classmates—uneasy as they were with her eagerness and academic brilliance, her
standoffish attitude towards sports and rough-housing, her seeming obsession with brushing
*properly* after every meal…

To say nothing of the unexplainable things that happened around her—the bursts of accidental
magic that left people wondering, trying to explain what had happened but, too often, shaking their
heads and muttering under their breaths—

`You're scary, Hermione. Brilliant, but scary.'

Ron's awed voice intruded into her mind and she shook her head. She never told anyone, but
those words had cut into her for a moment before being ruthlessly suppressed as she turned her mind
back to the task on hand…

Control.

How were they to know that those very words had followed her around during her childhood, before
she even knew about Hogwarts… before she even learned about magic as a real, living force… and she
clenched her teeth as she remembered Ron's offhand remark as they left Charms in their first
year… those painful, hurting words that told her that—no matter if she was in a school with others
like her—she was definitely *not* like anybody else?

She'd lost control then—rushing away teary-eyed, bumping into Harry as she ran towards the
girl's bathroom where she locked herself into a stall so she could cry her eyes out for hours
on end… only to exit and come face to face with a mountain troll that should never have been inside
the castle in the first place.

She'd totally lost it—screaming in sheer terror and unable to even *think*… everything
she'd learned from her books and classes gone and she didn't know what to do except
collapse against a wall, staring in wide-eyed horror as the troll came towards her, knocking the
sinks off the wall with its club…

And then she heard Harry shouting—saw the troll turning away from her, felt Harry's hands as
he tried to pull her away but she was frozen by fear, and she could only stare at him as he kept
trying to pull her away…

She could only watch as Harry took a great running jump and landed on the back of the troll
who'd turned on Ron… she'd sunk to the floor in shock as the troll tried to shake off
Harry… any second now, the troll was going to rip him off or catch him a terrible blow with the
club—

Control.

She'd been able to wrest her shattered emotions and exhausted wits about her when the troll
fell, and she now covered her head with her hands in sheer embarrassment as the first words
she'd uttered that night came back to her: “Is it—dead?”

Harry and Ron were still on an adrenaline high, she remembered—neither one took her up on her
totally clueless remark. And then the professors were in the room… McGonagall berating the two boys
for their foolishness… and she'd taken a deep breath and spoke up: “Please, Professor
McGonagall—they were looking for me.”

She'd faced McGonagall's wrath then and made a silent vow: she will never, ever, lose
control again. She'd seen the effects of losing control—of letting her emotions loose, of
allowing her passions and insecurities to take control of her life and actions and she didn't
want a repeat of that…

And she'd been able to do so, in the months and years since… she'd been able to keep her
head and her logic in place through everything that life had thrown at her and Harry—

She leaned back against the wall, a blank look in her eyes as she reminded herself that she
*had* lost control time and again: throwing her arms around Harry as he told her that he may
get lucky once again as he prepared to face Voldemort… walking all calm and composed into the Great
Hall only to break out into a run and end in a bone-crushing hug with Harry in front of Ron and the
whole student assembly… slapping Malfoy in third year as he sniggered at Hagrid breaking down over
Buckbeak… screaming at Ron, furious at his insinuations that she had betrayed Harry by going to the
ball with Viktor Krum… *charging* at Harry when he showed up at Grimmauld Place—

Control.

She'd been so proud of herself last year—exerting iron control over her emotions even as she
bled with everything happening to Harry—and everything that was happening to *her* as she
watched him dancing around Cho… holding her scathing tongue in check as he told them of what
happened in the Room of Requirement with Cho… trying to be a consoling friend as he told her of the
disaster that was his Valentine's date with the Ravenclaw seeker…

Her control had been on its thinnest thread when she'd tried to calm him down in his
panicked need to get to the Ministry of Magic to save Sirius… but she'd been able to hold on…
been able to come up with a foolhardy plan that had almost succeeded had it not been for the
treacherous Kreacher and the vindictive toad—

Control.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly—no need to go back over the events of that painful
year. Her emotional control had been stretched to the breaking point time and time again that year,
making her renew her vow to exercise iron control this year…

Only to have it all undone beneath the mistletoe when Harry's lips had brushed against hers
and she felt *something* exploding within her… something grabbing her insides and melting her
as fire raced through her veins… her mind screaming `Control yourself, control yourself!' even
as her hands fisted in Harry's hair… felt his heated hands exploring her back as her hands ran
through his silky hair…

Control.

They'd separated when their screaming lungs broke through their heated minds…

Control.

By unspoken agreement, they'd kept quiet about what happened beneath the mistletoe of
Grimmauld Place… and she had exerted her iron will once again, smiling to herself every time
he'd brushed her shoulder or placed an arm around her… grinning to herself as she leaned into
his arm to rest her head against him even as she felt his lips on her hair… sticking her tongue out
at him every time she caught him smiling at her…

Only to lose it again when she saw Dean Thomas' smirking face in the Common Room just
minutes before—

She slammed the still-closed fist that was holding her wand on the floor—and gaped as she felt a
wave of energy pass through her; looking up in time to see a red-hued burst of magic fly out and
slam into the wall above an empty portrait.

She stared at the spot, trying to remember who normally occupied that space, wondering if the
occupant was scrambling around the portraits, screaming bloody murder and trying to find a teacher
or Professor McGonagall in order to turn her in…

She leaned back against the wall, the momentary surge of adrenaline fading away, and she dropped
her wand… eyes glazing over before curling into a ball on the floor, a question ringing in her
mind: “*Where* was Harry Potter?”

***

Rage.

If there was one thing Harry Potter had become intimately familiar with, it was rage.

Angry, white-hot, blinding, fuming *rage*.

It was an emotion he'd come to fear and loathe, because of everything that he associated
with it, especially in the last year, the year that he'd taken to calling The Year of Rage—

*…* *Hermione's* *fear* *wh**en he lashed out at her and Ron, driving
away the happiness from her face at finally seeing him, finally hugging him after weeks of exile at
Privet Drive**…*

*… Losing it and going after Malfoy, wanting nothing more than to cause as much pain as he
could for the arse's provocation—ending with* *the old toad**'s triumphant
sneer* *as* *she* *pronounced his lifetime Quidditch* *ban**…*

*…* *Screaming in Hermione's face as she tried to reason with him**, tried to
deter him from* *his mad desire to rush to the Ministry to rescue Sirius**—only to watch
his godfather falling* *gracefully through the veil* *as* *Bellatrix Lestrange's
triumphant scream* *echoed in his ears**…*

*… His raw throat and wet cheeks as he destroyed Dumbledore's office because of everything
that had happened—seeing Hermione falling to the floor, hearing Neville's screams while
Bellatrix laughed, watching Ginny gritting her teeth as she hobbled on her broken ankle, Ron's
pleas in his ears as the brains wrapped themselves around him—*

Rage.

It was something he'd vowed to never let loose again… a promise made one sweat-drenched
night alone in Privet Drive as he held the mirror his godfather gave him to keep in touch… a mirror
that would have given him the assurances he needed *if* he had only remembered, *if* he
had only learned to control his raging mind… the way he was able to when Lucius, Bellatrix and the
rest had cornered them in the Department of Mysteries.

Rage.

It was an emotion he swore to control as he looked into Hermione's eyes last summer,
searching for the slightest tinge of pain from the tight embrace he'd given her, forgetting
that she'd been hurt so grievously because of him—catching the merest twinge in her beautiful
eyes, overlaid as it was with the care and concern that she always showed him whenever they met up
after a few weeks away from each other…

And he'd done it.

He'd been so *proud* of himself, in the weeks and months since. First with Snape,
who'd continued his training in Occulumency, taunting and jeering until he'd been able to
calm himself and block the greasy git's attempts to invade his mind; and then in school:
rolling his eyes whenever Malfoy or his cronies tried to insult him or his friends, raising a
quizzical eyebrow at Snape's snarky remarks in Potions, shaking his head at Colin Creevey's
continuing efforts to document his life… he'd even been able to control his righteous anger at
the Twins for having maneuvered Hermione and himself into that awkward situation beneath the
mistletoe of Grimmauld Place…

Only to lose it all in the blink of an eye—

`*Idiots!*' he ground out, not noticing a suit of armor quivering in fear as he passed.
`*Prats! Gits! Who gave them the* right *to do that? And to* Hermione*!'*

It was a litany he couldn't erase from his mind… a constant refrain that haunted every angry
stride as he stormed away from Hagrid's hut as a stream of never-ending thoughts ran round and
round his mind like Crookshanks chasing its tail as he strode around the lake, unwilling to return
to his dormitory, knowing that the mere sight of his mates' possessions would trigger off the
same rage that he'd vented in Dumbledore's office when he came back from the Department of
Mysteries…

He wasn't aware of returning to the castle… never noticed students taking one look at him
and scampering away in fright… so besotted by the fog of his rampaging emotions that he never saw
he was on one of Hogwarts' moving staircases, uncaring that it shifted and changed direction as
he climbed—

He suddenly stopped in the middle of the stairs, inhaling deeply and exhaling explosively,
clenching and unclenching his fists, grimacing as his fervid mind replayed what he'd seen on
the blackboard in Hagrid's hut: Dean's masterful drawing of himself and Hermione, holding
hands and looking demurely at their feet, without a single stitch or even a fig leaf or four
between them—

And Dean's wand *jabbing* at the region of Hermione's shapely thighs as he nattered
on and on about some *FECKING* *BEAN!*

His eyes flew open even as his feet started climbing—wanting nothing more in that moment than to
erase the memory of Dean and his wand from his mind—unaware of Mrs. Norris at the top of the
stairs, staring haughtily at the approaching boy…

He looked up at that moment—and Mrs. Norris felt herself pierced by the heated glare of an angry
Harry Potter, and the cat felt its back arching in fright… found itself stepping back as Harry
continued climbing… felt a shiver of fear run down its back as its tail stood up straight as a
flagpole before turning and bolting—

It was a sight that Argus Filch would forever want to forget: Mrs. Norris running like some
whipped dog instead of the castle's mistress, howling piteously instead of facing whatever was
coming with courage and fortitude…

The caretaker turned as he felt someone approaching, felt his eyes narrowing, lips curling as a
single, hateful thought popped into his mind: “Potter!”—before he was impaled by twin eyes of
adamantine green and he couldn't move, couldn't breath… couldn't even *think*…

Filch thought he heard Mrs. Norris whimpering as Harry Potter brushed past him, only to realize
that the whimper was coming from his throat. He finally blinked and turned to scream at the
retreating back, only to stop and wonder why he was standing in a puddle of water…

And realized that he'd wet himself.

***

She'd stopped grinding her teeth but was now biting her lip, her roiling mind playing and
replaying the events in the Common Room, much like her tongue poking and probing at a loose tooth
when she was younger… trying to find a logical and reasonable explanation for the sudden surge of
anger that had possessed her at the sight of Dean's face and the sound of his cheerful
greeting—

And admitted that there was nothing *logical* or inherently *reasonable* about her
actions or reactions… it was pure *rage*.

Because, consciously or unconsciously… advertently or inadvertently… Dean Thomas and his friends
had struck at the very core of her being… the one thing that she had always known but had allowed
herself to forget…

She was no ravishing beauty.

Dean's drawing came to mind, and her hands clenched as she bit down on the howl of rage in
her throat at having to confront that singular fact: there was *nothing* that would attract or
even hold Harry Potter's attention for long.

Dean had shown her for what she truly was: lanky, gangly, awkward Hermione… all arms and legs
and bushy brown hair and plain brown eyes…

She didn't have the voluptuousness of Lavender… nor the exotic duskiness of Parvati… the
sensuous petite-ness of Ginny… the compact athleticism of Cho… all that she had were her brains and
even that was hidden beneath the Medusan nightmare of her hair—besides, what was so attractive
about *brains* in the first place?

Even Cindy and Carolyn knew it … they'd gone on and on about how she looked *at* Harry,
with not one word about how she *looked*… focusing on her facial expressions and waving off
comments about the rest of her body, probably because there was nothing there worthy of note or
discussion…

And now Harry knew it too.

She angrily wiped the tears from her eyes as a sob escaped her throat, the memory of Harry's
horror-stricken face coming to mind…

It was the last thing she saw before she turned away to drag Cindy and Carolyn away from their
vantage point outside Hagrid's hut: Harry's shocked and frightened face as he stared at the
blackboard… seeing for the first time the body beneath the school robes that kept it hidden,
realizing that there was *nothing* he would want below her neck… nothing he would desire below
her *chin*.

It was the *exposure* of what she'd kept hidden which made her snap… made her lose all
control the moment she saw Dean's smirking face in the Common Room. Never mind *how* the
bloody pervert found out… the mere fact that he'd shown her for what she was to Harry was all
it took…

It was enough to make a grown woman cry.

***

Harry continued climbing, his mind fogged with rage as he walked towards whatever destination
his feet—and the moving stairs of Hogwarts—seemed to be leading him to, his mind again going over
the events in Hagrid's hut when he lifted his eyes and saw the drawing on Dean's
blackboard—

He wasn't sure what happened—all he knew was that he was on his feet, the magical binds
snapping with an audible sound—remembered seeing, for the briefest of moments, the drawings on the
blackboard dropping their jaws in shock before the Hermione on the board leaped into his
depiction's arms—a split second before a bright, white *something* hit the board, blasting
it into pieces even as his dorm-mates were scrambling away…

All that he wanted, all that he *needed* at that moment was to get away… to escape the
stifling hut, to forget those stupid, stupid *gits* who said they wanted to *help* but
were only making fun of Hermione, his Hermione…

His lovely, wonderful, brilliant Hermione…

`Thank Merlin that Hermione doesn't have a clue' he thought. `She'd **kill** me
if she thinks that I'm thinking of her that way. She's not some casual snog… she's my
friend, my best friend who has been with me through everything… she's the one I've trusted
to help me, the one I've confided in, the only one who's made me want to do
better…'

A thousand images of Hermione flashed through his mind: Hermione in a pink bathrobe and a frown
on her face… Hermione with a steely glint in her eye… Hermione's eyes shiny with tears…
Hermione ignoring Krum… the look of shock on Hermione's face as he told her that Ron was the
Prefect, not him… and the sexy, naked Hermione in Dean's drawing, looking demurely at her feet
as she held hands with him…

He felt a hot wave of blood flowing down from the top of his head and rushing up from the soles
of his feet to pool somewhere in the region of his pelvis as the image of Dean's drawing of
Hermione danced in his mind—

ARRRRGGHHH!

He shook his head violently, shaking off the beads of sweat on his forehead as her lovely face
and beautiful body formed in his mind.

He will *not* think of Hermione that way, he roared to himself—he will *not* dwell on
her fair skin, her lovely curves, her beautiful brown hair, her rounded belly, her pinkish—

His fists clenched tightly as he shook—he will *not* think of her that way.

He. will. NOT.

It was bad enough that he'd been occupied with thoughts of her lips, her tongue, the perfect
white teeth as his tongue brushed over them while seeking entrance to her throat that memorable
night at Grimmauld Place…

Or the heat that exploded in his chest and spread through every part of his body as his fingers
moved from her hair to her waist, from her waist to her back as he tried to get ever more nearer to
her that night…

He shook his head, trying to dislodge those embarrassing thoughts—those were the thoughts, after
all, which had started this whole mess in the first place!

And blinked as his mind registered his surroundings… his addled brain recognizing the Fat Lady
in front of him, and he gaped as he saw her frightened eyes staring at him as if Sirius had come
back to slash her portrait—

And heard a sniffle from somewhere down the corridor, followed by a soft sob echoing faintly
from somewhere in the empty, hollow passage—

His feet were moving even before his brain could command them, his anger and rage draining away
as if something within him had been unplugged, his eyes searching the corridor for the source of
that sniffle and sob… he was running even before he spotted the figure slumped on the cold floor,
knees drawn up and wild hair covering the face she'd buried in her hands…

***

She straightened up at the sound of clattering footsteps, hand automatically grabbing her wand
and raising it, felt her mouth dropping at the sight of the last thing she wanted to see at that
moment, but her mind broke down and she lost control of her rampaging emotions…

She found herself standing and trying to swipe away her tears even as her hand jammed her wand
into her robes, all her thoughts of seconds or even minutes before erased as she heard his voice,
full of worry and concern… her arms moving even as his arms wrapped around her and her hands were
clutching tightly at his robes… felt his hands around her back as she buried her face into his
chest while a fresh wave of tears broke out… heard herself whimpering, “Harry, oh *Harry!*” as
his arms tightened around her…

He felt his face assaulted by her hair as he drew her closer, felt all the rage and fury
he'd been nursing for what seemed like hours draining away into some dark corner of his soul,
closed his burning eyes as his mind reeled with her unique scent… felt one hand running through her
hair as his other hand traced comforting circles around her back—

He pulled her even tighter to him as he felt the tears soaking his chest, finally guiding her
slowly to sit on the floor as he knelt in front of her—the position awkward as she didn't want
to let go of his robes and he finally sat with his back to the wall as he pulled her to his lap,
murmuring her name over and over as his hands traced soft circles on her back, all thoughts focused
on the crying witch in his arms…

***

“I thought you said that Harry was exercising better control over his emotions, Albus.” The
words slipped out and Minerva McGonagall bent her flushed face, unable to bite back the censure in
her tone.

“He does, Minerva… but then again,” she turned to the Headmaster, frowning as she heard the
evident pain in his voice, “he *is* a young man, no matter what we want him to be.”

The old man paused for a second before continuing, “Lapses are to be expected.”

Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and McGonagall's quiet voice broke the silence,
“Especially when Hermione Granger's involved.”

“Indeed.”

Silently the Headmaster and his Deputy entered the castle, wrapped comfortably in the
understanding of old friends and trusted colleagues. They began climbing one of Hogwarts
innumerable stairs, their minds wandering back over the pleasant time they'd spent having tea
in Hagrid's hut when the Gryffindors had left and Dumbledore overruled her stated intent to go
look for Harry, saying that the boy needed time to himself…

It was over an hour spent in alternate laughter and pensive silence as they shared memories and
thoughts… Hagrid and Dumbledore laughing as she narrated once again the time she'd caught the
two coming down from the Astronomy Tower in their first year… silence as she spoke of the moment
when she had to show Hermione's Petrified form to Harry… heads shaking in wonder at
Hermione's strength of character when she told McGonagall of the Firebolt Harry had received…
tears at Hermione's face full of fingernail marks where she'd clutched it in fear… silence
once again as the words faltered when their memories brought back Harry's fifth year at
school…

It was at that point that Minerva decided to head back to the castle and her office; vaguely,
she had some thought of asking the house-elves to check and make sure that Harry hadn't
destroyed his dormitory in his righteous anger at his friends—and she'd startled Hagrid and
Dumbledore when she couldn't hold back the bark of laughter that possessed her as she
remembered the drawing that Dean had rendered…

They paused for a moment at the top of the stairs, frowning at an energetic Filch who was
mopping away furiously at a single spot on the floor, muttering continuously under his breath. The
Headmaster and his Deputy exchanged a look; with a shrug, they quietly passed the caretaker without
comment and headed for the next set of stairs.

“Are you *sure* Harry's all right, Albus?”

“I hope so, Minerva.” She turned to him in surprise, and saw Dumbledore's sad, wistful
smile. The old man continued before she could respond, “He's learned so much during these past
months but,” a soft sigh, “as I said—he is still a young man. And when it comes to protecting those
he loves…”

She nodded at that, and allowed her worry to show through: “I do hope he's cooled down by
now; I would hate to think what he's capable of if he allows his temper to get the better of
him.”

“I think he knows, Minerva,” Dumbledore responded softly, his eyes defocused for a moment as he
remembered his wrecked office when Harry's anger was unleashed. “Hopefully, his dorm-mates were
able to avoid him … or Miss Weasley was able to talk with him—”

“I know,” the Deputy Headmistress whispered softly, her mind suddenly locked on an enraged Harry
Potter as he sank his fist into a sneering Draco Malfoy's stomach during the Quidditch match
last year, followed by a flurry of punches and kicks which left the whimpering Slytherin on the
ground in pain. She'd been too far away to do something about it—and that had fueled her anger
as she left the stands to go to her office and meet them…

She shook her head at the memory of what followed. She'd been about to—in the quaint
language of her younger acquaintances—tear Harry and the Weasley Twins a new arsehole when the
simpering toad strode into her office, interrupting her and pronouncing a lifetime Quidditch ban on
her team's Seeker and Beaters…

But who was she to judge? She'd been as enraged when she'd seen the toad and her
flunkies attacking Hagrid and she'd run out to stop them without thinking to even grab her
wand, bent only on protecting the gentle half-giant who was and will always be a dear friend—and
had thus walked into four Stunners unleashed by Umbridge's stooges without a means to defend
herself—

She felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and looked into the Headmaster's now grave and
saddened eyes. A deep breath to control her emotions; a silent nod to her mentor, superior and
friend… and they turned back to the stairs.

***

Hermione's tears had subsided to quiet sniffles and broken sobs, her head still buried in
Harry's chest as he continued to run comforting hands up and down her back while he whispered,
“It's all right, Hermione… I'm here now, it's all right…”

She shifted in his lap and he bit his lip—Hermione may be smaller than he was, but six years of
Hogwarts' food and the constant walking around the castle—to say nothing of the bag of books
she constantly toted—had created a trim and tightly muscled package that was cutting off the blood
flow to his feet…

Worse, having Hermione's arms around him as she sat on his lap triggered off unwanted images
in his still reeling brain… Dean's drawing interspersed with the mistletoe in Grimmauld Place
as well as other deeply buried and never acknowledged dreams of his best friend… it was causing the
blood in his head to flow down south where it was blocked by the weight on his lap and seemed to be
pooling in his—

*Umbridge in a bikini, Umbridge in a bikini*—that's the ticket, he thought as he felt
himself calming down—and groaned as his traitorous brain wiped the appalling image from his mind,
replacing it with a picture of Hermione in a purple thong—

*Snape in a bikini, Snape in a bikini—EWWWW!*

He screwed his eyes tightly even as he bit down on his lip, the horrendous picture making him
want to throw up—and his ever-helpful brain, honed by months of Occulumency practice, quickly
formed an image of Hermione in a purple bikini throwing hexes at the bikinied Snape—

And felt an explosive exhalation leave his lungs as Hermione shifted in his lap… felt the tingle
in his legs as the interrupted blood flow finally made its way down to his feet… bit off the sigh
of relief as Hermione's weight eased even as he realized that she still had her head in his
chest, her hands still clutching at his robes... and froze as her muffled voice broke: “Oh, Harry…
what am I going to do about you?”

He tried to pull away but she only clutched tighter at his robes; he placed his hands on her
shoulders in an effort to push her away so he could look at her face, but she only buried her head
deeper in his robes…

“I thought you lo—*trusted* me, Harry…”

Before his suddenly dry throat could work up a response, Hermione was on him: tears streaming
down her face as she hit his chest with her small fists, mumbling distractedly, “You should have
*told* me, Harry… you know I would do anything for you, don't you? We've been friends
for so long… you're my dearest, dearest friend… I would do anything for you…”

“Hermione!”

But she wasn't listening as she continued to mumble, “Did you have to go and tell
*Dean* about it when you could have talked to me… you should have *talked to me, Harry…*
you know I would have done anything for you… You didn't have to go to Dean and the others if
all you needed was… was…”

With a force that he never thought he would have to use on her, Harry wrenched the distraught
Hermione from his chest; the latter dropped her hands and turned away from him but he wouldn't
have it, he wouldn't let her turn away from him…

With a trembling hand, he turned her face towards him but she kept her eyes away from him as he
spoke, “What are you *talking* about, Hermione?”

His mind snapped when she turned her sad and weary eyes on him, and murmured, “Hermione's
bean, Harry?”

***

They were about to climb another set of stairs when Minerva McGonagall stopped, a confused look
on her face as she realized that they were not heading for Dumbledore's office but were, in
fact, climbing the stairs leading to Gryffindor Tower. Ahead of her, Dumbledore turned, the
unmistakable twinkle in his eyes tinged with a look of infinite regret.

“There are times, Professor McGonagall,” Dumbledore said in a soft voice, “that one should
forget being the Headmaster or Deputy Headmistress… and simply be the Head of Gryffindor
House.”

It took a moment before she could close her mouth, a long moment before she realized that her
superior wasn't reprimanding her but was speaking for both of them and her mind—and she was
sure, his—was ranging back over the previous school year, allowing the regrets over sins of
omission and commission to wash over them.

It was true, McGonagall thought… It was too easy to justify their seeming neglect of Harry for
much of his fifth year by claiming their responsibilities to the Order and to the school as a
whole, especially given the interference of Fudge and his simpering toad—but there were ways around
that…

And Dumbledore's regretful tone struck a chord within her: she may be the Deputy
Headmistress, and as such beholden to the Wizarding Government… but she was, first and foremost, a
Gryffindor—it was her *duty* to watch and protect the children Sorted into her House. It was
all well and good to claim impartiality—but when did her responsibilities as Head of House
begin—and her task as Deputy Headmistress end?

She should have given Harry more time, she thought, instead of rationalizing away her seeming
inaction by claiming that the *school* needed her—when one of her own Gryffindors needed her
more…

She would not make the same mistake again.

With a slight nod, they again started ascending the stairs—only to stop in their tracks as a
feral roar echoed from the corridor above them, a roar that made them look at each other in sudden
fear for the lives of four Gryffindor boys: “*I'**ll* *kill* *them!*”

***

It was Harry's rage that snapped Hermione out of her funk—and made her realize what
she'd said. She'd been so bewildered from everything that happened that day that she'd
once again let her control slip and allowed her emotional, untamed mind full play… she was probably
channelling Hagrid at the same time because she'd let slip the one thing she didn't want
Harry to know that she knew…

And she would be paying the consequences unless she did something *now**!*

Without conscious thought, she whipped out her wand and pointed it at Harry; her brain went into
overdrive, running through the hexes, curses and charms she could use to stop Harry from charging
the Common Room and laying waste to its inhabitants: everything from the Full Body Bind that
she'd used on Neville in First Year to those she'd used in the battle at the Ministry, but
her bothered mind grabbed at the charm she'd taught him, coached him, *tutored* him in
until two o'clock in the morning and she screamed—“*ACCIO HARRY!*”

And gaped as the charm hit—and hurtled him back towards her…

***

McGonagall charged up the remaining steps and was on the corridor in seconds, wand out and ready
to stop Harry—but froze at the sight that greeted her: an entangled couple on the floor, the person
underneath undoubtedly female because of the skirt and exposed legs spread out on the floor while
the person on top and between those legs was undoubtedly Harry Potter from the untamed hair that
she could see…

She had barely opened her mouth when she felt herself being pulled off her feet and literally
thrown into a dark room, the person who'd done so following her so quickly that she hadn't
even closed her mouth from her earlier attempt—

A hand was on her shoulder and she immediately calmed down, remembering that Dumbledore was with
her; she blinked in the darkness as he felt him moving around the small space—wand movements and
murmured words, she realized: a Silencing Charm around the room, a brief incantation to make the
confined space less stifling, and finally, the wand in the old Wizard's hand lit up and she
realized that she was in a broom closet…

Again she opened her mouth but quickly shut it at the sight of the Headmaster's piercing
blue eyes, a finger over his mouth commanding silence and she complied; forcing a deep and calming
breath into her lungs, and stepping beside Dumbledore, who had extinguished the light from his wand
and was now cautiously opening the door and peeking out…

***

“*Hermione!* *Hermione**!*”

He'd rolled away from his flattened best friend and was on his knees beside her, fighting
down the panic at seeing her knocked out, once again cursing his blind rage for making him act
without thinking things through… learning that Hermione *knew* had re-triggered the anger he
thought had disappeared when he realized that the sobbing in the corridor was coming from her…
he'd thought his rage had passed as he held her in his arms, but all it took was her teary eyes
and woeful expression as she revealed her knowledge of his secret that let the rage loose—anger
that his roommates had *blabbed* about his secret… fury at their misplaced concern and
gutter-minded little heads that led to that *FECKING* drawing in Hagrid's hut which led to
his blind rage which brought about…

*A whine of panic inside his head was preventing him thinking properly: he had one hand on
Hermione's shoulder, which was still warm, yet did not dare look at her properly. Don't let
her be dead, don't let her be dead, it's my fault if she's dead…*

He shook the painful memory off and grabbed her wrist even as his other hand was stroking her
hair… the beat of her pulse in his hand made him release a sigh of infinite relief… he let go of
her wrist and grabbed his wand, trying to think of a spell, a charm, something to wake her up,
cursing himself for not ever asking about healing charms or spells to revive her, waving his wand
uselessly in the air…

Felt a soft whoosh of air passing him that his mind somehow grasped was a surge of magic,
realized that Hermione's face was blurry from his tears and his missing glasses—knocked off
when he'd slammed into her at full force from her Summoning Charm—and placed his face closer to
her to see if the magic he'd somehow called upon had worked…

A tidal wave of relief passed through him as the brown eyes that he'd grown to love snapped
open and blinked just inches from his own, and he was pulling her up even as he sat on the floor in
relief, wrapping his arms around her as he buried his face in her wild, bushy hair, rocking her
slowly in relief as he kept murmuring, “You're alright, thank God you're alright, I
can't take it if something happens to you… I can't take it…”

Hermione's head was spinning and light… she vaguely remembered hitting her head as Harry
crashed into her, felt her mind go black for the briefest of moments before *something* seemed
to have energized her and she opened her eyes to the most beautiful shade of green that she could
ever remember—realizing in the same instant that it was Harry's eyes so close to hers, his
warm, rapid breath touching her lips for a moment before she felt herself being pulled up and his
arms were again wrapping around her…

Felt her head resting on his shoulder and she let out a sigh of utter contentment at being in
the comforting circle of his arms, felt herself *melting* at the warmth of his body against
hers and the hands running up and down her back… realized that Harry was saying something… finally
forcing herself to listen even as her arms went around him…

And the situation was reversed: she was the one comforting Harry, murmuring soothing words in
his ear as she comforted him, running her hands gently up and down his back …

But her practical mind stepped in and she carefully placed her hands on his shoulders—feeling a
loss as he dropped his arms and tried to move away. She looked into his face but he was turning
away but she wouldn't have it. She placed her hands on his face and gently forced him to look
at her…

She felt her breathing hitch for a second when she saw his pained and tortured eyes looking at
her but she wouldn't let go as she spoke in a soft, almost crooning voice: “I'm all
*right*, Harry… I'm all right, see? I'm here, Harry, don't worry…”

Watched as a brilliant spark shone briefly in his tortured eyes but she held on to his gaze;
gave a tremulous smile as she felt his hands rubbing slowly up her arms… shivered as she felt the
hands roam gently up her shoulders and neck and realized that he was checking her for injuries…
felt herself tingling as the hands flowed through her hair and—

“OWWW!” She scrunched her eyes closed as his fingers gingerly touched a largish bump at the back
of her head—and flew open as he murmured softly, in a pitch-perfect imitation of Viktor Krum: “You
haff a lumf in your hair, Herm-own-ninny.”

She broke off her icy glare when she saw the glint of humor in his eyes fade as he turned away,
felt herself turning his head back to look in his eyes as she whispered, “It's all right,
Harry—nothing that a cold pack can't cure…”

She frowned as she realized that he was refusing to look at her, but blinked as she realized
that his wand was up and moving as he murmured something beneath his breath… felt her jaw drop as
he whispered, “Oh *SHITE**!*” in an angry voice—turned to where he was looking at and
giggled as she saw a large block of ice behind her. Before she could say anything, he'd waved
his wand again and the block of ice vanished… another wave and she saw an ice pack floating in the
air behind her.

Before she could ask, she felt Harry's hand pushing her head gently on his shoulder, to be
followed a second later by a cool, cold sensation as he lightly ran the ice pack over her head. She
gave a sigh of contentment and relief as he gently pressed it on the bump on her head, felt her
arms wrapping around him even as his other arm steadied her… allowed herself to slump against his
chest, closed her eyes with her ear pressed against his beating chest, and surrendered herself to
the ministrations of her dearest friend.

***

Minerva McGonagall fidgeted, not being able to see anything outside the broom closet where
Dumbledore had thrown her before diving in himself. He blocked her view of the corridor, standing
as he was at the crack he'd opened in the door and she wondered—and worried—about what was
going on out there.

She watched her old friend take careful aim with his wand out the door and murmur a healing
charm, and something clicked in her mind: Hermione screaming `ACCIO HARRY!' just moments before
she'd cleared the stairs and shoved into the closet. Hermione must have Summoned Harry, she
thought, but—given the power she put into it and the probably short distance she was from Harry… it
was more than likely that Hermione had tried to catch a flying Harry and crashed to the floor—

And *that* explained the image that was now seared on her brain: a spread-eagled Hermione
on the floor with Harry Potter on top of her. She felt a wave of shame wash through her at what she
thought she'd seen—

She shook herself and tried to lessen her guilty feelings, thinking, `Well, why shouldn't I
be thinking of it? After everything that they've been through together…' and an errant
memory from the previous school year walked through her mind: Harry Potter in her office as she
told him off for antagonizing Fudge's Toad in their DADA class, and his answer when she'd
asked him if he'd been listening to Umbridge's words during the welcoming speech.

She smiled at Harry's response to her question, and shook her head at her words to him:
“Well, I'm glad you listen to Hermione Granger at any rate.”

He would have done better if he'd only listened to Hermione more, but then again… boys will
be boys. She glanced at the profile of her old friend, highlighted by the light from the crack that
he was peering through and rolled her eyes at the twinkle she could see in his eyes. `Boys!'
she thought… they never seem to grow up—

She felt her eyes go wide as her ears picked up a sound from the corridor… felt her brain stop
as she recognized—a *moan?* And was that moaning in… in… *Hermione's voice?* She
tried to sharpen her hearing as the sound came again, and there was no longer any doubt: “Ohhh…
yes… right there… ummmm… that's good, Harry, that's very, very good… yessss…”

`You DIRTY *OLD* MAN*—*' She gaped at a madly grinning Dumbledore who was still
peering out the door and shoved him away; she was about to burst out of the closet when her eyes
focused and she found herself frozen, torn between melting into a puddle of emotional goo and
embarrassment at her dirty mind at the sight she saw: Harry sitting on the floor with one arm
around Hermione, the latter's head resting on his shoulder, Harry's other hand gently
holding an icepack against Hermione's head… Hermione's face a study in pure bliss and
contentment at being tended so lovingly…

She heard a snort beside her and tried to glare at the amused Headmaster sharing the closet with
her; but she knew that the force of her legendary stare was diluted by the tears in her eyes at
that so loving and so touching a scene, and she contented herself with a small sniff…

They look so good together, she thought as she looked at the scene once again, her heart singing
at the oh-so-obvious care, affection and concern that Harry was showing his Hermione—`Did I just
say *his* Hermione?” she thought. She shrugged to herself as she shook her head—“So?
They're bonded far more closely than James and Lily were at that age… Uh-oh!”

Hermione's hand had reached out behind her and touched the ice bag on her head as she leaned
back, breaking away from Harry's embrace; Harry had, without a word, leaned away from her and
moved back slightly. She smiled at him and mouthed a quiet “Thank you” but continued looking into
his face, a question in her eyes.

McGonagall held her breath as she watched the two teens staring at each other, their bodies
slowly leaning forward, their eyes never once breaking away from each other. There was only one
ending to this and she was torn between closing the door on what was about to happen, and bursting
out of her hiding place to stop those two hot-blooded teens from snogging in the corridor. She
would have to take points off both of them if she did, she thought, to say nothing of pronouncing
detention on both—an action guaranteed to spread around Hogwarts with the speed of light, which
would expose the young couple out there to teasing and ridicule, to say nothing of painting a
large, glowing target on Hermione Granger's back…

Before she could make a move one way or another, a muffled shout of “MRS. NORRIS!” echoed in the
corridor and she couldn't help a smirk as she watched the couple outside freeze and look around
wildly for escape. The smirk turned into a look of horror as she realized that the two may decide
to hide here—the same closet that she was sharing with the Headmaster!—and she couldn't imagine
the kind of scandal that would erupt if it ever came out that she and Dumbledore were found in one
of Hogwarts' infamous broom closets!

She held her breath as she saw Harry pull Hermione up beside him, frowned as the latter gestured
with her wand and summoned Harry's glasses from wherever they had fallen, and heaved a gigantic
sigh of relief as Harry put on his glasses, gave a quick look around, and swept up Hermione in his
arms before walking briskly towards a staircase which had conveniently moved into position a few
yards away from where they were.

She leaned back against the wall of the closet as her tension bled away; she deserved some rest
after what she had just gone through, after all. After a few seconds, she pulled herself up and
started assuming the icy demeanor and stiff posture of her persona as Deputy Headmistress—and froze
once again she heard the raspy voice of an annoyed Argus Filch outside the door: “Mrs. Norris! If
ye're in there, ye'd better come out right now—I don't wanna catch you playing around
with that Granger's cat—”

`SHIT!' she thought—the imprecation fitting her current situation perfectly, never mind that
it was a word that she would never *ever* have uttered before—she could see the headlines
right now: “**HOGWARTS' SNOGWARTS**: Headmaster and Deputy found snogging in broom closet…
Fudge pronounces detention on amorous couple…”

She felt a sharp rap on the head, followed by the cold sensation of an egg flowing down her body
and she realized that Dumbledore had Disillusioned her; before she could say a word, the door was
flung open and she blinked her eyes against the light that flooded in, avoiding the cold, ruthless
eyes of the caretaker who was raking every corner of the broom closet in his search for his missing
cat.

She forced herself to hold still, knowing that Disillusioning did not make one totally invisible
but simply matched oneself to the surroundings; nearly screamed as Filch reached a hand out as if
he were about to go through the brooms, mops and other supplies in the place but the caretaker
stopped as she felt a slight tingle of magic—a small Repelling Charm, she thought—before he pulled
back and closed the door on them.

She was about to heave a sigh of relief when she heard the lock click and her mouth fell open
for a second before remembering that she was a fully-qualified witch of long experience whose
second-best subject had been Charms…

She decided that it would be best to stay put for a while longer, until she could be sure that
the caretaker had left the vicinity—a thought quickly dashed by the sound of the dinner bell
ringing, quickly followed by the stampede of many feet as the Gryffindors rushed out to their
meal…

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a soft cough to one side, followed by a sharp rap on
the head and the sensation of something hot trickling down her back and knew that Dumbledore had
ended the Disillusionment Charm—and blinked at the Headmaster's amused voice in the dark: “Ah,
Minerva… I would never have expected the lengths you'd go to just to get me into a broom
closet.”

“WHA—“ Her scream of indignation was abruptly cut off by the sound of a snicker from the
Headmaster; before she could compose herself, however, the old man continued—and she had no doubt
that his eyes would be twinkling madly by now—“Alas, I must confess that while my spirit is more
than willing, the flesh is unfortunately too weak.”

She was about to hex the old man right then but the humour of their situation caught up with
her, and she forced down the giggle that was about to erupt from her throat. After a few moments to
compose herself, she spoke in as seductive a voice as she could muster, “And what will you say, my
dear *Bumblebee*, if I told you that I'm more than willing to see how `*weak*'
your flesh really is?”

She punctuated this by transforming into her Animagus form without touching her robes—the move
ensuring that her clothes would rustle as they fell to the floor. She immediately transformed back
into her clothes, an evil smirk on her face as she heard a distinct gulp followed by Dumbledore
saying in a higher-pitched voice, “*Professor* McGonagall! Surely you jest—“

“And why should I jest, Albus?” She started walking deliberately towards the voice, adding in a
low, sultry voice, “And don't call me Shirley.”

She was rewarded with the clatter of mops and pails falling as Dumbledore backed into them; with
a girlish giggle that was so unlike her, she raised her wand and proclaimed, “LUMOS!”

And collapsed on the floor, laughing at the sight before her: a wide-eyed, wild-eyed Albus
Dumbledore crouching on the floor, looking for all the world like a cornered man about to fight the
battle of his life—

For a long moment, the old man looked at her, bewildered at the turn of events but soon enough,
a broad grin broke out on his weathered face and he chuckled softly at how his feisty Deputy had so
quickly turned the tables on him. He watched with amusement as McGonagall finally stopped laughing
and pulled herself together; with a grin, he reached out and pulled her to her feet.

A few moments of intent concentration and he waved his wand at the door, which clicked open to
reveal a silent and empty corridor. With a short bow, the Headmaster gestured his Deputy to go
ahead of him; with a regal nod broken only by a smile, Professor Minerva McGonagall stepped out to
wait for her escort in the corridor.

They spent a few moments just looking at each other, snorting as they tried to control their
laughter and then, with a simultaneous shake of their heads, they proceeded arm-in-arm down the
corridor for the stairs that would lead them to the Great Hall and dinner.

-->



10. Walks and Talks
-------------------



**Seeking Hermione's Bean**

**Title:** Seeking Hermione's Bean (10)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:** Humour
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Bertie Botts Beans
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** Where did Harry bring Hermione after escaping from Filch? What are the teachers
sniggering about during dinner? Why were Neville, Seamus and Dean about to hex Parvati? Why is
Ginny hissing like a basilisk? And will Harry and Hermione ever kiss? :P

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR NOTES:** My deepest gratitude to the many, many reviewers of this story which
started out as a challenge posed by **Jordan (pok)** last year, found inspiration in
**andie's (pottergirl786)** beautiful story, “*Beyond A Kiss*”, and which has gone into
areas and dimensions that I never planned for when I started it.

My deepest thanks also to everyone for their patience in waiting for me to continue this story,
as well as the gentle reminders from readers to keep updating this story.

I'm dedicating this story also to two wonderful people who provided some insights that
helped me complete this chapter: **Lisa (McGonagall****)** whose essay (“A Heart Once Given…
A Love Beyond Imagining?”) on the Pumpkin Army forum provided some insights I needed, and to
**Gillian Halliwell**, whose *colo**u**rful* view of the world is something I
will always cherish.

Without further ado…

**Chapter 10. Walks and Talks**

A visibly smirking Minerva McGonagall collapsed in her seat at the teacher's table in the
Great Hall, grateful for the hidden passages and private lifts that only the Headmaster and his
Deputy knew, which had allowed them to make good time from Gryffindor Tower to the Great Hall,
arriving just as dinner was being served. She took a sip from her goblet, using the opportunity to
stop giggling as she savored the memory of a frightened Albus Dumbledore crouching in a broom
close, prepared to fight off what he thought were her amorous advances. `*D**amn!*'
she thought to herself. `*I wish I had a camera! Albus has been getting away with his omniscient,
all-knowing, all-powerful mantle for too long. It would have been nice if I had a memento of that
moment…*'

“Care to share the joke, Minerva?”

She looked up to see the inquiring eyes of Amanda Vector, Hogwarts' resident authority on
Arithmancy, who was looking over her goblet, an eyebrow raised. McGonagall felt, more than saw,
Dumbledore's anxiety as he waited for her response—and she would have bet ten Galleons right
then that the old coot was fighting down a blush… too bad his beard would cover his red face, she
thought irreverently.

She shook her head at her colleague and felt the Headmaster relax. “Nothing, Amanda,” she
replied cheerfully. “Just remembering something I never thought I'd see…”

“Albus!” The teachers turned to see Professor Flitwick climbing up to his usual chair a few
seats down from Dumbledore. In a worried voice, he continued, “Some of my Ravenclaws told me just
now… something about Mr. Potter attacking his classmates and blasting Hagrid's house to
smithereens?”

“What?” Remus Lupin (who had just arrived to substitute for Moody in DADA while the latter left
on a mission for the Order) was pushing back his chair even as Hagrid's angry reaction (“He
din't—”) was stopped at a raised hand from the Headmaster, who turned to Flitwick with a raised
eyebrow.

“An exaggeration, Filius,” Dumbledore said. “Harry was… uhm… *provoked* earlier this
afternoon and let loose a burst of uncontrolled magic which… *rearranged* the inside of
Hagrid's hut. Unfortunately, his classmates were with him and they were caught in the blast of
Harry's magic.”

The old man paused for a second before addressing the teachers. “I would appreciate it—” he
focused on the Heads of House around him (especially Professor Sinistra who was watching over
Slytherin in Snape's absence)—“if you informed your students that it was nothing more than a
prank gone wrong.”

“Of course,” the relieved Professor of Charms replied. “Although the students will, as I'm
sure you know, come up with their own stories or theories as to what actually happened.”

The Headmaster shrugged, accepting the caveat that Flitwick pronounced. He was about to turn to
his soup dish when Remus, who had settled back in his chair spoke, “That must have been some
provocation, Albus—”

“Probably someone making a joke about Miss Granger,” interrupted Professor Sprout, who was
seated beside McGonagall. “Mr. Potter has always been very protective of her.”

Remus turned to Dumbledore and McGonagall, and saw them exchanging amused glances—and smiled,
knowing that he could get the full story later. He was about to ask Professor Sprout to pass the
salt when the latter addressed Professor Sinistra, who was seated beside him. “Care for a side bet,
Lucy?” the dumpy Herbology Professor asked, a twinkle in her eye and a wide grin on her face. “As
to when you'll catch Mr. Potter and Miss Granger sneaking down from the Astronomy Tower?”

“Sucker bet, Dorothy,” the Astronomy teacher replied with dignity as the other teachers,
including Remus, laughed. She turned a raised eyebrow on the Deputy Headmistress. “Besides, Minerva
already caught them coming down from the Tower in their *first* year…”

“Hem, hem,” the teachers quickly fell silent at the slightly reprimanding tone of the
Headmaster. “I think it's inappropriate to be discussing our students' personal lives—”

“Oh, posh, Albus—you know the students can't hear us,” Professor Sprout shot back as she
gestured at the air around them—the act causing a slight shimmer which meant that a ward was in
place between their table and the students to keep the latter from overhearing the teachers'
conversations. A decidedly fiendish grin broke out on her always-benevolent face as she continued,
“Besides, a little bird told me that you and Filius lost fifty Galleons in a side bet… something
about Mr. Potter and Miss Granger becoming an item over the Christmas hols?”

For a brief second, any student who happened to look at the teacher's table would have been
reminded of a fishmonger's stall with its collection of fresh-caught, mouth-agape fish: the
other teachers looking in shock at Dumbledore and Flitwick; the two, with suddenly flustered faces,
staring in surprise at the smirking Sprout.

The sudden silence was broken by Professor Vector's awed voice: “*Fifty--?* You were
that confident, Albus?”

Before the Headmaster could respond, Remus Lupin spoke up, a feral growl evident beneath his
normally calm voice: “You and Filius wouldn't have anything to do with the Weasley's `Very
Merrie Mistletoe,' would you now, Albus?”

“Mistletoe?” a puzzled Professor Sprout asked, but was interrupted by an explosive cough from
the Headmaster which caused the teachers to fall silent: “As I was about to say… I think it's
inappropriate to talk about our students' *personal* lives at the teacher's table. We
have our Common Room for such discussions.”

There were soft snorts up and down the long table, the teachers trying to stifle their laughter,
giggle or snigger at the reminder of their Common Room—and its enormous blackboard where the
teachers' bets on who would end up with whom and when were posted and where, unknown to the
student hucksters, the bets placed on Harry and Hermione easily rivaled the combined student
betting pools by a wide margin.

“Who are we talking about?” The teachers glanced up as a clearly harassed Madam Pomfrey took her
seat beside Hagrid, immediately reaching for a goblet and draining it before banging it down in
exhaustion.

“`arry and Hermione, Ma'am Pomfrey,” Hagrid whispered to her.

“Oh,” she replied, shrugging. She slumped in her seat for a moment before suddenly sitting up
with an excited grin. “That reminds me, Filius—you seem to have called it correctly… Weasley and
Lovegood are well on their way to becoming an item.”

“Really?” Flitwick clapped his hands in glee, bouncing and almost falling from his cushions. “Oh
good! Severus won't be happy—he's about the only one left who believes that Miss Granger
and Mister Weasley would become an item.”

“He's just being bloody-minded, Filius—to say nothing of being grouchy, to boot. You know
how he is,” Professor Sinistra said, and then she shuddered. “Remember how long he's been
saying that Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Granger will get together before they leave?” Shaking herself, the
acting Head of Slytherin House turned to Madam Pomfrey, “Mr. Weasley and Miss Lovegood, hey? Are
you sure, Catherine?”

“Why do you think I look so harassed, Lucy?” The school nurse sighed as Hagrid solicitously
ladled beef stew on her plate. “I was going to Stun Miss Lovegood so she would leave Mr. Weasley in
peace… in any case, I asked the house elves to keep an eye on the Hospital Wing in case she tries
to sneak in tonight!”

“It's that bad?” a surprised Remus asked. “The last time you had the house elves guarding
the Hospital Wing—”

“—was when Lily Evans was there, and James kept trying to sneak in,” finished Madam Pomfrey with
a laugh. “James could be as hard-headed as young Mr. Potter… although, come to think of it, the
house-elves would probably be keeping *me* out of my own hospital if Mr. Potter decides to see
Miss Granger outside visiting hours!”

“Or if `ermione tries to sneak in to see `arry,” Hagrid said, with a booming laugh.

“Speaking of Miss Granger,” Professor Vector said as the laughter died down, “have you seen her
this afternoon, Minerva?”

Surprised at the abrupt change in topic, the head of Gryffindor House caught herself just in
time, and shook her head: “Y—No… not since luncheon, I think. Why? Is anything wrong?”

“She wasn't in my class today,” Professor Vector answered.

“That's strange,” McGonagall replied, a puzzled tone in her voice. “Miss Granger is rather
conscientious when it comes to her classes.”

“It's no big deal, Minerva,” the Arithmancy professor said as she waved a hand in dismissal.
“It's not as if the world would end if she doesn't show up; I just thought I'd mention
it.”

A concerned Deputy Headmistress turned to the school nurse— “No, she hasn't been in to see
me,” Madam Pomfrey responded to the silent question. Before McGonagall could turn her head, Madam
Pince spoke up: “I haven't seen her in the library this afternoon, either.”

McGonagall's eyes swept the Great Hall—and widened as she realized that her Gryffindor
sixth-years—and one red-headed witch—were absent from their table, which was buzzing with a
noticeable air of palpable excitement and energized chattering. Frowning, her eyes quickly
quartered the Great Hall, pausing for a second on the Ravenclaw table but she shook her head,
realizing that it was Padma Patil that she saw—

And blinked as a petite, red-headed witch entered the Great Hall, flanked by Lavender Brown and
Parvati Patil, their eyes sweeping the tables as if looking for someone… and then Ginny gestured to
someone outside the doors, for all the world as if she were inviting that someone—or some
*ones*—in.

The young witch's actuations caught the interest of the teachers, who turned to watch as the
missing Gryffindor boys (except for Harry and Ron) entered the Hall—Seamus, Neville and Dean with
their backs to each other, eyes darting around as if watching for a Death Eater ambush… the three
girls looking at them with eyes rolling in exasperation—

“Parvati!” Padma Patil's joyful shout caused heads to turn all over the Great Hall—and jaws
to drop in disbelief at the sight of wands snapping up and pointing at the approaching
Ravenclaw—quickly followed by hands hitting flesh as Ginny, Lavender and Parvati either slapped
wand-hands down or smacked the heads of their male classmates…

“*I TOLD you they weren't here—now just go to your seats, and* SIT!”

A palpable shiver ran through the Great Hall at the angry hissing of the red-haired witch; for a
moment, Minerva McGonagall wondered if Ginny had been taking voice lessons from a basilisk. The
surprised teachers watched as the Gryffindor boys meekly followed the orders of the half-pint
witch… only to blink as a hoarse whisper escaped Hagrid's lips: “Where's `arry an'
Hermione?”

*

“Put me down, Harry.”

There was no reply, only a brief tightening of the arms around her, and she sighed in
exasperation.

“Harry…” she said, and again there was no response—only a momentary shifting of her body as he
tried to settle her more comfortably in his arms. “Harry Potter!”

Harry's head snapped around and her heart stopped when she saw the burning green eyes of the
Harry Potter of their fifth year: intense, angry… his raging temper held back by the thinnest of
margins. She felt herself stiffening in his arms even as her suddenly dry throat gave a quiet
gulp—and felt her herself going limp as his expression softened… felt herself melting as his eyes
shifted from a piercing emerald-green to the soothing tones of a meadow basking in the glow of a
cloudless day. Harry's eyes—so angry and intense mere moments before—were now full of concern,
full of worry: Harry Potter in full saving-people-mode.

“You're not that heavy, Hermione.” It was a voice that she'd often heard in her dreams:
gentle, soft, caring… speaking as if she were the only person in his world, caressing her with its
gentleness—and she had to fight against the sudden urge to simply swoon in his arms.

“What's wrong, Harry?” Was that her voice, Hermione wondered? When did it become throaty,
when did she ever sound so helpless, so beseeching, so vulnerable—

He bit his lower lip in response—a action so familiar that Hermione's thoughts were thrown
off for a second before she realized why: it was something that her mother did… gesture that
she'd unconsciously adopted and never realized she had until her roommates called her on it…
but her thoughts were interrupted as, with a soft sigh, Harry gently set her on her feet…

She felt a wave of nausea course through her—the bump on the head, being carried around for what
seemed like hours, her addled brain as she gloried in the sensation of being in Harry's arms,
had all taken its toll, and she found herself falling, only to find herself wrapped again in
Harry's arms.

She took a deep breath as she rested her head on Harry's chest… and sighed in contentment.
It felt different, she thought… she'd hugged him and been hugged by him before, but this was
*different*… so warm, so comfortable—she knew that she could fall asleep standing up and wake
refreshed and relaxed, for as long as Harry was the one holding her…

She shook those thoughts off as she felt the rumbling in his chest and sensed the frustration in
his voice: “I don't understand it, Hermione… the stairs just keep moving and shifting! It's
as if they don't want to let us go…”

His ranting stopped as they heard something growling—instinctively, she let go of Harry as she
grabbed her wand and spun around, back to back with him as they scanned for the threat—and gritted
her teeth in embarrassment when they heard the growl again—and realized it was coming from the
region of her empty stomach.

She tried to hide her face behind her hair as she heard Harry's amused voice asking,
“Hungry, Hermione?”

The afternoon had taken quite a toll on her, she knew—rushing to Harry's dorm, and
forgetting to even have a bite of the sandwiches she'd grabbed at lunch… panicking when Sir
Nick told her that Harry hadn't shown up for Divination… sneaking around the castle and
Hagrid's hut in the Invisibility Cloak with Carolyn and Cindy… pacing the Common Room in a
towering rage and then, and then—

“We better try to get to the Great Hall for dinner—”

“*NO!*”

The word was out of her mouth in a rush, and she backed away as a wave of mortification pulsed
through her body. There was no way, she thought, no *fecking* way that she would show her face
in the Great Hall tonight… not until her classmates were asleep in their dormitories… not until she
could apologize… explain… *enlighten* them—especially Lavender and Parvati—

“What's wrong, Hermione?”

She bit her lip as she tried to form an answer to that worried voice, tried to find the words to
explain—shuddered as she felt his warm hand on her shoulder as the other hand went under her chin
and made her look into his eyes—

“Hermione?”

“I… I…” She gulped and took in a deep breath—

*

“She *what*?” The shocked voice echoed over the noise of the tinkling utensils and
murmuring voices, quickly met by a vicious shushing from the Gryffindors and fearful glances cast
at the teacher's table. A highly-embarrassed Padma Patil lowered her head and looked guiltily
around before continuing in a whisper, “Are you *serious*?”

Across her, Ginny turned away, biting her lip hard to keep from retorting, “No, he's not—he
is.” Head down, she murmured a soft prayer for the eternal soul of Harry's godfather and looked
up as Padma continued in an awed tone, “Are you telling me that Hermione *Granger* just stood
there and *hexed* you?”

“Hush! Not so loud, Pad!” Her twin glanced up at the teacher's table and looked around,
noting that the only people who were interested in their conversation were her fellow Gryffindors.
Turning back to her wide-eyed sister, Parvati continued in a low voice, “Yes, she did … I thought I
was doing quite well but her Stunner just blew through my shield and caught me. Next thing I knew,
Ginny was waking me up…”

“But why would she do that?” Padma's eyes narrowed dangerously at her twin. “You weren't
flirting with Harry, were you?”

“*You think I'm nuts?*” The harsh response caused heads to turn from all over the Hall
and Parvati quickly lowered her head as she feigned interest in her plate.

“I think she was trying to hex Dean, Pad,” Lavender broke in with a hard glare at the
dark-skinned Gryffindor who was resolutely staring down at his plate, giving his vegetables the
plate tour. “She was bloody mad when we came in, but she was just glaring at us… and then Dean
walked in with these *bozos*”—gesturing to Seamus and Neville who were emulating Dean—“and,
*wham!*”

“But why would she do that?” The eyes of the Ravenclaw witch narrowed into a piercing glare
worthy of their mascot spotting prey—a look which the three sixth-year boys refused to meet. “Does
this have anything to do with Harry blowing up Hagrid's hut?”

“What was that?” Katie Bell asked even as Colin Creevy and the other fifth-years in Hagrid's
class slapped their hands to their foreheads. In the excitement of the Battle of the Common Room,
they had forgotten to impart the story to their House—and Seamus, Neville and Dean were soon
sweating under the combined glare of their housemates—including two young witches who were
struggling to keep from spilling the beans. Carolyn and Cindy's glares were worth any four of
the Gryffindors, because they knew *why* Hermione had hexed the Gryffindor boys (and girls, in
a classic case of collateral damage)—and they were still trying to erase the pictures from the hut
that was burned into their eyelids.

Ginny, for her part, was looking away, frowning and biting her lip as she pondered a key
question: *how* did Hermione find out? The last time she saw her friend was during lunch at
this very table—worried and panicked over Harry's non-appearance. She left soon after the
others left for Divination… Hermione wasn't anywhere *near* herself or Luna as they were
discussing how to follow the boys that afternoon…

And blinked when she saw the fierce glares of Carolyn and Cindy, and her eyes narrowed in
speculation: the Terrible Two were sitting beside her and Luna at lunch… they were the only ones
other than Hermione, Ron and herself who knew about Harry's invisibility cloak—*hell*, she
thought, they weren't known as Harry and Hermione's *Spawn* for nothing!

She opened her mouth to say something but was stopped as a small voice spoke up from somewhere
among the younger years: “Miss Hermione just needs a taste of *cojones* to feel better.”

A chorus of coughs and gagging sounds accompanied the sight of students spitting out juice and
water all along the table—an action which caused the students in the other houses to look askance
at the Gryffindors… which meant no one noticed that spits, gags and coughs had also erupted all
along the teacher's table.

*

It was a sight seldom seen outside Gryffindor Tower: a slack-jawed, dazed and unbelieving Harry
Potter staring at a red-faced Hermione Granger, the latter with her head down and looking
everywhere but at him. In fact, the only people who would have seen such a tableau were Ron,
McGonagall, Snape—and the long departed Quirrell, one Halloween night in a girl's bathroom
years before.

Harry's mind, in fact, was echoing that same memory from his first year: Hermione was the
last person to do anything against the rules, and here she was, telling him that she'd
*hexed* their classmates in the Common Room…

He opened his mouth to say something, but it felt as if Trevor had found lodgings in his throat,
judging from the croak that he let out. He shut his mouth as he tried to swallow, to force Trevor
away and say something—but his brain refused to comply as it was running around like a
Gringotts' cart gone amuck: Hermione, crying in his arms minutes or hours before… the feel of
her small fists on his chest as she beat on him in anger and frustration… her small, vulnerable
voice as she asked him why he didn't trust her… the blinding, maddened rage that consumed him
when she whispered, “Hermione's Bean, Harry?” to him… and now—admitting that she was at
Hagrid's hut when Dean had unveiled his masterpiece.

He heard another low growl—and his mind shifted to more important things: Hermione was hungry,
but the castle was stopping them from leaving the upper levels. He shook his head in
frustration—and stopped. Hermione was right, he realized… it wouldn't do to try and catch up
with dinner in the Great Hall… not after what had happened in the Common Room. If anything,
*he* might start hexing his dorm-mates when he saw them… it wasn't enough for those
*idiots* to have done that to Hermione and him… by now, the whole *castle* would have
known what they were trying to do!

Clamping down on his building rage, Harry looked around, finally taking in his immediate
surroundings—and blinked. He'd been increasingly annoyed with the interfering stairs… but he
now realized that they had been nudging him towards a familiar corridor, and he smiled as he
recognized Barnabas the Barmy and the trolls in tutus with their clubs.

Without hesitation, he started concentrating as he paced the blank wall, thinking of what he
needed: a quiet place where he and Hermione could talk, where they could have something to eat, and
where he could check the lump on her head…

Hermione, by this time, was frowning, wondering why he was pacing and muttering beneath his
breath—the growling of her stomach distracting her enough that she didn't recognize their
location, but her eyes widened when a highly polished door with a brass handle appeared.

Before she could utter a word, Harry had grabbed her hand and was pulling her towards the door
which he opened. Before her mind could register the inside of the room, Harry had stepped back and
bowed with a flourish—indicating the room as if he were an unctuous *maitre d'*, he
proclaimed, “Please, Madam… dinner is served.”

*

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was over a thousand years old and, as Dumbledore said
that afternoon, it still held secrets that Gred and Forge, the Marauders of past generations, or
even Headmasters, knew nothing about. On the other hand, one secret that was passed down from
Headmaster to Headmaster (and their Deputies) was a charm that allowed teachers to listen in on a
particular table whenever needed.

The spell required the consent of both Headmaster and Deputy to activate; at the same time,
*all* the teachers at the table were able to listen in—ensuring a check and balance to prevent
a single person from abusing the students' privacy.

The near-hexing of Parvati by the Gryffindor boys made Dumbledore glance at McGonagall; a
momentary meeting of the eyes and a nod of the head, and the charm was in place—and the
conversation of the Gryffindors made the two roll their eyes in frustration.

There was no way, they both realized, that they could keep a lid on what happened in
Hagrid's hut. At the same time, they would have to deal with the matter of a Prefect hexing her
classmates…

“You Gryffindors really love to play with fire, don't you?” They blinked at the amused voice
of Professor Sinistra, who continued in the same mordant tone as she cocked an eyebrow at the
Deputy Headmistress. “No one in his right mind would even think of provoking those two—”

“Except for Mr. Malfoy, of course,” McGonagall replied in a cutting tone.

Before the acting head of Slytherin could respond, Professor Sprout weighed in: “Well that's
Slytherin for you—they may be cunning but they're not smart.”

Lucretia Sinistra's scathing retort was aborted, however, as a young, clear voice came
through the wards: “Miss Hermione just needs a taste of *cojones* to feel better”—which caused
Professor Sprout, who had lifted her goblet to her lips after delivering her jab, to start coughing
and spitting as the juice made its way up her nose, to the delighted smirk of the Slytherin
professor.

Before the teachers could recover (especially Flitwick who'd fallen off his chair), they
heard seventh-year Katie Bell's voice: “Do you know what *cojones* means, Mae?”

“Of course, Miss Bell,” the young, earnest voice replied. “Father said that it's Spanish for
beans.”

This time, it was the continental-raised Sinistra's turn to spit out the juice she was about
to imbibe, to Sprout's satisfied smirk. The other teachers—including Dumbledore—could only bite
their lips as they suppressed their laughter when little Mae continued: “It's what my father
always says when Mummy's in a bad mood—he'd say that Mummy just needed some *cojones*
to make her feel better.”

Muffled coughs and sniggers came from the Gryffindors, in perfect counterpart to the shaking
heads and stifled laughter of the teachers. Professor Sinistra shook her head in disbelief as the
little girl's story continued: “Daddy would give us some money and tell us to go out and play…
my brothers, sisters and I would go to the park or the mall and we'll come back for dinner or
later, and Mum would be all smiles and happy when we came back.”

“Does that happen often, Mae?” Ginny spoke up, the curiosity apparent in her voice, and the
professors held their breaths.

They watched little Mae nodding enthusiastically: “Oh yes… although sometimes, it would be Daddy
who's in a bad mood, and Mummy would be the one to give us the money to go out and play.”

“And your father would be all smiles and happy when you came back, is that right?”

“Yes, ma'am!” The enthusiastic little girl was hopping in her seat from excitement as the
older Gryffindors (and the teachers) rolled their eyes. “Mummy and Daddy always said that it was
something they could only give each other because they were in love… it wouldn't work for us
kids because while we loved them, we were not *in love* with them.”

“I see,” Ginny replied, even as the teachers smiled and nodded into their plates or goblets. But
it was apparent that the little girl wasn't done yet.

“I think Sir Harry should be the one to give Miss Hermione a taste of *cojones*, Miss
Ginny,” Mae Thompson continued, to another round of spits, gags and coughs. “It's obvious
he's in love with her… as she is in love with him.”

The pronouncement was met by silence at the teachers' and Gryffindor tables, followed by the
rustling of a cooling breeze as soft sighs escaped mouths both young and old. A twinkling Albus
Dumbledore met the smiling eyes of Minerva McGonagall as he pronounced, “Wisdom from the mouth of
babes”—a pronouncement met with nods of agreement, as well as an explosive honk as Hagrid blew his
nose on an enormous handkerchief.

“*Finite**.*” The Listening Charm ended, and the teachers silently contemplated each
other, waiting for someone to break the silence.

“Ten Galleons that Miss Granger gets a taste of… *beans* tonight.”

“*Professor Flitwick!*” The icy voice of the Deputy Headmistress lashed out, and Flitwick
quickly wiped the grin from his face, for a brief moment looking no different from the students who
had quailed under the infamous `McGonagall glare.' The others noted, however, a sudden tic at
the corner of McGonagall's thin lips before she continued, “We have the Common Room for such
bets.”

Across the Great Hall, students looked up in surprise at a loud boom of laughter from the
teacher's table—punctuated by enthusiastic applause as Professor Flitwick stood up and gave a
short bow to McGonagall. The students looked at each other and shrugged, a single thought passing
through their minds: “Who knows?”

Quickly followed by… “Who cares?”

*

“*I'm going to* kill *Fred and George.*”

The venomous statement coming from the normally mild-mannered Harry Potter startled Hermione,
and she could only gape at her best friend standing in front of a blazing fire in the Gryffindor
Common Room—or the portion of it that the Room of Requirement provided them: an enormous but
comfortable red-leather couch flanked by two comfortable armchairs in front of the fireplace, a low
table in the center of couch and chairs loaded with a tureen of soup, plates of sandwiches, jugs of
milk, juice and water along with a platter of cheeses and fruits as well as plates and utensils for
two.

For the first time in a long while, Hermione had been totally focused on eating—not so much to
satisfy her growling stomach, but because it gave her time to avoid Harry's eyes… and the talk
they would have to have. She knew that it was no coincidence that the Room provided them with a
replica of their Common Room—it was, after all, the starting point for many of her adventures with
Harry and Ron… and the setting for so many late-night talks and so many memories, both good and
bad, with the Boy-Who-Lived.

But Harry's words startled her—and she felt her brain go into overdrive: What did the
*Weasley's* have to do with…

And felt the food she had eaten threaten to erupt out her throat as the realization struck: Fred
and George's `Very Merrie Mistletoe' and the kiss that they shared beneath it… the kiss
that went beyond anything and everything she had ever thought of or wanted… and, she now
realized—it was *that* kiss that may be at the root of everything that happened today…

And felt her chest and stomach squeezed in an unrelenting vise as Harry's next words
confirmed her fears: “I'm *sorry*, Hermione… I shouldn't have…”

Harry's voice faded out as a roar of blood invaded her ears… She felt as if her whole body
was collapsing into some deep hole in her heart. She knew it… she knew it… the truth that she'd
realized in the corridor outside the tower before Harry found her: there was nothing that she could
ever show or offer Harry Potter, except her friendship and her brains.

She doubled over from the sudden pain in her gut, her hair falling over her face in her
automatic defense mechanism… and shook her head violently from side to side as a jeering rhyme
started in her mind: Lanky, gangly Hermione Granger… Lanky, gangly Hermione Granger…

Through the roar in her ears, she heard Harry's flat voice as he pronounced her doom:
“I'm sorry, Hermione… You deserve someone better than me… you deserve someone who loves you and
respects you for what you are… not someone who looks at you and sees nothing but your face and your
body… who can think of nothing but shagging you—”

For some reason, the last three words out of Harry's mouth penetrated Hermione's
pounding brain—and she stared at Harry in shock, even as Harry caught his breath at he realized
what he had said. Before Harry could move, Hermione shot out of her seat and *charged*
him—“*WHAT**?*”

The question was a roar and for the Boy-Who-Lived, the young wizard who'd faced battle and
confrontation with some of the vilest creatures in the magical world, it felt that the world—his
world—was teetering on the brink…

Had he said that? Had he actually told Hermione that he was thinking of shagging her… that he
was thinking such lewd, guttery thoughts… that he was not thinking of her in a friendly way but as
hormonally-addled, testosterone-driven, lust-frenzied *guy*?

Fear unimagined and unimaginable grabbed him in jaws of ice and steel.

It was a fear he had never experienced before—a fear all-consuming and far more frightening than
Voldemort: all that the sick bastard ever wanted to take away was his life but his big mouth
threatened to take away the thing that he realized he treasured most: Hermione, his lovely,
beautiful, wonderful Hermione…

He felt the blood draining from his face and he turned to bolt, to run away and hide—maybe grab
his Firebolt and challenge Voldemort to a duel because he would rather die *now* and take the
bastard with him than think of a life without Hermione—

But Hermione's hands were fisted on his robe, and her eyes boring into his… the intensity of
her gaze turning her brown eyes darker, more menacing, and more dangerous than Riddle's red
eyes could ever be as she asked in a quiet whisper laden with menace and power: “Are you telling me
that you think I'm *sexy*?”

He wanted to deny it… his survival instincts were telling him to say “no,” to scream “NO!” to
that question… but her eyes—those eyes that he could never lie to, those eyes that he always tried
to avoid whenever he had something to hide, those eyes that knew the depths of his tortured soul…
and he knew he had lost: there was no way he could say anything but the absolute truth, no way but
to admit to the base realities even as his throat tried to stop him…

“Yes,” he squeaked.

He braced himself for what was to come: tensing for the blow, the slap, the whack that he
deserved… his knees locking together to keep her feet from kicking him where it would hurt most…
felt his arms tense as his hand tried to remember where his wand was—

Only to let out an explosive gasp of surprise as Hermione *lunged*, her arms going around
him in a rib-crushing hug even as her bushy hair went flying all over his face and his still-open
mouth even and his ears registered the muffled voice coming from where she'd buried it in his
chest: “Thank you… thank you… Oh Harry, you don't know… you'd never understand… you
can't…”

And he stood there in frozen shock, although his arms had instinctively wrapped around her…
unconsciously rubbing her back in an automatic gesture of comfort as his addled brain tried to make
sense of what she was saying. He wanted to step back, to push her away for a moment just so he
could look her in the eye… just so he could ask her the questions suddenly boiling to the top of
his head, but his once-dry and clogged throat could only croak out something else: “You… you're
not *mad* at me… you're not angry at me?”

He heard a sniffle from the mass of hair on his chest and he tried to step back but her arms
tightened once again around him, keeping him close to her even as she mumbled through the flood of
emotion that assaulted her: “I never thought… never believed… that anyone, anybody… would think of
me as beautiful… sexy, even…”

“Hermione.” She felt his hands on her shoulders, pressing gently down… felt him taking an
awkward step back and she fought with her natural instinct to let him go but she couldn't, she
wouldn't—she *didn't* want to let go but his hands, though gentle, were unrelenting in
their pressure and she had to let go… she had to step back—

And felt his hands, callused from gripping broomstick and wand, run from her shoulders to her
neck… felt the roughness of his thumbs as they brushed her cheeks, felt his fingers weave behind
her neck and tangle in her hair… felt his palms gently lifting her head so she could look at him
but she refused—her eyes turned away, unwilling to look into his eyes now that her emotions had
been drained and shattered—

“Don't you have a mirror in your dormitory, Hermione?”

The absurdity of the question made Hermione turn around—and impale herself on the worried,
caring eyes of Harry Potter as his words washed into her brain: “Haven't you been looking at
yourself, Hermione? You're beautiful… you're so beautiful that I sometimes wonder how I
could so lucky… to have as my best friend the smartest and most beautiful witch in Hogwarts…”

But Hermione wasn't listening—because her eyes were now looking into the only mirrors that
would ever really matter: Harry's eyes, reflecting her image back at her. There were mirrors in
her dorm—between Lavender and Parvati, they had a surfeit of mirrors of all kinds from full-length
to make-up with lights all around the rim—but she had never really *looked* at herself.

But now… as she looked at her reflection in Harry's eyes, she began to see what she had
always avoided seeing before: her bushy brown hair transformed into soft, wavy curls in different
shades of brown as the firelight danced in them… her eyes, which she had always thought of as a
dull, uninteresting shade of brown altered into lively, dancing shades of cinnamon as they
shimmered with tears… her nose, always an uninteresting feature, now seen as others saw it: pert,
cute and flaring slightly as she breathed raggedly in and out… and her lips—always so pale and
dry—but in reality, full and (to her surprise) so kissable, her lower lip slightly swollen from her
nervous habit of biting it…

Tears were leaking from the corners of her eyes as the revelations slammed through her, and she
felt her knees going weak and she could only cling tighter to Harry as she found her voice: “Oh
Harry… why didn't you just tell me?”

Unaccountably, she felt Harry's body stiffening with tension… felt his hands, so warm as
they rested on her chin, her neck and her hair give a slight spasm as if they were about to
strangle her—and she realized that his eyes had gone cold and angry—

Her words had knifed through his brain. He could never have conceived of her as being insecure…
never would have believed that she didn't spend the time glancing into mirrors like the other
girls he had known—yes, even Cho who he had seen glancing at the mirrors of the Hogsmeade shops as
she passed, not to window-shop but to admire herself—and his mind had leaped to the other time,
only minutes before, when he'd heard those words from her: hitting him with her small fists as
he held her, mumbling distractedly, “You should have *told* me, Harry… you know I would do
anything for you, don't you? We've been friends for so long… you're my dearest, dearest
friend… I would do anything for you…

“Did you have to go and tell *Dean* about it when you could have talked to me… you should
have *talked to me, Harry…* you know I would have done anything for you… You didn't have
to go to Dean and the others if all you needed was… was…”

That was all it ever was, he thought, as the anger started coursing through him: poor,
miserable, pitiful Harry Potter—The-Boy-Who-Lived, Defender of the Light Against All Things Evil
and Yucky… whose first kiss was nothing more than a memory of being drowned by tears as the girl he
thought liked him for who he was, was actually looking for a connection to her dead boyfriend—and
now, now he realized once again that even his best friend, the one he was holding in his arms, the
one whose lips and taste had bedeviled his brain and his mind for the past three days saw him the
same way: poor, pathetic, pitiable Harry Potter, whose first real snog was under an enchanted
mistletoe with his best friend—his lovely, beautiful and *brilliant* best friend—who saw him
the same way, who would have kissed him if he had only asked because she was *SORRY FOR
HIM*—

Her worried “Harry?” sounded in his ears and he tried to push her away, but she wouldn't let
go—he felt the arms around him tighten as he tried to step away… and heard his voice emulating
Voldemort's cold, cold voice as he said, “I don't want your pity, Hermione.”

The words cut through her brain and she froze—gaping in surprise at her best friend for a moment
before her brain went into overdrive as she analyzed the surprising words. It took her less than a
second to make the connection with their conversation in the corridor outside Gryffindor Tower…
slightly more to jump to the next dot in Harry's thinking, and her mind quickly moved from dot
to dot as she remembered everything that she had ever known or felt or realized in her years of
friendship with Harry Potter from the shock when she'd hugged him in the Chamber beneath the
school in their first year… to the discomfort that suffused him when she'd slammed into him in
the Great Hall in second year… to his statue-like stance as she held on to him while riding
Buckbeak in third… his stupefied look when she'd kissed his cheek in fourth…

And as each memory ran through her mind, she could feel her anger building up as if someone kept
throwing gasoline on a blazing fire—all those times, all those moments when she'd lost control
and allowed her fear for the boy in front of her get the better of her… and all he could think was
that she *pitied him?*

She had to move… she had to act… she had to do something before her anger consumed her and, with
a blur that even she would never be able to remember, she dropped her hands from his back, shifted
them to his chest and, with every ounce of her weight behind it, *shoved* him away from her
even as the rage burst out of her mouth: “PITY YOU? WHAT DO YOU THINK I AM, HARRY POTTER? SOME KIND
OF *SLUT* WHO WOULD GO AROUND KISSING PEOPLE JUST BECAUSE I *PITY* YOU? IF I WERE THAT
KIND OF GIRL, I WOULD HAVE KISSED RON A LONG TIME AGO—HE'S ALWAYS BEEN BEGGING ME FOR A KISS…
HE'S ALWAYS TRYING TO ACT SO PITIFUL, SO MISERABLE… I WANTED TO KISS YOU BECAUSE *I LOVE*
*YOU, HARRY POTTER!*”

He could only gape at the raving banshee in front of him—he had wanted to walk away from her but
her shoving him had caught him by surprise and he'd fallen on the couch in surprise—he'd
wanted to lash out but was frozen into silence as she stood over him, fists clenched at her sides,
tears falling from her eyes, mouth working away in her red, flushed face as she screamed at
him…

Her words slammed at him like sledgehammers—and he cringed as she called herself a slut because
of his words. He wanted to stop her, to apologize for his thoughtless words but her declaration of
her real feelings slammed into him once again and he could only stare at her in shock as his brain
went into overdrive, bringing back so many moments of their life so far: Hermione casting the
Full-Body Bind on Neville… her fur-lined face when she had turned into a cat in second… throwing
the fine chain of her Time-Turner around his neck in third… her exhausted face as she coached him
in fourth… her frightened face as she argued with him, tried to stop him from his reckless need to
get to Sirius last year…

He wanted to curl into a ball of misery… wanted to be nothing more than the frightened little
boy in the cupboard beneath the stairs on Privet Drive as he realized the magnitude of his
blindness, the scale of his stupidity and the enormity of pain that he'd been causing his best
and dearest friend…

“I HATE YOU, HARRY POTTER!”

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them but she didn't care, she
couldn't care at this moment as she glared at her best friend, the one she had always believed
had more than the emotional range of a teaspoon—and she stormed for the door, her shoes clicking
harshly in the eerie silence of the room.

The words broke through Harry's shell of misery—and finally tapped into the hidden reservoir
of determination that lay hidden within him: that fortitude and strength of mind that had helped
him confront Voldemort/Quirrell, that gave him the strength to stab the basilisk's fang into
Riddle's diary, that helped power his Patronus in third year—that tiny, final bit of power that
pushed the golden beads of light into Voldemort's wand in the graveyard of Little Hangleton and
threw him into a mad rush after Bellatrix Lestrange—

He leaped over the back of the couch and he was on Hermione in a few long strides, his arms
wrapping around her in a tight embrace—

But she would have none of it.

Her elbow crashed into his chest as his arms came around her, but he wouldn't let go and she
fought back—slamming her fists into his chest with enough force to rock him back for a moment and
her hand was moving up in a blur and she connected with his face in a slap powerful enough to snap
his head to one side as his glasses flew off somewhere and she turned away again…

Only for Harry to grab her again, wrapping his arms around her in a hug that immobilized her
arms but not her legs as she tried to kick him, to jump out and away from his crushing grip but he
wouldn't let go, wouldn't let her leave, wouldn't let the only bright light in his life
go away—

He felt the blows on his body and his face but accepted them as his due—accepted them as his
punishment for every moment that he'd hurt her, every moment that he'd ignored her or kept
things from her—and there was nothing he could do now but hold her tightly to him as she tried to
break away, two and three words coming from his lips as the tears flowed from his naked eyes:
“I'm sorry… I'm sorry, Hermione…”

And Hermione finally gave up—her emotions and strength draining away as Harry's words
penetrated her fevered brain, and she slid bonelessly to the floor, Harry following her down with
his arms still around her… and as they sat on the floor, she felt her own anger break down and she
turned in his arms and embraced him, her face in his neck as tears streamed down her cheeks as her
hair fell over his back… and he lowered his face as he kissed her hair, mumbling apologies all the
while.

Neither one could say how long they sat on the floor, arms around each other as the tears flowed
and the words stopped… all that was left for the moment the comfort of each other and a friendship
that started so incongruously years ago when a young girl burst into a compartment on a magical
train—and was cemented when the young boy she saw there came bursting into a toilet where she was
about to be cornered by a troll.

It was a friendship that had grown over the years—of letters written in concern, of meetings
after weeks or months of separation, of sugar-free snacks and cakes sent on birthdays, of secrets
and terrors shared as well as the moments of victory… and all through out, something more being
built slowly, carefully, one small piece at a time…

“We're so pitiful, aren't we?” she finally mumbled from her place on his shoulder as her
arms held him tightly to her. He listened to her quietly, his lips in her hair and a hand rubbing
comforting circles on her back as she continued, “Here I am… I never thought of myself as
beautiful, as sexy… as someone that people will even *look* at… I didn't even want to look
in a mirror because I could see nothing but my hair…”

She smiled to herself as she felt Harry's lips in her hair, again and again but she
couldn't let that distraction stop her. “And there you are, Harry, so afraid that people feel
sorry for you… that people only pity you… and not see you for what you are.

“Maybe that's why we're the best of friends, Harry… we're both broken, shattered,
smashed in ways that neither of us ever really understood. You with your scar on the outside… me
with my scars on the inside… both of us scarred, marked… damaged…”

She felt him moving away from her, and she let her arms drop—felt his hands on her shoulders as
he moved back… and felt a hand under her chin, lifting her face to look at him—and she gasped as
her eyes roamed his face, noticing a dark bruise on a cheek… a trickle of blood from a corner of
his lips… and his eyes, naked without his glasses, staring back at her with an intensity and a
depth that she had seen before…

“No… no, Hermione,” he whispered as his eyes bored into her from a few inches away. “Not that,
Hermione… it's not that we're damaged, or broken. I don't want to think that way…”

She could feel herself flushing… she could feel the warmth spreading within her as he continued
talking, the words filling her and healing her scarred soul: “You complete me, Hermione. You fill
me… you fulfill me. I can't be Harry Potter without you by my side…”

“I don't want your pity either, Harry.” She couldn't stop her words because she realized
that there lay the core of their issues with each other: had she become his friend because she
pitied him, felt sorry for him and his life—and did he become her friend because he felt badly for
her: like him, a seeming outcast in the wizarding world, better known for her intelligence than his
scar, better known for her bossy ways and uptight manner than his title…

“I don't pity you, Hermione.” The words were said with every iota of sincerity and every
grain of truth that he possessed, and the single meaning behind the words he said and was about to
say shone through in his eyes, undistorted by the glasses he wore. For long moments, they simply
stared at each other as the words floated in the air around them. Neither noticed or even realized
that they were slowly moving together… their faces falling towards each other…

“I… I… I love you, Hermione.”

As the last, whispered syllable of her name escaped his lips, he dipped his head even as she
leaned into him and their lips finally brushed together…

-->



11. Finding Hermione's Bean
---------------------------



**Seeking Hermione's Bean**

**Title:** Seeking Hermione's Bean (11)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:** Humour
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Bertie Botts Beans
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** The one you've all been waiting for. :D

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR NOTES:** This chapter is dedicated to **Jordan (pok)**, who issued the original
challenge which led to this story, and to **andie (pottergirl786)**, whose wonderful story
“*Beyond A Kiss*” has been the constant inspiration and driving force behind this.

A shout-out to **Bruce (Paracelsus)** for a most memorable line from one of his stories.

And… a **very** belated “**Happy Birthday!**” to **Gillian Halliwell**, whose constant
companionship and unending friendship have been beacons in the dark world of real life.

And without further ado…

**Chapter 11. Finding Hermione's Bean**

*Harry leaned forward at last and pressed his lips gently against hers. And all of his
thoughts vanished from there.*

*From that moment, from that light, almost fleeting, contact, grew something that was beyond
thought between them. Harry didn't know anything except the feel of Hermione's lips against
his: the warmth of them, the taste of them, the sheer explosion that was bursting forth within
him—from his stomach to his toes—and shooting back up again...*

*Something was happening beyond a kiss. Every nerve fiber in Harry's body was on end -
ignited, like a flame - burning through him as he deepened the kiss. And as Hermione responded, as
she pulled him nearer - one hand around his middle, the other on his chest beneath his frantically
beating heart - Harry found his hands moving, too - from her cheek to her hair, from her waist to
her back - as he tried to get nearer to her still.*

*He wondered briefly what was coming over them - and why they were behaving in such an
unrestrained manner - but what little thought he had was swiftly swept aside when Hermione's
lips parted beneath his. Shocked to find their tongues touching, Harry made a sound between a gasp
and a moan, but kissed Hermione still - rising to some challenge that hadn't been present a
moment earlier.*

*They kissed and kissed - for what duration of time, Harry had no idea - but he was surprised
and breathing heavily when Hermione finally broke away from him….*

No words were spoken—no “*Wow!*” from Hermione, no answering “*Yeah!*” from Harry…
they simply sat and stared at each other. This wasn't the drawing room of Grimmauld Place—they
were in the Room of Requirement. They weren't standing under enchanted mistletoe—they were
sitting on the floor, Hermione in Harry's lap, arms around each other, faces mere inches apart.
Neither was there a Christmas tree blinking with fairy lights in the room—the flickering light was
coming from the fireplace in the replica of the Gryffindor Common Room that the Room had provided
them.

Without a word, they glanced up for confirmation—yes, they thought, there was no enchanted
mistletoe above them, and this was not a dream but reality—and the words that they'd spoken to
each other—both the harsh and the gentle—came back to their fevered minds.

And still they didn't speak.

They didn't even make a move to stand or to put some distance from the other.

They simply sat there, eyes locked, waiting for one or the other to make a move or to say a
word… until a harsh inhalation broke their focus as warm blood rushed into their faces in a blush
that would have made the Weasleys proud with a startling realization…

They were touching bare, flushed, *heated* skin.

In the frenzy of re-living the moment under the enchanted mistletoe in Grimmauld, their hands
had followed their memories, but now, but *now*, their hands had somehow worked their way
under their shirts—Hermione's right hand splayed around Harry's back while the other was
over his heart, feeling its rapid beat against her fingertips… while Harry's hands were
pressing flat against her back from pulling her closer to him.

They didn't move but kept their eyes locked… felt their breaths touching the others'
face… feeling their hearts beating through their still-heated fingers and palms…

“When it doubt, follow instinct.”

It was the merest whisper, and for the briefest of moments, they both wondered if there was
someone else in the room—only for their eyes to widen as they realized that it was *Hermione*
who'd spoken. A completely flabbergasted Harry Potter stared at his best friend but she stared
back, eyes unflinching, showing neither remorse nor a desire to take back her words…

And then Harry leaned forward, his lips once again brushing her forehead before moving down to
her lips—but he was tilting his face to one side even as Hermione lifted her head to meet him, as
the part of their brains where instinct resided assured them that *this time* there would be
no need to break apart to breathe…

*

“All right, Ginny?”

The high-pitched, exuberant voice grated on her tired nerves and weary mind and, for the first
time in her fifteen years, Ginevra Molly Weasley found herself contemplating using an Avada Kedavra
on someone other than her brothers. She glared at her companion in a vain effort to shut him up,
but sighed—there was *something* feeding Colin Creevey's frenzied energy, but she was
simply too tired and mentally exhausted to try and figure that out.

To say nothing of angry, frustrated, bothered, annoyed, irritated—

“All right, Ginny?” It was only the patience honed from years of dealing with six older brothers
that kept Ginny from hexing her fellow-Prefect. Besides, she thought, there was a genuine concern
in Colin's voice, tempering his earlier exuberance—she shook her head in response, saying,
“I'm all right, Colin… bit tired, you know.”

“Oh! I'm sorry, Ginny,” the mousy-haired wizard said, the contrition in his voice a sharp
contrast to his earlier exuberance. “I wasn't thinking—”

`And *that*, my dear Colin, is exactly your problem,' Ginny thought, wondering—not for
the first time—whether Dumbledore was deep into the fire whiskey or smoking ganja (or whatever it
was Dean said his cousins were smoking), when he decided to make Colin Creevey a prefect. She
pushed that thought away the moment it entered her mind, remembering another prefect whom
*nobody* expected to be named as one—not Ron himself, not her brothers, not even her
*parents* believed it, so who was she to judge?

“It's just that, when Ernie and Hannah asked if we could take over tonight's patrols, I
thought it was a perfect opportunity…” Ginny tuned out Colin's breathless explanation; she
didn't want to hear a recap of Colin's conversation with the older Hufflepuff prefects—all
that was on her mind the fact that she was *tired*.

She shook her head in an effort to clear it of the fog that was settling in. It had been a
*long* day: eavesdropping after breakfast… avoiding Filch in the Great Hall… drawing
Bowtruckles while listening to the goings-on in Hagrid's hut… running when Harry blew it up and
wondering whether Ron was still alive… rushing from the Hospital Wing to Gryffindor Tower to head
off Harry, only to witness the aftermath of Hurricane Hermione…

“Enough, Colin!” She fought back the smirk she felt at the shocked look on his face, and tried a
wan smile to take the edge off her cutting remark. “Let's just get on with it, all right? The
sooner we start, the earlier we finish and we can go back to bed and sleep—”

“Right, Ginny! Let's go!” Ginny stopped her mouth from dropping in astonishment as the
momentarily-contrite and apologetic youngster transformed back into the bouncing, energetic and
extremely enthusiastic Colin Creevey they all knew.

“C'mon, Gin!” She blinked away her astonishment, and tried to follow at a sedate pace, a
sudden thought coming to the forefront of her mind: why, for the love of Merlin, is Colin lugging
his *camera* along?

*

There were no words to describe this… and for Hermione Jane Granger, walking dictionary, talking
reference book, all-around know-it-all—*that* was something she totally could not believe.

She had never been at a loss for words: not even when the owl arrived with her Hogwarts letter…
not when Professor McGonagall escorted them to Diagon Alley to buy her books and school supplies…
not her first view of Hogwarts as it towered in the night sky… even their first entrance into the
Great Hall found her chattering away in her nervousness…

But this time… *this* time… there were no words to describe what she was going through…

What was happening to her.

Nothing, not one thing, in the hundreds of books she'd read, nothing in everything she'd
heard of or overheard from her dorm-mates or the whispered conversations and giggling discussions
in the girl's toilets… *nothing* could have prepared her for what she was going through
right now…

Not even those minutes or hours spent snogging with Harry beneath the mistletoe of Grimmauld
Place had prepared her for this.

She'd thought it was a fluke at the time—an accidental stroke of luck likely fueled by
whatever enchantment Fred and George had imbued that mistletoe with… and the weeks and months since
had done nothing to disabuse her of that idea. She had gone back to her friendly and affectionate
mode with Harry—even though she knew that they had been more affectionate and friendly with each
other than ever before. She'd often wondered, in those brief moments when they'd hugged or
held hands, when Harry's hand went around her waist for a fleeting embrace or she'd held
him for a quick hug, whether that kiss under the mistletoe would be the high point of her life…
because there would be nothing more like it ever again.

But now, *now* she knew that it was only a stopover—a momentary rest stop—because of the
reality that was consuming her…

She was drowning… sinking in a whirling pool of alternating coolness and warmth: a searing trail
of fire as Harry's lips ran over her face while his hands caressed her skin… followed by a
relieving sensation of coolness as the sweat that poured from her evaporated in the cold air of the
room… only for the cycle of warmth to begin again as her hands continued to caress him—moving from
his chiseled chest to the planes and ridges of his back… fisting in his hair even as her lips
roamed his face…

It felt as if her hands and feet had minds of their own—her toes curling in on themselves to a
rhythm all their own while her hands were fisting into the silky waves of Harry's dark hair,
her mind and body engaged in a war of their own within her delirious brain—unsure of whether to
pull his hair and bring him closer and tighter or to push him away before she exploded in a raging
inferno of… of…

Passion? Hunger? Yearning?

*Lust?*

She had never before been at a loss for words but the brain that had never ever failed her
finally responded to her unconscious demand for description—

“*Harry!*”

It was a long, drawn out word: half-scream and half-moan, but it was the only way that her brain
could describe her feelings at this moment, as every nerve ending, every drop of blood, every
firing synapse of electricity seemed to pool within her—

Only for her fevered body to feel an escalation of the fire within as Harry's lips crashed
again on her, her soft whimper as she called out his name muffled beneath his lips which were
whispering her name—and she felt her tongue lancing out to meet his in an impassioned dance that
moved from his mouth to hers and back again, their feverish hands touching, pressing, burning over
their heated, sweaty skin—

And felt herself blinded for the merest flicker of time as a white flash of light exploded in
her eyes… her mind jumping briefly to a moment in time when she'd been looking straight into
her father's camera and the flashbulb exploded in her eyes…

But the memory was quickly erased as she felt herself falling limply in Harry's arms… their
collected energy exploding in a convulsive wave of power, as if a boulder had been thrown into a
deep pool, the waves radiating outwards from their place on the floor even as impassioned murmurs
were exchanged: “*I love you… oh, god how I love you…*”

*

“SHHHHH!”

The harsh whisper echoed along the dimly lit corridor, and startled an introspective Ginny out
of her somber mood. She'd been on auto-pilot, mechanically patrolling the dim corridors and
empty classrooms of Hogwarts as her mind kept drifting back to her warm bed and soft
pillows—wishing that she was lying down wrapped in the blanket that Molly had knitted for her, even
as she wondered what the hell Colin Creevey was up to.

Prefect patrols were dull, tedious, repetitive: make sure that there were no students in the
corridors after curfew, do random checks on broom closets and empty classrooms in case someone was
doing something `inappropriate,' make sure that no pranks or something worse had been planted
in the corridors—avoid Peeves at all cost!

Every once in a while, they would catch someone where they weren't supposed to—she shuddered
at the memory of one patrol where she opened a closet only to find Michael Corner and Zacharias
Smith cowering inside! They claimed that they were sneaking down to the kitchens for a midnight
snack—a likely story, given they were from different houses and the only way they would have been
found together was if they'd met somewhere first!

She shook her head of the memory, grateful that they'd found nothing wrong on this patrol,
and she focused on keeping her wobbly body from crashing into the wall—they were supposed to check
closets and rooms randomly, but Creevey was taking things too far! He'd opened *each* and
*every* broom closet they'd come across… checked and re-checked every classroom they came
to: making sure that the classrooms in use were locked up tight while the unused classrooms were
empty, peeking in to every alcove and niche they came to, and even checking behind tapestries and
curtains!

Colin's harsh shushing had snapped her out of her bothered mind and she shook her head as
she tried to understand why Colin was quivering in excitement and gesticulating wildly, when her
ears picked up the distinctive sound of something—or some *one*—scuffling around behind the
door that Colin was gleefully pointing at, interspersed with the sound of muffled yowling that made
her mouth drop open in shock—

Harry isn't—

Hermione wouldn't—

They shouldn't—

They couldn't—

And Ginny's eyes grew wide as she realized just what it was that Colin Creevey,
self-appointed photographer of the Life and Times of Harry James Potter, was planning.

He wouldn't…

He shouldn't…

They *couldn't*…

She stared at him in shock, her eyes seemingly blank as her mind replayed an incident from her
first year—the time when Harry told them all of what he'd seen and heard in the Hospital Wing
as he recovered from the rogue Bludger: of McGonagall finding Creevey just minutes before
Dumbledore arrived… the Headmaster and his Deputy wrestling the petrified Colin and the camera in
his hands on to the hospital bed… the camera with which he'd tried to take a picture of the
monster but whose film had melted underneath the gaze of the basilisk… of the bunch of grapes that
was beside him when he was found—

Even then, she thought to herself, *even then*, the little twit's brain was lagging
behind. After all, what *dodo* would be sneaking around the castle with a bunch of grapes
*and* a camera? Sure, he was trying to get into the Hospital Wing to bring his idol a midnight
snack, but why should he even bring a *camera* along? To take a picture of Harry while he was
eating *grapes*?

The camera!

*That's* why Colin was lugging his camera on this patrol! She rolled her eyes at the
thought. Colin and his camera! That stupid camera of his will be the death of him… he'd
probably be trying to catch a picture of The Unnamable Prat as he casts an AK… hopefully, the
Unforgivable will blast the camera before it goes on to blast Colin, as it did with the basilisk he
encountered…

She blinked as she finally understood Colin's charade—

No.

Not after everything that had happened—in Hagrid's hut, in the Gryffindor Common Room, the
near-hexing of Padma by the rattled, paranoid Trio of Neville, Seamus and Dean…

No.

But even as she was screaming the word to herself, she found herself moving… hand reaching for
the doorknob… hearing her harsh breath as she tried to control herself… closing her eyes as she
started cursing that sense of adventure and daring that was so much a part of being a Weasley—Bill
with his curse-breaking talents in the service of the goblins, Charlie with his dragons in Romania,
the Twins with their jokes and legendary escapades, including their spectacular `escape' from
Umbridge last year, Ron and herself with Harry's adventures including the battle in the
Ministry of Magic… and Percy, by going against everyone of them—

She gathered herself, and nodded to the excited Colin as he positioned himself a few feet away
from the door, camera held to his eye as he gestured an `OK' sign to her.

She held up three fingers and took a deep breath; at Colin's nod, she began a slow
countdown—at her mental count of three, she twisted the knob and flung open the door—

To see a pair of blazing eyes glowering at her from the darkness of the interior a split second
before Colin's camera flashed—and she was throwing up her hands to protect her face just before
something slammed into her chest… felt a brief flash of pain as her arms were flailing and
windmilling in an effort to keep her balance—

In the brief moment before she slammed on her back and her head pounded the floor, one lucid
thought sprang to mind—so *this* was what happened to Dean, Seamus and Neville in Hagrid's
hut…

*

Carefully, tenderly—as if he were lifting a box of Aunt Petunia's precious china—Harry
lifted a dazed Hermione and staggered to the overstuffed couch in front of the fireplace where he
managed to land without dropping the seemingly boneless witch. He leaned back on the couch as he
adjusted Hermione's head into what he hoped was a more comfortable position on his chest,
planted a soft kiss on her hair—and smiled as he felt her hands gripping his torn shirt—and felt
her lips softly brushing his skin.

There were no words to describe this feeling… nothing ever written in any volume that he had
ever read (admittedly, extremely few compared to what Hermione would have read)… but he somehow
doubted that even Hermione, with her formidable intellect and near-perfect recall, would have been
able to help him describe his feelings at this moment.

How can one describe perfection, after all?

He gave a gentle smile as he realized that her breathing was slow and steady… poor girl, he
thought to himself. She must be exhausted… running all the way from the Great Hall to Gryffindor
Tower looking for him… sneaking all over the castle and the grounds to get to Hagrid's hut and
back… and then hexing his year-mates—both the boys and her roommates—all of it on a near-empty
stomach!

And then, to have her anger stoked to full fury because of his tactless remarks…

He tightened his embrace around her for a moment, burying his nose and lips in her hair as he
breathed deeply… savoring once again the scent and flavor that he knew would forever be imprinted
on his brain.

Flavor.

Now why did that word sound important to him?

It seemed that his senses were enhanced—it felt as if *everything* about Hermione had been
etched into his brain: the feel of her skin, the soft caress of her tongue as it explored his lips,
her scent—that lovely blend of fragrances that he could never all name but which combined into the
essence of Hermione…

And that thought made him stop—he realized that he'd been running the fingers of one hand
through Hermione's hair, unconsciously but carefully untangling the knots he encountered while
his other hand was entwined with the fingers of her hand.

`Essence of Hermione,' he thought as he shook his head. *That* was where it all began…
the Bertie Botts Every-Flavor Beans that he'd bought for Ca… that single, singular bean that
brought back to his mind the taste, the feel, the *sensation* of kissing—no,
*snogging*—Hermione beneath the mistletoe of Grimmauld Place…

Had he bit into that singular bean only two nights before?

Harry rolled his eyes at the thought… who would have thought that so much could happen in such a
short span of time? And yet, as he looked at the sleeping witch in his arms, he had to wonder—did
it really all happen in less than seventy-two hours?

Or was this simply the logical conclusion to something that had been building up for years…
something that had started when he'd jumped on the back of a troll to rescue a terrified eleven
year old witch trapped in a bathroom—and turned full circle when that same witch set fire to a
teacher's robe in order to save a frightened eleven-year old wizard trying to control a hexed
broomstick?

But it never had turned full circle, he now realized… because each circle ending only meant that
another cycle was about to begin… and his mind quickly drew a kaleidoscope of memories: of Hermione
hugging him in first year… of finding the page in her Petrified hand… of Hermione looping a fine
chain around his neck… summoning the Cup with the charm that she'd spent hours and hours
teaching him… the whine of panic in his face as he saw her fall—

It wasn't a single distinctive flavor that he'd bit into when he'd found
Hermione's Bean, he realized… it was a Bertie Botts bean which was an amalgamation of tens, or
even hundreds of different flavors in a single bean…

Just as the Hermione in his arms was an amalgamation of tens, or even hundreds, of different
aspects of Hermione: bookworm, know-it-all, Prefect, friend, companion… the studious Hermione who
was wont to charge to the library to find an answer… the teary-eyed Hermione who'd tried to
stop him from rash and foolish actions… the steely-minded Hermione who'd stood up to him when
she felt he was wrong—and went along with him whenever he'd made up his mind…

The vulnerable Hermione who couldn't look in the mirror because she'd always thought of
herself as plain-Jane Hermione, never seeing the things that he saw in her…

He bent forward to plant a soft kiss on her forehead, and smiled as he heard her murmur
something in her sleep—and felt his grin grow wider as he felt her arms wrap themselves tighter
around him.

He leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes, feeling his body relaxing into the comforting
warmth of the couch and the witch wrapped in his arms. As he felt himself slowly slipping into
sleep, his mind drifted back to something that Dean Thomas had said as he sat, frozen in
Hagrid's hut: “Find Hermione, drag her to the Astronomy Tower or the nearest broom closet and
snog her senseless.”

`Thanks, Dean,' he thought before the comforting warmth claimed him.

*

It was a sight to make certain red-headed males quail—it was a vision frightening enough to make
paintings, suits of armor, and even Peeves shiver: a red-faced, fire-haired witch striding down the
corridors, steam coming out of her ears and with a glare that would have caused lesser men to shake
in fear.

One look at the approaching witch, and Filch jumped back into the alcove he'd just emerged
from—no need for a repeat of the incident earlier that night that had him mopping away at a certain
spot on a lower floor. Times like these, the wizened caretaker thought, made him seriously consider
the benefits of retirement—thoughts interspersed with the wish for a return to earlier days when
Filch was Filch, and students were scared— not the other way around.

For the first time in her life, Ginny was actually debating the merits of the Cruciatus against
Avada Kedavra—wondering whether going to Azkaban for life was worth the satisfaction of payback for
the pain in her back and head when she'd been slammed on the floor after opening that stupid
door—and she glared once again at Colin, who was scampering ahead of her, his camera tucked into
his chest, terrified that she'd grab it and smash it on his head.

She shook her head as she continued her angry march towards Gryffindor Tower, her dormitory and
her warm bed. Why was she taking it out on him, she asked herself. She was as much to blame… she
had more than enough time to ponder, to deliberate, to consider and reflect on the action she was
about to take—but no, oh no… she'd thrown caution and recent experience to the winds just for
the *opportunity* to catch Harry and Hermione in a compromising position and have irrefutable
proof besides!

And what did she get out of it?

A bruised back, a major headache, and a picture of Crookshanks and Mrs. Norris in *flagrante
delicto.*

She gave an involuntary shudder as the memory of what happened filled her mind—the brief flash
of victory at having found Harry and Hermione's snogging spot but the feeling of triumph was
quickly replaced by undiluted fear as the angry eyes met her own even as her brain belatedly
recognized the orange furball that was either a large cat or a small tiger *glaring* at her
from atop the scrawny, dust-colored cat—

And she was throwing her arms up in a defensive posture as the half-Kneazle *leaped*,
spitting angrily as his claws raked her arms even as Mrs. Norris was fleeing the scene, and
Crookshanks used her as a launch pad to chase after his dust-colored *inamorata*, throwing her
back and unable to keep her head from hitting the cold stone floor hard enough to make her see
stars before she blacked out…

She shook her head in exasperation. After everything that had happened today… why should she
count herself lucky? Almost everyone involved with Harry and Hermione had taken a hit today: the
boys had gotten it *twice*… Hermione's roommates blasted by an angry Hermione when
they'd tried to defend their boyfriends… Ron still in the Hospital Wing under the ministrations
of Luna…

She'd escaped relatively unscathed until Crookshanks launched himself at her—and she did
deserve it, she knew. After all, how would *she* feel if someone had disturbed her in the
middle of snogging her boyfriend—although, technically, Crookshanks wasn't snogging Mrs.
Norris…

She saw Colin scampering into their Common Room like a frightened rabbit, and she gave an evil
smirk as she charged in after him—only to skid to a halt, almost running over the
frozen-in-his-tracks wizard, and found herself screeching in surprise, “WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING
HERE?”—causing the two people sleeping on a couch to jump up as if electrocuted—

*

Hermione bolted upright, eyes blinking in the flickering light of the fireplace as she gathered
her scattered wits, her sudden movement startling the dozing Harry Potter who leaped to his feet in
alarm, wand out and myopic eyes blinking around him, searching for the threat…

“HARRY! IT'S LATE… IT'S AFTER CURFEW AND WE'RE OUT OF BOUNDS! OH, WE'RE GOING TO
BE IN SO MUCH TROUBLE… HOW CAN YOU DO THIS… I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS… WE'LL PROBABLY GET
DETENTION AND GET DOCKED FIFTY POINTS AND, AND… OH, NO—I'M A PREFECT! MCGONAGALL WILL SUSPEND
ME—WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING ABOUT?”

Harry had quietly Summoned his glasses when Hermione bolted from the couch and was currently
engrossed in looking at her, a goofy grin on his face as she paced around the room, obliviously
ranting away—his mind suddenly assaulted by the memory of an eleven-year old witch wearing a pink
bathrobe and a frown, waiting for him in the darkness of an empty Common Room to try and persuade
him from proceeding with his midnight duel with Malfoy…

And his grin grew wider as he watched her pacing in front of the fireplace, getting herself
worked up and he could hear her eleven-year old voice in his head raving away, “Don't you care
about Gryffindor, do you only care about yourselves, I don't want Slytherin to win the house
cup, and you'll lose all the points I got from Professor McGonagall for knowing about Switching
Spells—”

She'll never change, he thought to himself… she'll always be the same bossy,
anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive Hermione that he knew and loved and—in this moment, he knew
that he would never have her any other way. Even then, he realized… even then when he could only
think of her as an annoying little swot, she had been looking out for him—

He blinked when he realized that she was standing over him, hands on her hips, death-glare in
full force and he jumped to his feet and engulfed her in an embrace to rival the one she gave him
when he first showed up at Grimmauld, and swung her around even as he kissed her face again and
again, murmuring “thank you… I never really thanked you for watching out for me…”

To say that Hermione was surprised is an understatement—she had totally expected Harry to revert
to habit and hide under the couch at her ranting, but she found herself struggling to breath
against the tight grip he had around her. She started beating on his back with her small fists
instinctively—but that was quickly overcome as she felt his lips darting all over her face and
another, stronger instinct took over her higher brain functions and her hands became entangled in
his hair, holding him steady for a brief moment before her lips crashed into his, stopping his
disjointed mumbling as they once again lost themselves in each other…

Soon enough, Hermione's brain started to function and she pulled away… for a moment, it
seemed that Harry had no intention of letting her go—but their mouths separated with an audible
`POP!'—and they were staring at each other, greens caressing and comforting browns…

“Harry,” Hermione murmured—but stopped as he placed his chin on top of her head and she found
herself resting her face against his chest, listening to his rapidly beating heart seem to slow
down into a smooth, rhythmic tempo.

“Hermione…” She knew he was smiling at her and she tried to look up at him, but stopped as his
soft voice continued. “First of all, how would Professor McGonagall know that we're not in our
dormitories right now? She doesn't go charging into Gryffindor Tower unless she has an
announcement to make—or a Firebolt to confiscate.”

Hermione blushed at his gentle reminder of their third year fiasco, and looked away—and then
felt Harry's warm hands on her, lifting her face to meet his twinkling eyes. “Second, do you
think that our dorm-mates would go to McGonagall to tell her that we are not in our dormitories
like all good Gryffindors should be?”

She bit her lip at the sly reminder of the havoc she'd caused earlier—and felt Harry's
fingers smoothing down the frowning muscles of her forehead and she gave him a tremulous smile—and
Harry placed a finger on her lips. “On the one hand, I doubt that Professor McGonagall would have
heard of what happened, *officially*, that is.”

She turned puzzled eyes on him and he smiled at her expression. “Honestly, Hermione—do you
really think that Lavender or Parvati would be filing charges against you for hexing Dean, Seamus
and Neville *after* what they did to us?”

Hermione bit her lip as she stifled a sudden giggle—and Harry drew her closer to him again as he
continued, “The boys better pray that their girlfriends don't hex them for what they did in
Hagrid's hut.”

She tightened her arms around him as she whispered, “Thanks, Harry”—and smiled to herself as she
felt his lips burrowing into her hair. She felt him tugging her towards the couch once again but
she resisted—much as she was enjoying herself, she was still a Prefect, and with that title came
certain responsibilities.

“So what do we do now?” She looked up to see his eyes giving a suggestive wiggle and a
lascivious leer--“Harry!”

“Well, what do you propose, Miss Granger? As you pointed out, it's already past curfew;
we're out of bounds without the Marauders' Map *or* the invisibility cloak… do you
fancy your chances of sneaking around and risk getting caught by Filch?”

She bit her lip as she pondered the question—and shook her head. Harry was right, she
realized—better to stay hidden here, rather than risk getting caught by Filch which would ensure
that she would lose her Prefect badge for being out of bounds. And, while she could use the badge
to explain why she was outside her Common Room, there was no way to explain what *Harry* was
doing with her.

“All right, Harry—I hate to say this, but you're making sense.”

“Yes!” She glanced at him from behind her curtain of hair, and a totally evil smirk came over
her face as she watched Harry dancing around the couch, pumping his hands in the air at his
victory.

“We may as well make ourselves comfortable, Harry… and make good use of the time.” She planted a
hand on Harry's chest as he was reaching for her, and stopped herself from laughing out loud at
the surprised expression on his face. With a nonchalant air, she continued, “We might as well start
working, Harry—we have that essay for Professor Flitwick and the assignment for Professor
Lupin…”

“Hermione!” The aggrieved, distressed and hurt tone of his voice cut into her soul, and it took
all that she had to maintain a puzzled expression as she looked into his suddenly crestfallen,
deflated and disconsolate face.

“Yes, Harry?”

Whatever reply he was about to make disappeared as, with a soft `pop,' several thick volumes
appeared on the table in front of them—and Hermione had to bite her lip hard to stop herself from
laughing as Harry slumped wearily on the couch beside her. She held on for a few more seconds,
secretly pleased as she watched him absently conjure parchment, quill and ink with a few waves of
his wand, before saying, “On the other hand, Flitwick's essay isn't due `til next
week…”

She hadn't even finished her thought when she felt Harry launching himself at her; laughing,
she rolled off the couch but was caught before she could escape—and the two were soon engaged in a
vicious tickle war which they both knew would have only one conclusion…

*

“Why don't you ask your *boyfriend* what we're doing here, Miss Ginny?”

“*Cindy!*” The harsh whisper from Carolyn stopped Ginny from launching a hex at the other
girl; before she could say a word, Cindy slumped back on the couch, murmuring an apology to the
red-headed witch—to which she responded in kind: “I'm sorry, Cindy… I guess I'm just all
wound up from everything that's been happening…” Ginny punctuated her statement with a huge
sigh and a major wince as she rotated her still-sore head—an action which caught the attention of
the Terrible Two, who quickly jumped up and led her to the couch. She noticed Cindy racing up the
stairs to their dormitories as Carolyn solicitously propped cushions behind her; within seconds,
Cindy was back with a goblet of water which she gratefully drank.

“What happened, Miss Ginny?”

She opened her mind to glare around, and gritted her teeth in frustration as she realized that
Colin, the perverted *paparazzi*, had scampered off to his dormitory—and undoubtedly
barricaded himself in from her wrath. Instead of answering the question posed, however, she asked
one of her own: “What does Neville have to do with this?”

“Neville?”

*Ooops!*, she thought to herself—I must really be groggy, and she quickly took a leaf from
Hermione's book and glared at the two children who were sitting on the couch with her. With an
audible gulp, Carolyn started explaining: “Actually, it was Dean, Miss Ginny—”

“He was practically *begging* us to stay here and watch the stairs…” Cindy continued.

“And Seamus and Neville were helping him beg…”

“It was actually quite absurd—Dean was promising that he'll paint our portraits—”

“Seamus swearing that he'll put in a good word with Professor Snape for us…”

“Neville pledging that he'll tend Mum's rose garden this summer—”

“Wait, wait! Stop a minute, girls!” Cindy and Carolyn immediately shut up as Ginny rubbed her
aching head. “What is this all—”

The red-headed witch suddenly stopped and looked around her—finally realizing that the couch
they were occupying was actually blocking the stairs leading to the boy's dormitories—and she
understood why the two, in their PJs and bathrobes, were sleeping on the couch.

“They haven't shown up yet, have they?” she asked, and the two young girls shook their
heads. She rolled her eyes at the inanities of the sixth year boys as she continued, “What made
them think that you'll be able to stop Harry when he comes in?”

“They said we're just insurance, Miss Ginny—”

“We're supposed to try and calm down Sir Harry and Miss Hermione when they came in…”

“Being their Spawn and all—”

“But they had something else in mind in case Sir Harry wouldn't listen to reason.”

Ginny's confused “Huh?” was met by a shrug.

“I think they barricaded their room, Miss Ginny—Dean borrowed a couple of broomsticks from Miss
Katie… if worse comes to worse, they were planning to fly out the windows and hide out with Hagrid
until it was safe to come back.”

Ginny laid her pounding head on the couch, murmuring, “Idiots!” to herself. Didn't they
realize that complicated and convoluted plots never worked? If they'd just sat down with Harry
for a man-to-man discussion, rather than resorting to “visual aids”—

“Are you all right, Miss Ginny?”

She blinked open her eyes to the concerned looks of the two young girls, and sighed. With an
effort, she stood up—Cindy and Carolyn on either side helping her up. “Let's go to sleep,
girls… I don't think the boys will have to worry about anything tonight.”

“What do you mean, Miss Ginny?”

“Wherever they are, I somehow doubt they'll be doing much sleeping tonight.”

“Oh.”

“Ewww!”

*

On an oversized but comfortable couch in a room on the same floor but at the other side of the
castle, Hermione blinked her eyes open—and smiled as she realized that she was lying on her side,
arms and legs wrapped around an enormous pillow that Harry had conjured for her. Her smile grew
broader as she felt a comforting warmth against her back—and realized that her head was resting on
Harry's arm, even as he had his other arm resting comfortably around her waist.

As she felt herself drifting back to sleep, she felt lips pressing on her head and a soft
whisper, “Good night, love… pleasant dreams.”

She entwined her fingers with the hand on her waist before lifting it and brushing his hand
lightly with her lips. “Good night, Harry. I love you.”

“Love you, `Mione.”

***

**Author****'s Notes**: One final chapter to go… and this tale will be done. :D

-->



12. Adorable in the Morning
---------------------------

Seeking Hermione’s Bean

**Title:** Seeking Hermione’s Bean (12)
**Author name:** Romulus Lupin
**Author email:** galigad@yahoo.com
**Category:** Romance
**Sub Category:** Humour
**Keywords:** Harry Hermione Bertie Botts Beans
**Rating:** PG-13
**Spoilers:**SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF
**Summary:** The final chapter, finally. Where loose ends are tied, and things are finally
resolved. But why is Harry thinking of Cindy and Carolyn wearing pink and scattering rose petals
down an aisle?

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK
Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and
Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark
infringement is intended.

**AUTHOR NOTES:** My deepest gratitude to the many, many reviewers of this story which
started out as a challenge posed by **Jordan (pok)** last year, found inspiration in
**andie’s** **(pottergirl786)** beautiful story, “*Beyond A Kiss*”, and which has gone
into areas and dimensions that I never planned for when I started it.

My deepest thanks also to everyone for their patience in waiting for me to continue this story,
as well as the gentle reminders from readers to keep updating this story.

The chapter’s title comes from the challenge posted by **(Lyn) Little Miss Perfect** in the
Challenge Forums last June. I had promised to take up the challenge but… :blush: my apologies for
taking too long.

Without further ado…

Chapter 12. Adorable In The Morning

High above the magical towers of Hogwarts, a snow-white owl flew, enjoying the brisk morning
breeze as she watched the spectacle of darkness surrendering its hold on the earth, making way to
the advancing light of a bright new day. If an owl could smile, she would have, for this was her
favourite time of day: a few more circuits of the grounds, and she could check if the curtains of
either of two windows in a northern tower were open and she would spend the day sleeping in the
room of her human or his best friend. Or, if Harry or Hermione were in the mood, she could join
them for breakfast and get some bacon or sausages in the bargain—and blinked when she realized that
the windows to their dormitories were tightly closed, the curtains drawn…

With the owlish equivalent of a shrug, Hedwig adjusted her wings slightly and headed off,
thinking that she might try her human or his best friend later for lunch—completely missing a
window where a bushy-haired young witch was waving at her…

*

A ray of light from the rising sun found its way through the curtained window of the sixth-year
boy’s dormitory in Gryffindor Tower, the sunlight falling across the closed eyes of Dean Thomas and
firing the synapses of his tired brain—exhausted from the tension and worries he’d gone through the
day before, capped by a restless night of waiting for a raven-haired demon and his brown-haired
witch to storm their dormitory. They’d practiced for that contingency, of course: the moment
Carolyn or Cindy screamed “NO!”, whoever was on guard would lock the door… another would throw open
the windows while the third would be handing out the brooms—they’d be out of the tower and on their
way to Hagrid before Harry could blast their door open.

Dean sat up and stretched, hearing his muscles and bones pop as he yawned—and felt his heart
stop a moment before it tried to jump out his throat, his brain wondering if the words ‘he paled at
the sight’ applied to him as he realized that Seamus and Neville were in their beds snoring away,
leaving the door unguarded and—*Que* *Horror!*—unlocked. Cold sweat broke out on his
forehead as he chanced a glance at Harry’s bed—and a smile blinding in its intensity broke out when
he saw the neat, made up, immaculate, *untouched* bed. ‘Harry didn’t come home last night,’ he
thought gleefully. ‘Operation Hermione’s Bean is a success!’

He couldn’t stop himself—he jumped out of bed with a shouted “YES!” while pumping his fist in
the air—and watched, horrified, as Seamus leaped for the door to lock it, Neville grabbed a broom
and threw it and—

Dean Thomas dropped to the floor with a lump on his head.

*

In Hogwarts’ hospital wing, another ray of sunlight fell across a freckled face and its owner
blinked his eyes open, his thoughts quickly jumping to the dinner he’d missed last night and the
prospect of making up for the loss at breakfast—and screamed in surprise at seeing seemingly
incandescent blue eyes staring at him unblinkingly in a golden halo of hair backlit by the sun.

Madam Pomfrey came charging out of her room: hair in curlers, wearing an old robe, wand drawn
and ready for a fight—and glared: “Miss Lovegood! Visiting hours—”

“I wanted to see if Ronald was well enough to go down to breakfast, Madam Pomfrey.” The soft,
calm voice coming from the young witch sitting beside her patient’s bed mollified the irate nurse.
Luna continued, seemingly unaware that Ron had dived beneath his blankets in embarrassment, “It’s
best to be early for breakfast, before the Crumple-Horned Snorkack gets all the bacon, ma’am.”

The mention of bacon triggered a long, loud growl from the region of Ron’s stomach, causing the
visitor and the nurse to blink. Madam Pomfrey’s mouth quirked as she fought down a smile; shaking
her head, she told the young girl, “If you can get him out of those covers, Miss Lovegood, you can
escort Mr. Weasley to the Great Hall for breakfast.”

She was answered by a beatific smile from Luna and a protesting groan from her patient and gave
a curt nod—said action hiding the smirk that was trying to break out. She was on her way back to
her room but paused as a high-pitched voice squeaked—“Luna! I don’t need help with my
*clothes*!”

Rolling her eyes, she decided to take a shower and prepare for the day.

*

And so it went as the minutes of the new day continued—in homes and dormitories, in
establishments both wizard and Muggle: humans and magical beings woke and prepared for the day to
come, not knowing whether the coming hours will herald joy or pain, laughter or tears—or another
boring, routine day.

*

From her window seat high in the ancient castle walls, Hermione watched the rising sun,
marvelling at the thousand and one ways that this magical castle could surprise her—she who had
read ‘*Hogwarts: A History*’ so many times that she felt she knew more about the place than
even her teachers did. But then again, she reflected as her eyes swept over the room with its
large, comfortable couch and massive armchairs in front of the now-smouldering fire, such was the
nature of both magic and knowledge: there was always something to learn, something new to
explore.

‘It really *is* a Room of Requirement,’ she thought—and giggled as she remembered the room
providing a bathroom with all the amenities (especially the toothbrush, toothpaste and floss for
her nightly routine), although she had to admit that the Room’s idea of sleepwear left much to be
desired.

She was also quite sure that the Room had no windows—but then again, that was exactly what she
was hoping to find when she woke up. Her internal clock told her that dawn was soon to break, and
she had rolled out of the couch and was walking towards a wall before her lethargic, logical mind
could stop her. And then she saw the window, complete with a comfortable window-seat just waiting
for her to flop into so she could watch the dawn.

Sunrise had always been her favourite time of day, ever since a ray of sunlight found its way
into her parents’ bedroom where she had crawled in the night before, striking her face and waking
her from her dreamless slumber. She cracked open her four-year old eyes ever so slightly… and gaped
at the sight of her father’s smiling face, his smile vying with the brilliance of the sun, and she
warmed at the obvious love and affection he was showing.

“Good morning, love,” David Granger said softly, and a fascinated Hermione watched as Abigail
Granger leaned over her unmoving body to exchange a soft kiss with her husband—and for the briefest
of moments, Hermione Granger understood what it was like to be in love.

She turned as she heard a soft groan behind her, and her eyes fastened on the young man
stretching on the couch. He didn’t realize that his actuations had pulled up his shirt, revealing
the smooth skin of his stomach, the delectable indentation of his belly button, the shadowed lines
of his hips leading to—

Hermione bit her lip as she turned away; when she looked back, Harry had lowered his arms (thus
dropping the shirt)—and she couldn’t help but smile as she contemplated a befuddled Harry on the
couch.

He looked absolutely… *adorable*.

His hair was tossed from sleep, making it even wilder than usual. He had on green, white, and
black boxer shorts (not unlike the red and gold one she was wearing, which the Room had provided
last night), and a solid green tee that matched his sleepy eyes perfectly. He wasn’t wearing his
glasses and he squinted to make out his surroundings, making him look, if possible, even cuter. His
clothes were still rumpled from sleep and he stared around blearily trying to make heads or tails
of the situation.

He groped around blindly and Hermione stifled a giggle at Harry’s slow, deliberate movements.
She subdued the wave of pity that suffused her, wanting only to continue watching Harry as he
groped for his glasses… smiled when he finally grabbed them off the table… felt her heart leap to
her throat as his eyes, now magnified behind lightly-smudged lenses swept around and caught her
looking at him… and her whole body melted when his face lit up with a smile, and his
sleep-roughened voice broke the silence of the room: “Good morning, love.”

*

“Hmm?”

The slightly spacey reaction to her question caused Minerva McGonagall’s eyebrows to quirk. She
had known the Headmaster for too long—as teacher, superior and friend—not to know whether he was
dissembling or not. She continued walking, letting him wonder if she had forgotten her question
before repeating it, a bit more forcefully this time: “The mistletoe, Albus?”

“Mistletoe, Minerva?”

They were descending a staircase at a stately pace, following their custom of going down for
breakfast together, using the opportunity to discuss school—or other—business before the day got
well and truly started. A small “Hmph!” from the elderly witch, and she smiled as the old man
sighed.

“The Weasleys—Fred and George,” Dumbledore elaborated, “contacted me last year, asking for
advice about charming a certain item… I referred them to Filius.”

“I see,” McGonagall encouraged. “That would be the mistletoe Remus was referring to?”

Dumbledore nodded briefly before continuing. “Apparently, they’d been having problems with the
charm set for it. According to Fred, the intent was to trap someone under the mistletoe so the
person couldn’t move until someone kisses him or her. Unfortunately, the charms they’d tried… uhm,
*misfired*, and so they decided to ask for help.”

“Misfired?”

“Their tongues got stuck to each other.”

“*Ewwww**!*”

“Indeed.” Dumbledore smirked at McGonagall’s slightly green face. “I referred them to Filius;
he’s had a soft spot for the Twins ever since they turned a corridor into a swamp last year.”

The Headmaster grinned, although his normally twinkling eyes held a depth of sadness and
despondency that dimmed them. While he enjoyed the descriptions of the mayhem that the Twins let
loose, those memories would always be in counterpoint to his sins of omission and commission over
the course of that year. He continued descending the stairs, unaware that his Deputy had stopped, a
sudden thought striking her and turning her animated face stony as she looked at her superior’s
descending back.

“Albus.” Dumbledore blinked, and turned to see her standing two steps above him, glaring as if
he were a student who’d walked into her classroom unprepared, eyes cold and unwavering. “Were you
and Filius setting up Harry and Miss Granger? Is that *why* you and Filius had a side bet of
*fifty* Galleons on those two becoming a couple over Christmas?”

For a long moment, they were locked in a battle of wills, eyes unblinking as they tried to stare
each other down. Finally, Dumbledore broke the contest and turned away; he waved at her to join him
and waited until McGonagall was beside him before answering, “No, Minerva.”

He heard the sigh of relief before he continued, “It wasn’t fifty Galleons… it was a friendly
bet of ten only.”

“*Are you mad?*”

This time, it was Dumbledore who paused when McGonagall took a step down—leaving the Deputy in
the uncomfortable position of looking up at the icy glare of her wizarding superior.

“No, I’m not mad, Minerva,” he said in a soft, cutting voice. “At least not mad as in insane,
which is what you’re trying to say. Mad as in angry, yes… but I was angry at *myself*—for
having kept Harry ignorant all these years… for trying to shield him from his destiny… for dropping
hints and innuendoes year after year, rather than outright *telling* him what he must
expect—”

He broke off at the sound of approaching footsteps—breakfast, he realized, and the corridors
would soon be flooded with students heading for the Great Hall. Placing an iron grip on Minerva’s
elbow, he pulled her with him to classroom eleven, where he knocked on the door once before
entering without waiting for an answer.

Inside, he glanced around the room that had been converted to a forest clearing at dusk, and
turned with flinty eyes and barely controlled fury at a fuming McGonnagal who had dared question
his intentions. “We do not have *time*, Minerva! I have wasted far too much trying to give
Harry the semblance of a normal life when everything that has happened since he stepped into
Hogwarts should have told me that he will never live a normal life—

“It is time for him to learn the power that lies within him, time to understand that it will be
from the strength of his love and devotion to others where the power to defeat Voldemort lies—not
in the power of his magic, not from whatever pitiful collection of hexes and curses we can teach
him in the months that are left to us! It will come only if he truly understands the power that
Voldemort knows not—”

“And trapping him beneath a mistletoe with Hermione would teach him all that?”

That was exactly what he thought, his fiery eyes told her, but she ploughed on before he could
respond, wondering—not for the first time and probably not the last— whether age had finally addled
his brain: “What if he’d gotten stuck under your stupid mistletoe with someone else? What if the
Weasleys trapped Harry with Tonks or Molly? What if he’d been caught with Miss Weasley, or
even—Merlin help us—if Hermione had been trapped with Ronald?!”

“They would have learned the difference between infatuation and love… what separates a school
crush from the deep, soul-searing passion that comes from finding one’s life partner, one’s soul
mate—” The old Headmaster stopped to draw a calming breath and turned away, his eyes focusing on
the bright light of Venus above. “Do you know what is the biggest problem, and the most wonderful
thing, about people like Harry?”

McGonagall blinked at the abrupt change in subject; before she could respond, Dumbledore
continued: “They’re so *single-minded*, Minerva. Everything is black or white, for them there
can only be right or wrong. They see something and do what they can to make it right, no matter the
consequence to themselves. Hermione is missing when a troll is lured to the castle, and Harry goes
looking for her without thought to rules. Ginny Weasley is trapped in the Chamber of Secrets, and
he goes after her without fearing for his own life. He is tricked into believing that Sirius is
captured and Harry doesn’t give a *damn* as to what stands in the way: he would rescue Sirius
with or without his friends, because it is what he has to do.”

The old man paused. “And when they love… love for them is the grand passion. They will never
take things half-way: mate for life, die in the name of love, and sacrifice oneself for your other
half—”

But McGonagall would have none of it. “Who are *you* to say that Hermione is Harry’s soul
mate, Albus? True—she has been with him from the beginning; she’s been with him through almost
everything thrown his way, been loyal to him when others have faltered—”

“Who are we to say that she is not? They have been together since Quirrell lured the troll to
distract us from the Stone—Harry has turned to Hermione for guidance at every turn. She has been
his guide, his companion, his *life* ever since that day—as she has been his. There has been
no one else in his world who has given him the friendship, loyalty and love that he needs… the
trust and companionship he has been denied for years…” Dumbledore turned away, his sins again
threatening to overwhelm him and he whispered, “I have denied him that, Minerva, denied him
everything that he should have learned years ago when I sought to protect him from Voldemort’s
followers and the consequences of his fame…”

He turned to his Deputy, and McGonagall stepped back from the aching pain that was coming from
him like a physical force—and she had to fight against a quick acquiescence, the easy path of
bending once again to his plots and schemes simply because she could see no other way out of the
course he had set.

He had set the wheels in motion, she knew, all those years ago when he had gone to meet Sybil
Trelawney in Hogsmeade. He may not have told her everything but she had seen enough, learned enough
over the years to piece together an idea of what was going on—and these last few minutes had
confirmed much although other things were left vague.

Still—

“You can’t ruin love, Headmistress. You can test it and try it; you can hurt those you love—just
as they can hurt you. But you can’t ruin it. Stop tormenting yourself.”

The deep, baritone voice came from within a stand of trees and the Headmaster and his Deputy
gaped as Firenze emerged from the shadows. “My apologies,” the centaur said. “I did not mean to
interrupt. As you know, I—my *kind*—would prefer that we keep away from the insignificant and
inconsequential affairs of humans. But there are times…”

McGonagall bit back her anger, realizing that they had committed a breach in etiquette by
barging into the centaur’s classroom without permission. She looked up to apologize and saw the
centaur’s blue eyes boring into her.

“I have met Harry Potter outside the classroom, Professor McGonagall. And, though I have not had
the chance to be formally introduced to his ma—*friend*, I do know of her.” For the briefest
of moments, the centaur’s eyes clouded as his mind wandered to a gloomy night years before: of
charging the indistinct shape heading for the boy… the decision to help Harry Potter even against
his herd’s oath not to set themselves against the heavens… the cry of “Harry! Harry, are you all
right?” from a young girl tearing down the path, unheeding of anything and everything but the boy
on his back, and he knew that Harry’s safety and destiny lay with the worried girl who was looking
at him with wide eyes, shifting from one foot to another, unsure of how to approach him and the
rattled Harry on his back but ready and willing to do something—*anything*—to protect her
friend.

Firenze shook his head, and once again locked his astonishing blue eyes with the Deputy
Headmistress: “There is a bond between them, Professor McGonagall—a bond forged through actions and
words said and unsaid, of experiences shared and time spent together. That link is there for all to
see, but being human”—and McGonagall wondered if the centaur had smiled—“they are blinkered and
fettered by the limitations of your kind.”

McGonagall nodded surprising herself—in spite of her well-known apathy towards the woolly
subject of Divination, whether by human or centaur standards, she was in agreement—and whispered,
through a throat suddenly tight with concern, “The question, of course, is whether they will be
able to see what they have.”

Firenze turned away from her as he said, “There is that, of course.”

*

‘This,’ Hermione Granger thought, ‘is perfect:’ seated in Harry’s lap, hearing the slow beat of
his heart, relishing the feel of his arms around her and his chin on the crown of her hair. She’d
felt vulnerable from the moment he greeted her this morning, using words so precious to her—those
words she had dreamed of, hoped for, *wished for* someone to say as the sun rose on a new
day…

“Oh, Harry…” she’d whispered, her tears spilling out—and he was on her before she could say
another word: wrapping his arms around her, pressing her head on his chest as he held her to
comfort her, leading her towards the window seat… A moment later, she felt his hand on her chin and
her eyes focused on fields of swirling green and she completely forgot whatever it was she wanted
to say—unaware that Harry was drowning in pools of brown flecked with gold—and there was only the
warmth of air mingling on their lips—

She turned away to hide her heated face, feeling her cheeks burning in embarrassment as her mind
insisted on parading the many times she’d turned teary eyes on her best friend—and blinking at the
thought that this was the first time *he* had ever comforted her…

‘No it isn’t,’ her hyperactive mind protested—‘there was last night’… and her cheeks burned even
more at the memories: of his arms around her as she broke down outside the Common Room… the
ill-thought Summoning Charm to stop him from murdering his dorm-mates… his panicked face as he
tried to rouse her …

‘He said he loved me,’ she thought—not just once, but *four* times that she could
recall—but her rational mind started jeering, asking if it was something that he honestly, truly
felt and not a declaration from his testosterone-fuelled brain. She held on tighter as the doubts
assailed her, hugged him closer as if there were to be no tomorrows, wanting only to stay with him
in this quiet cocoon where they’d shared so much last night—this peaceful room where there was no
Voldemort or Dumbledore, no Death Eaters or Order of the Phoenix, this tranquil place with no one
but each other—unaware that Harry was thinking the same thoughts as he breathed in her scent, a
smile of sheer contentment on his face.

For the first time in a really long while, Harry Potter felt secure… safe… content—here in this
room with Hermione in his arms. He sighed as he realized that only three nights before, he’d been
working on his potions assignment—and bitten into that singular bean which had set this chain of
events into play.

He brushed his lips on the soft hair of his best friend, and grinned at the thought of his
dorm-mates running into a very angry witch. He wished he could have been there when she started
hexing them into oblivion and, in the next moment, wondered if they were all right. He hadn’t been
to their Common Room or his dorm since the day before, and, with everything that had happened in
the past twenty-four hours, he wondered if the world outside this room had changed—

At that thought, he glanced outside the window—and his Seeker’s eyes spotted the Ravenclaw
Quidditch team engaged in an early-morning practice. His eyes and brain easily tracked their
movements—part of his brain wondering if they were following an established playbook or developing
their own… another part tracking the players as they went through their paces—and he smiled.

No… things haven’t really changed. Classes will resume, assignments handed out, Gryffindor will
beat Ravenclaw, and Hermione will be in the stands, alternately cheering or cringing as the game
goes on like she always does—and gaped as he saw *someone* with long red hair down her back
wearing Ravenclaw practice robes race between two Chasers—intercepting the Quaffle they were
passing between them and tearing for the goals where she proceeded to pump-fake the waiting Keeper
from his position and score.

“Ravenclaw’s got a new Chaser,” he thought—and gave a start as he realized that he’d spoken the
thought out loud. He drew a sharp breath as the girl in his lap shifted to take a look out the
window, closed his eyes in pain as blood seemed to pool in his pelvis—bit hard on his lip as
Hermione shifted again to take a better look, and tried desperately to think of something,
*anything* other than tire irons or snakes… praying that Hermione hadn’t noticed and he
screwed up his face when her bum brushed the front of his shorts—unaware that Hermione *had*
felt it and had bitten down on her lip to stop a searing scream of pain from her wounded soul…

Hope and dreams were the narcotics of a lonely heart, lulling one into believing happiness could
actually be attained. Hopes and dreams were all that sustained Hermione through the solitary days
of her childhood, growing up as the only child of well-to-do dentists, granted a formidable brain
and a know-it-all mouth through the workings of the Cosmic Dice—complicated by unexplainable things
happening around her, the initial signs of her magical potential breaking through…

It was her hope, her dream, her *belief* that some day, some one would pause and look
beneath the bushy hair and intelligent eyes, go beyond that formidable brain and acerbic mouth—see
the person within who needed approval and friendship as much as the next.

She’d hoped that Hogwarts would provide an answer—and shook as she remembered the horror of her
first months: the searing pain of Ron’s words after their Charms class, hiding out and crying her
eyes out… the raw fear at confronting the mountain troll but feeling the beginnings of an inner
peace as her mind whispered that death would be an escape because her dreams were dead—

Only for hope to be rekindled with the entrance of Harry into the comfort room—and she had a
reason to live, and friends to share with… a life to hold on to…

But there was always something missing. Her heart kept insisting on that, even as her brain
reviewed her daily schedule, asserting that there was no room in her life for more…

She’d caught a glimpse of what was missing when she saw the look of admiration in Krum’s dark
eyes and Harry’s stupefied reaction at the Yule Ball… felt its emptiness in fifth year when Harry
went to Hogsmeade with Cho… felt her heart soaring that fateful night beneath the mistletoe in
Grimmauld Place, only to be dropped back into bleak despair when she saw Dean’s graphic rendition
of Hermione as she truly was: gangly, lanky, awkward Hermione…

She had responded irrationally to the mockery, only to be brought soaring again last night—not
so much by the burning, bruising kisses she’d exchanged with Harry, but in the deep comfort of
sleep with Harry’s arms around her, capped with Harry’s completely unexpected greeting when he woke
up—saying those words that meant so much to her and then having him wrap her once again in his
comforting arms…

Only for the outside world to intrude—in the person of that Ravenclaw Chaser with fiery hair
like Ginny’s, high-fiving her accomplishment with Cho as they sat on their brooms—and she bit down
on her lip as she felt his reaction to the sight through the green, gold and black boxers he
wore…

She jumped off his lap, blinking back the tears pooling in her eyes as the make-believe world of
this room crumbled, knowing that her time with him was over, that they would soon emerge from the
room and face the world, *his world*, with all those people waiting for him: Cho with her
athletic body and straight black hair… Padma and Parvati with their exotic faces and calm
demeanours… Ginny with her red hair and Bat-Bogey Hex… the Ravenclaw Chaser and so many others…

Rita Skeeter with her acid-green quill just waiting for an opportunity to slash and humiliate
her by focusing on all those other girls and making fun of her: lanky, gangly, awkward Hermione,
all arms and legs and bushy brown hair—

She didn’t see Harry expelling the air he wasn’t aware he’d been holding in—and biting his lip
as he felt the blood surging from his pelvis to his brain, knowing that his face would be redder
than his Mum’s hair at what had just happened, cursing his teenaged hormones and traitorous brain,
wondering how long he could keep this up—his blood surging from pelvis to head and back
again—wishing that it would just stay in one place but cringing at the thought of walking around
Hogwarts with his blood permanently pooled in his shorts…

He opened his eyes to apologize—and felt his blood draining into some black hole he didn’t know
existed when he saw Hermione’s defeated shoulders and drooping hair, her bent-over head as she
stood up, facing away from him. He was after her before she could take a step, and he spun her
around to face him only to take a step back at the sight of her tear-stained cheeks—and all
thoughts of blood-engorged snakes or bloody tire irons fled his brain as he croaked, “What’s wrong,
love?”

She didn’t answer but kept her eyes fixed on her toes, allowing her hair to do its job of hiding
her face and her rampaging emotions from him. There was nothing she wanted to do at this moment but
turn and walk away from him, but she jumped when she felt his warm hand lifting her face and she
blinked at the worried face and troubled eyes of her best friend, silently begging her to explain
what was going on…

Her brain wanted to ask nonchalantly, “What now, Harry?”—but her aching heart stepped on her
brain’s feeble protests and asked a question before she could stop it: “Do you love me, Harry
Potter?”

*

It was a sight so bizarre that the portraits (who had seen and heard so many strange and magical
things pass or happen in the ancient corridors) had to shake their heads. A handsome,
palomino-coloured centaur was walking the corridor, flanked on one side by an elderly wizard with
flowing white hair wearing purple robes with dancing silver stars and planets—and on the other, by
another not so elderly witch in tartan green, head bowed and focused on the ancient stones of the
castle corridor, half-listening to the centaur and the wizard as they conversed in low voices.

‘When had he become so manipulative?’ Minerva McGonagall asked herself. They’d been friends for
close to a century—and in those long and sometimes bloody years, she had learned to trust the old
man with her life, simply because he had never wavered from a singular principle: unwavering
dedication to the cause of the Light. It was his mantra… his pledge… the tenet he lived by.

And yet, she had to wonder, how many had he sacrificed on the altar of righteousness?

She blinked as Dumbledore’s words broke through her seeming funk: “I have never been able to
understand—or accept—that Muggle saying, Firenze.” She turned her puzzled eyes on him as he
continued, “The good die young.”

“Albus—”

Dumbledore turned tired eyes on her as Firenze dropped back a pace to allow the two old friends
to talk. “You know how old I am, Minerva… but even you cannot know how old I truly *feel*. I
have survived the rise and fall of one Dark Lord—and seen the rise, fall and subsequent
resurrection of another. After all these years, I cannot help but ask myself—if the good die young,
then why am *I* still here?”

The corridor was silent; even the paintings straining to listen to the conversation in their
hallway—but there was no answer. McGonagall had no answer to give, for she felt the same way—while
she, unlike Hermione Granger, had not been at Dumbledore’s side in his many battles for the Light,
she had lost too many friends—many of them young—and she understood exactly what he meant.

‘Survivor’s guilt,’ Lily called it when McGonagall was visiting the Potters, scant days before
the family went into hiding. The older witch found Lily in a disheartened mood, the latter having
learned of the death of Dorcas Meadowes at the hands of Voldemort, and she had expressed the same
sentiment as her old Headmaster… except that, in Lily’s case, she was wondering why it had to be
Dorcas who’d died and not her.

Thoughts of Lily brought her mind to Harry, and she shivered. Would that, she wondered, be
another instance of the good dying young? She hugged herself tightly at the thought. After a
moment, she shook her head and looked up—surprised to see that Dumbledore and Firenze were waiting
for her, their sad, sympathetic eyes with a wealth of understanding but little comfort to give.

And then the centaur whispered, his deep voice somehow vibrating with suppressed power:

Do not go gentle into that good night,


Old age should burn and rave at close of day;


Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The wizard and the witch gaped, but the impassive centaur seemed deep in thought as he continued
his stately way to the Great Hall and entered—and stopped, his eyes focused on something at one of
the tables even as he ignored the sudden silence that greeted his entrance. Surprised, Dumbledore
and McGonagall hurried after him and stared, mouths agape, at the spectacle before them—all three
completely missing the sighs of the female—and some of the male—population of Hogwarts at seeing
the reclusive centaur in their midst.

*

“Do you love me, Harry Potter?”

For a beat of time that felt as if eternity held its breath, Harry Potter stared at Hermione
Granger. Of all the things to ask, he thought—why that? Hadn’t he shown what he felt for her?
Hadn’t he *proven* the depth of his feelings for her? Hadn’t he, time and again, done his
level best to protect her from every danger that came by being associated with The-Boy-Who
Lived?

The easy protestations died on his lips as his eyes probed the swirling pools of Hermione’s
eyes—and he knew that the easy answer would not suffice, not here, not now… In Hermione’s simple
question lay a depth of profoundness that he was unable to answer honestly, and his heart ached…
because he wasn’t sure where the differences lay in wanting to defend her because she was his
friend—and wanting to protect her because she was something more to him.

If love were defined by protecting someone with body and soul… yes, he did love Hermione. He had
gone after her when he realized she didn’t know about the troll in first year—as he had gone after
Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets… after Ron into the tunnel leading to the Shrieking Shack… after
Sirius in the Department of Mysteries…

True, he had protected her from danger far more than the others—placing his arms and his body
around her to shield her from Dementors and Grawp’s enormous hand… pulling her with him in their
flight from the Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries… but was that really love for her above
all others—or just the circumstances they’d found themselves in?

Was that love, or merely the steadfast loyalty he felt towards her, after all the years of
shared adventures and all the help she’d given him without question?

Harry felt a cold worm of doubt niggling in his mind as her question bored into him—and found
himself wondering about the passionate kisses they’d shared beneath an enchanted mistletoe and
again in this room last night: was that really love or merely the release of teenage lust? They had
never bothered to question the Weasleys about their enchanted mistletoe—too embarrassed were they
about what had transpired, as well as being far too afraid of what they might learn to probe too
deeply.

But what about last night? Was it really an expression of their deepest feelings for each other,
or a simple bit of madness inspired by a bean which, as subsequent events had shown, may well have
been planted amongst thousands of others with a singular, evil purpose in mind?

As the doubts assailed Harry’s mind, he felt something stirring from deep within, groping much
as he did every morning as he searched for his glasses… but this was something else, something that
had been buried deeply by the years of fear and loneliness in the loveless household where he grew
up, something that had been denied him in those years of verbal abuse by Vernon and Dudley’s
physical bullying: that unique connection to another human being that defies definition, but is so
common to human understanding that poets and writers and composers have tried to capture it for
centuries—and that even Harry, growing up without love and with a surfeit of fear, knew he had been
looking for.

As he sank deeper into Hermione’s eyes, he realized that it was that singular need for
connection to someone that made him accept Hagrid’s offer on the Hut-on-the-Rock… that made him
reject the hand offered by Draco Malfoy on the Hogwarts Express, even as he’d embraced the
friendship offered by Ron…

And it was why he’d gone after a bushy-haired know-it-all who he didn’t even think of as his
friend—gone after her and risked his life without thinking because she was in danger… but how was
that different from all the other times, and all the other people, when his ‘saving people thing’
had kicked in?

He almost jumped when he felt his sweaty fingers wrapping themselves around something—but felt
his mind eased as he realized that he’d entwined his fingers with Hermione’s in a gesture so
familiar that it often happened without conscious thought on their parts—and he felt that
some*thing* stirring in him grow stronger…

He could feel her pulse through his sensitized fingers—knew that her blood was rushing at a
heightened pace in time to his own—and he realized, as if a bolt of lightning had flashed through
his mind, that it was this seeming connection to her which defined the difference between Hermione
and everyone else in his life…

He’d gone after her in first year without thinking of anything except that *she* was in
danger—not that she was his friend, which she definitely was not—but because *she*, Hermione
Granger, was in danger.

With others, there was a sense of obligation—with Ginny because she was Ron’s sister and she was
in danger, with Ron because he was his first friend after Hagrid, with Gabrielle because Fleur was
unable to effect her rescue… with Sirius because he was Harry’s godfather and dear friend of his
father… with Ginny, Ron, Luna and Neville in the Ministry of Magic, because he’d allowed them to
join him in what was ultimately a futile quest…

But Hermione… Hermione was the constant in his life, even before she became his friend: pushing
herself in his face during the flying lesson and later in the Common Room before the midnight duel,
her acidic remarks when he received his Nimbus 2000—it has always been Hermione…

She was his Hermione even then.

Hermione and her loyalty, her faith in him to do what was right…

Was that why, in their confrontation with Malfoy and Lestrange, it was Hermione’s location he
was most aware of? Why, in the chaos of escaping the Death Eaters, it had been Hermione he’d
grabbed without thought for the others until much later? And finally, the turbulence of his mind
when she went down from Dolohov’s curse became clear: it was his fear of losing his connection to
her that had torn at his soul.

It wasn’t until he was in danger of losing her that he recognized it for what it was—but even
then, the events of his extremely abnormal life conspired to submerge that singular
realization—until he found himself trapped with Hermione beneath an enchanted mistletoe, and then
biting down on that never-to-be forgotten bean…

And he realized that there was no need for *understanding* to capture what it was that
others had been trying to describe or portray.

It simply is.

His connection—*their* connection—had always been there. They had always communicated on a
level which left others agape but he’d never realized, never understood what it meant—never
*acknowledged* what it was that they’d been building together, one step at a time over the
years… simply because he never knew it was there.

His feelings for Hermione may have come from the same wellspring of caring and concern that he
had for others in danger, but his feelings for *her* ran deeper and more intensely than
anything he had ever known or felt for anyone—because of that unique connection and distinctive
bond that tied her to him and—he now hoped with every fibre of his being—that also tied him to
her.

He heard himself whispering, the words coming to his ears as if from a great distance, because
they were coming from the deepest part of his being: “I don’t love you… Merlin help me, I don’t
love you.”

In the split second before she could tear herself away, he whispered words he now fully
understood and accepted… mind, body and soul whispering in a single voice, “I’m *in love* with
you… I am totally, completely *in love* with you.”

*

“It gives a new meaning to the words ‘other half,’ don’t you think?” The teachers were once
again at their table, talking behind the magical barrier that prevented the students from
eavesdropping—and all of them trying their level best to maintain a calm and stoic face while
watching a redheaded, freckle-faced wizard and a blonde, blue-eyed witch eating at the Gryffindor
table: Ron’s left hand holding a fork, Luna’s right hand holding a spoon—their other hands nowhere
in evidence. It was obvious, however, that those hands were below the table where—McGonagall
fervently hoped—they were merely holding hands and not something else.

She watched, amazed, as Ron speared a sausage and fed it to Luna as he answered a question from
Dean on his left; turning away from the latter in time to open his mouth when Luna shovelled a
spoonful of scrambled eggs even though she was facing Ginny, who was sitting in front of her…

It was an awesome display of coordinated dining.

“I’d’a thought eatin’ tha’ way would keep Ron from stuffin’ his face,” Hagrid remarked to no one
in particular. “It looks like nothin’ can stop his appetite.”

The other teachers smirked into their plates or goblets at the rightness of the statement—except
for Professor Sinistra’s mordant voice saying, “Shouldn’t someone stop them before someone pokes
out an eye?”

The teachers (especially Flitwick) turned baleful eyes at the Astronomy Professor and temporary
head of Slytherin House, but Firenze’s baritone voice stopped them: “I would have liked to reward
them for that performance, Professor Sinistra. It isn’t often that one sees such physical…
*coordination*, especially among two people who are not, apparently, bonded.”

“Ye’ve never seen ‘arry an’ ‘ermione, Firenze,” the genial Hagrid said. “They may not ‘ave the
coordination thing down like those two”—nodding towards Ron and Luna—“but their *minds*…” and
he tapped a finger against his temple as he shook his head.

“Indeed?” The centaur’s eyes roamed the Hall, studiously ignoring the soft sighs and muffled
moans from the female students when he ignored them, and turned back to Hagrid. “I do not see Harry
Potter out there.”

“The students are not required to be here during meals, Professor Firenze,” McGonagall said. She
cast a furtive glance at the Headmaster, who gave a minute shrug in return. Hagrid’s booming voice
effectively stopped her next thought: “If ‘arry’s still looking for ‘ermione’s beans, I’d best be
talkin’ to tha’ lad—”

The glare that the professors gave Hagrid should have turned him into toast, no matter his bulk;
as it was, the genial giant’s suddenly blazing face generated enough heat that the centaur had to
move away from his mumbled, “I shouldn’ta said that!”

The others snickered, except for Minerva McGonagall, whose blistering glare was directed at the
smirking Albus Dumbledore, an idea jumping, full force into her head, and her harsh voice lashed
out: “You weren’t successful with the mistletoe, were you, Albus? If you were, we would have known
about it when the students returned after the New Year…”

The teachers—even Firenze—gaped at the stern visage of McGonagall, who looked, for all the
world, like an ancient battle-axe come to life as she asked, “Did you have *anything* to do
with a Hermione-flavoured bean, Albus?”

Dumbledore’s response was to do an impressive imitation of a flopping salmon in a fishmonger’s
stall—an image that would have lived in the minds of the students in the Great Hall, had they not
been distracted by the arrival of the morning owls bearing letters from home, gifts for those with
birthdays, free copies of the Quibbler and the Daily Prophet for the teachers and paid copies for
those with subscriptions.

McGonagall had her answer, however: the shocked look in Dumbledore’s eyes combined with the
inarticulate opening and closing of his mouth brought home the truth—he had nothing to do with
Hermione’s Bean. Such an idea never even passed his scheming, manipulative mind, she thought. He
may have participated in the making of the Weasley’s trick mistletoe but a Hermione-flavoured bean,
with all the randomness it entailed, was beyond him.

Although, McGonagall reflected as her eyes narrowed to pinpricks of bright steel, she would not
put it above him to take advantage of the opportunity offered, remembering his cavalier attitude
towards the Gryffindor boys in Hagrid’s hut the day before.

Before either could speak—Albus to deny the accusation, Minerva to ask another question—a feral
howl was heard in the Great Hall: a scream all the more shocking as they turned and saw that it
came from the mild-mannered Dean Thomas, corded veins on his neck and forehead, shaking hands
tearing the freshly-delivered Daily Prophet to shreds. The surprised teachers glanced around and a
small melee occurred as they grabbed for their free copies of the wizarding newspaper, Dean’s words
echoing in their ears as it bounced around the hall: “I’M GOING TO *KILL* THEM!”

*

It was something so totally out of their experience that the words ‘blown out of their minds’
would be the only appropriate description they could ever find. Neither of them had much experience
in this before—and the kisses they’d exchanged beneath the mistletoe in Grimmauld or those traded
in this room last night did not, by any order of magnitude, compare in any way to what they were
going through now.

Their kisses had none of the passionate urgency of last night… none of the fumbling they’d gone
through that first time under the mistletoe of Grimmauld Place. It was passion, yes—but passion of
a different kind: the exhilaration of discovery, the joy of understanding and finally grasping
something that had lain mysterious for too long…

Fidelity was promised with each kiss, affection assured with each caress. As their bodies
touched, they found each other’s need and eased it. With their lips and tongues, they sought one
another’s wants and relished it. With their hearts, they called to each other’s dreams and
responded to the urgent cries. They were climbing, soaring, coming together—calling each other’s
name as their passions burned, brighter and hotter than the sun outside the walls.

But messages of love, devotion, constancy and need could not stand the pleading roar of
oxygen-starved brains, the joy of souls touching was no match for the cries of mercy from rapidly
beating hearts, and they broke apart, chests heaving, eyes wide in shocked surprise at what had
just transpired, their blood turning from boiling to mere simmer as eyes met and held…

And a sense of peace, of quiet tranquillity and a longed-for calmness settled around them. They
sat back and stared, smiled when they realized that their connection hadn’t broken—that their
fingers were still entwined as they dove into the other’s eyes; they could still feel the strong
beat of the other’s heart through the skin of fingers touching…

“Do we have to go?”

Hermione Granger smiled at the softly-spoken words, ducked her face and felt her hair fall into
its oft-used role as a curtain for her emotions… and she sighed, disappointment already washing
over her as she repeated her question: “Do we really have to go?”

For a moment, she felt cold as his fingers broke away from her hands—but the moment was brief as
those same fingers combed the hair back from her face… and she looked into familiar green eyes now
alight with serenity and contentment.

‘Not just yet,’ his peaceful eyes promised and she smiled. Silently, he tugged gently at her
hair; without a word, she settled on his lap—her back feeling his chest as she leaned back, his
arms going around her waist while her hands entwined with his fingers, both of them sighing
contentedly and turning to look at the vista outside the window: the well-trimmed grounds of
Hogwarts… the placid lake where the giant squid waved a tentacle in the air… the smoke rising here
and there from the distant village of Hogsmeade as families prepared or consumed breakfast—and the
angry, irritated owl, a Daily Prophet clutched in its beak, glaring at them from the window.

*

“You should ask Professor Dumbledore to barricade the bathroom where the Chamber of Secrets is,
Ronald.” Luna Lovegood’s ethereal voice penetrated the numb brains of the Gryffindor sixth-year
boys, and the quiet murmur of their housemates. The Gryffindor table fell silent as they waited for
their Ravenclaw visitor’s next words—a single thought in all their minds verbalized by Colin
Creevey: “What does the Chamber have to do with this?” as he waved the newspaper with its headline
encompassing fully half of the page (“Bertie Botts Beans Safe! Fudge Issues Apology for ‘Hasty’
Actions!”) in Luna’s face.

“Well,” Luna’s calmly responded, “it’s the only place I can think of where Harry can bury the
bodies with no one finding them.” Snorts and giggles were heard from up and down the table, but the
blonde eccentric wasn’t through. “That is, after Hermione Granger has had her way with them.” A
beat. “In which case, maybe the Chamber wouldn’t be needed… they may just simply disappear.”

The faces of the Gryffindor sixth years went even paler at that; Dean’s rich, dark colour had
already gone an unappetizing shade of grey after he’d vented his spleen earlier even as his
erstwhile housemates valiantly tried to keep their snickers at bay.

Ginny spoke up, “Uhmmm… Luna? You are aware that ‘they’ (and the red-haired witched made
quotation marks in the air) includes Ronald, don’t you?”

“That’s not a problem,” Luna’s calm voice and gentle demeanour smiled at the red-headed and
pale-faced brother of her friend. “He can always stay with me in my dormitory.”

Coughs and giggles came from all around the table, as Lavender spoke up, “Uhmm… Ron’s a boy,
Luna. How can you sneak him into your dormitory?”

The petite Ravenclaw smiled and waved the question off as if it were a matter of no consequence.
“There are ways…” she began, but she stopped as a sudden thought struck. “Of course, Ronald can
always marry me.”

Before the Gryffindors—or even Flitwick—could speak up, the alien visitor to the Gryffindor
table continued, “In that case, Harry *wouldn’t* kill him, would he? I don’t think Harry would
be cruel enough to deny me my husband before the wedding night, would he?”

Giggles turned into snorts, laughter forced into snickers—and Ginny’s face turned beatific at
the words, imagining the years ahead when she would be holding this moment over her over-bearing
big git of a brother. An amused Katie Bell asked, “But what about the others, Luna? They couldn’t
*all* marry you—”

Again, the unconventional Ravenclaw waved the question off: “Oh, that wouldn’t be a problem.
They will *have* to be Ronald’s groomsmen, right?” Luna’s far-away look apparently didn’t
register the sight of a dozen red-faced Gryffindors valiantly holding back their laughter—Natalie
McDonald’s face was on the table, lips threatening to bleed from teeth digging into them as Luna
continued, “Of course, I can always ask Hermione to be my maid of honour—you wouldn’t mind, would
you, Ginny?”

Ginny shook her head even as her face threatened to explode from suppressed laughter—and
completely missed the quintessentially wicked look that Carolyn and Cindy exchanged as they watched
the the elder Gryffindors. A quick nod, and the Terrible Two stood up, hands raised as if waving to
someone at the doors: “Hi, Sir Harry! Hi—”

*

It was a silence so thick that only a well-honed machete could slice it.

If looks could burn, the Daily Prophet would have been in cinders by now—and the stone floor on
which it rested would have turned into lava from the combined glares that Harry James Potter and
Hermione Jane Granger were giving it.

Hermione’s mind was boiling with the very same thoughts that Harry had three nights before:
“*I’m going to* kill *Gred* *and Forge. The moment I’m sure that old Tom’s done and
buried, I’m going to* kill *those two. They may be the best pranksters since the Marauders,
but this prank has gone too far!*”

The Daily Prophet’s lead laid out the story in detail: an arrangement between Weasley’s
Wizarding Wheezes and Bertie Botts’ Every Flavour Beans, where the former were to ‘seed special
beans’ (Canary Creams and Ton-Tongue Toffee among them) into the latter’s shipments—“to provide
more excitement and ‘oomph’ into the standard flavours,” as the Bertie Botts’ spokesperson
explained… an ‘unfortunate communications breakdown’ between the factory’s management and their
workers, such that the latter were not aware of what was going on—which led to panic when the
workers saw strangers (later identified as Fred, George and Lee Jordan) dumping *something*
into the beans being readied for shipment… the charge of the Aurors, led by Fudge, when the alarm
was raised and the three were Stunned by the Bertie Botts’ workers… the resultant confusion and
Fudge’s ‘takeover’ of the factory for his ‘investigation’…

There was one tiny detail in the story that had set their blood boiling: the Twins’ first
shipment of beans arrived at the factory the day *after* he had bought the beans for
Carolyn—which meant that there was no such thing as a ‘Hermione-flavoured bean.’ And while Harry
could heave a sigh of relief that there was no evil plot to get him through the beans, the
resulting mayhem from too many people reaching the wrong conclusions on the basis of flawed
assumptions was something he could not easily forget… or forgive.

Hermione’s brown eyes were nearly black as she studied the photo of a perspiring Fudge trying to
explain his ‘over-reaction’ to the events, her ever-analytical mind making a list and checking it
twice: Fred and George, for coming up with this hare-brained idea in the first place, and then not
coordinating it *properly*; Fudge, for his wayward stupidity and foolish belief that a burst
of frenzied activity would enhance his stature in the wizarding world; Carolyn for begging Harry to
buy her those beans, Dean Thomas, for coming up with the idea of dragging Harry to Hagrid’s hut for
his ‘lecture’ on *her* beans; Seamus Finnigan and Neville Longbottom for being there; Ronald
Bilius Weasley—

Her head snapped up at the thought of their erstwhile best friend; she remembered that he wasn’t
in the Common Room last night and was thus able to escape her righteous wrath… would Harry allow
her to handle him, or would he try to stop her from her new career as a serial killer?

“Harry?”

“Yes, love?”

Their eyes met—and Hermione watched in fascinated awe as the blazing emerald green of Harry’s
eyes softened, becoming the soft green of a peaceful meadow as he looked at her—and she smiled.
Revenge can come later she thought, and turned her head slightly as his lips descended on hers…

*

At the first “Hi” from Carolyn’s mouth, the Gryffindors froze.

Chaos erupted around the Gryffindor sixth-years at the word “Sir:” Luna threw herself at Ron,
pushing him to the floor with her body on top of him… Ginny, Lavender and Parvati’s wands were out
before anyone could blink… Dean and Seamus were frozen in the act of whipping out their wands by a
sudden burst of magic as Carolyn and Cindy stood open-mouthed…

And everyone who could move gaped at the sight of the Headmaster, his Deputy, a centaur and a
werewolf approaching their table—except for Cindy and Carolyn, who cowered under the stern gaze of
their Head of House. The silent tableau was broken as the warning bell rang for the first class
period, but the Gryffindors were kept frozen to their chairs by a single gesture from their
Headmaster.

A glance at the teacher’s table, and the various Heads—Sprout, Flitwick and Sinistra—went to
their respective House tables and began ushering the students out in an orderly fashion as
Dumbledore proceeded to remove Dean’s and Seamus’ wands from their hands. Madam Pomfrey bustled
over to check on Ron and Luna while Firenze stood back from the rest, seemingly impassive and
aloof, although a flicker of amusement could be seen deep within his eyes for those who knew what
to look for.

With a wave of his hand, Dumbledore unfroze the two boys as Madam Pomfrey waved her wand over
the prostrate Luna and Ron. For a moment, Dumbledore’s brows were furrowed in thought as he seemed
to be making a mental count. “Where is Mister Longbottom?”

“Here, sir,” a squeaky voice said from beneath the table—and Neville sat up. “I just… ahhh…
dropped my fork, ahhh, under the table.”

“Of course,” the imperturbable Headmaster said, as if the recent commotion were an everyday
occurrence at Hogwarts. He glanced around the Great Hall and saw it was empty before turning back
to the Gryffindors.

“Has anyone seen Mister Potter or Miss Granger today?”

Guilty looks were all the answer he needed and he quickly raised a hand to forestall
McGonnagal’s instinctive reaction as he sighed. “Never mind that for the moment. The question is,
how can I see them when I *haven’t* seen them today?”

The puzzled looks of the students were met with an amused smile from Remus, and rolling eyes
from McGonnagal but neither interrupted as the old man continued, “Be that as it may… it seems we
have a problem here.”

Harry’s dorm-mates looked at each other, at their housemates, at the ceiling or at their
plates—everywhere but at Dumbledore as he continued: “Unfortunately, it would also seem that the…
*resolution* of our problem lies with Mr. Potter and Miss Granger, who are both,
unfortunately, unavailable.”

Cautious nods met this statement. Madam Pomfrey looked up from the floor where she was kneeling:
“I’ll need some help to bring them to the Hospital Wing, Headmaster.” She stood up and glared at
the fidgeting Terrible Two as she continued: “Mr. Weasley apparently hit his head on the floor,
*hard*; Miss Lovegood seems to have hit *her* head on his head… they may both have
concussions.”

“Are they all right, Poppy?” Minerva McGonagall asked.

The nurse shrugged. “No harm done, I think… although some memory loss may have happened, I don’t
know yet.”

“Something that Mister Weasley will, no doubt, anxiously pray for,” Firenze said in a low voice
to Remus, who snickered. The centaur blinked when the Gryffindors snickered and he realized that
they heard his words, softly spoken as they were, because of the acoustics of the nearly empty
Great Hall.

A glare from McGonagall silenced them; the silence was broken by Dumbledore: “Mr. Thomas, Mr.
Finnigan, and Mr. Longbottom—help Madam Pomfrey with Miss Lovegood and Mister Weasley. I am placing
the four of you in detention, starting this minute. You will report to the Hospital Wing and
*stay there* until I have had a chance to discuss with Mr. Potter and Miss Granger your…
*actuations* of yesterday.”

Seamus swallowed, preparatory to voicing an objection—but winced as a Hermione-like death glare
was directed at him by Dean. He quickly closed his mouth as he realized what Dumbledore was doing:
‘protective custody,’ his Da’ had called it… and he heaved a sigh of relief.

“As for the rest of you,” Dumbledore’s eyes swept the assembled Gryffindors and rested for a
moment on the still-cowering Carolyn and Cindy before moving on to the rest, “Please proceed with
your regular activities but if any of you see either Miss Granger or Mister Potter, please inform
them that I wish to meet with them in my office as soon as possible.”

Nods met his words, but Ginny voiced an objection: “Umm, sir? What if we don’t see them?
Lavender and Parvati are the only ones who have classes with Harry; Hermione, I think, has her own
schedule for the day.”

Before Dumbledore could respond, Carolyn spoke up, “Why not just send Hedwig with a message?
She’s an owl; she should be able to find where Sir Harry is.”

The young girl blushed when she noticed the looks of surprise on her housemates, and blushed
even more when Dumbledore spoke, “An excellent idea, Miss Wright! Five points to Gryffindor.”

Cindy, however, had a question of her own as she stepped forward, her normally rosy cheeks now
burning furiously at having to address the Headmaster: “Uhm, sir, what will you do with Sir Harry
and Miss Hermione?”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes twinkled behind his glasses at the appellation that he’d heard the two
young girls applied to their mentors. “I will… *reason* with them, Miss Galloway. I have no
doubt that they will listen to reason—or at least, Miss Granger will.”

Cindy’s soft “Thank you” was muffled, however, as Carolyn stepped up with her own question: “And
if they don’t? Headmaster?” she squeaked the last at a glare from McGonnagal.

“Well then…” A beatific smile transformed the old man’s face, but Carolyn and Cindy gulped at a
manic gleam in his twinkling blue eyes—eyes that were regarding them in much the same way they
imagined Remus licking his chops during the full moon.

*

“I wish we could stay here forever.”

“I know, love but,” Hermione sighed, her warm breath tickling his neck, “there are things that
we still have to do.”

There was no need to elaborate and she felt Harry’s arms tighten around her in a reflexive
spasm. They may have been handed a break, Hermione knew, but outside the walls, Voldemort was
waiting—she knew that the thought of that blood-thirsty, Muggle-hating prat was never far from
Harry’s mind.

“Although,” she added as she glanced out the window at the sunlight-dappled grounds of Hogwarts,
from where they could hear Hagrid’s booming voice as he introduced a class of Fourth Years to some
new horror or another, “I think my day has been well and truly shot.”

“Would your teachers mind? You have Ancient Runes this period, right?”

Hermione tightened her arms around Harry, touched at the concern in his voice. He was one of the
very few—her parents and teachers being the others—who seemed to understand how important her
studies were to her. If this were Ron—and she shuddered—he’d have been trying to drag her to the
Quidditch pitch or some broom closet to ‘make proper use of the extra time.’

She leaned back and smiled at him. “I don’t think so… in any case, I’m sure you can lend me some
Puking Pastilles or Bleeding Nougats so I can get an excuse from Madam Pomfrey.”

Harry’s amused reaction was interrupted as a flash of brilliant flame erupted in the Room—and
they were on their feet, wands out and tracking, only to gape in amazement when Fawkes warbled
(something sarcastic, Harry thought) as he dropped a scroll and two picnic baskets on the coffee
table before vanishing in another sheet of flame.

The stupefied teens blinked before reacting in characteristic fashion—Harry opening the baskets
and grinning when he saw the food that he assumed Dumbledore had sent; Hermione opening the scroll
and reading it—and her face took on a look of utter shock or amazement as she said, “I didn’t know
that Luna’s middle name is Aphrodite.”

“Huh?” Harry’s face was a study in confusion—in all the years he’d known her, he had never seen
Hermione babbling. Before he could ask, Hermione began reading from the scroll: “*Mr. and Mrs.
Arthur and Molly Weasley and Mr. Lawrence Lovegood announce the wedding of their children, Mr.
Ronald Bilius Weasley and Luna Aphrodite Lovegood—*”

“WHAT?”

Hermione handed the scroll to Harry, who began scanning—a wedding invitation—he realized.
Beneath the announcement was the wedding party: himself as Best Man, Hermione as Maid of Honour…
Cindy and Carolyn as flower-girls—he shuddered at the vision of the Terrible Two in pink lace
scattering rose petals down a carpeted aisle… the ushers and bridesmaids—his Gryffindor year mates,
except for Ginny, he realized…

“I wonder what this is about?”

Hermione nodded, her eyes reflecting her puzzlement. “Did you notice there’s no date set for the
wedding? I’m almost sure it’s a joke, but since Fawkes brought it…”

Harry nodded agreement—but was interrupted by a timid knock on the door of the room, and a
nervous “Sir Harry? Miss Hermione?” He exchanged a baffled look with Hermione and stood up to open
the door—stopped at Hermione’s hissed “*Harry!*” and turned in time to catch the robe she
threw at him… returned to the door and drew in a deep breath, noticing that Hermione—also wearing
her school robes—was beside him…

He threw open the door to the sight of two young girls in Gryffindor robes fidgeting—and found
himself rocked backwards as Carolyn and Cindy jumped on him, and he found himself in a many-armed
hug, his face lashed by straight black hair as his ears were assaulted by the mad chattering of the
two. His head quickly swivelled around and saw an amused Hermione leaning against the door—and he
mouthed a silent plea of help at her.

Hermione smirked and winked before saying, in her patent-pending, Hermione-the-Prefect voice:
“Unhand my boyfriend, you imps!”

It took all of Harry’s superb sense of balance to stay on his feet when the two young girls
hurled him away from them, Cindy and Carolyn’s faces red enough to give off heat—neither of them
realizing that Hermione’s smirk had reached epic proportions as they stuttered an apology a second…
only for the Terrible Two to stop, gape at each other and—

“Boyfriend?”

Hermione gulped as she realized what she had said.

“Did she just say—”

“Her *boy* friend—”

Hermione had only a second to give Harry an apologetic look before they were clapping their
hands over their ears as an ear-rending “SQUEEEE!” blasted the room, and the two young girls were
doing a dance of joy until a bouncing Carolyn crowed, “Dean was right—Operation Hermione’s Bean
*is* a success!”

Cindy clapped a hand over Carolyn’s mouth—too late, the young girl realized, as they both felt
the room chill as if a thousand Dementors had entered—they quickly glanced at the door but Hermione
was guarding it and neither fancied trying to fly out the window without brooms.

There was no option—as one, the two girls fell on their knees, hands out in supplication, words
tumbling over each other, “We’re *sorry*… It’s Dean’s fault, not ours… We didn’t mean it…
we’re just so happy for the two of you…”

Harry and Hermione’s eyes rolled at the antics of the two, and Harry stepped forward:
“*GIRLS!*”

Harry’s voice stopped the two from touching their faces to the floor; a few more minutes,
Hermione thought, and the two would be kissing the hem of his robes—but blinked at the genuine fear
she saw on their faces when they sat up to look at Harry. Before she could say a word, Harry had
pulled them to their feet and, arms around their shoulders, led them to the couch.

Soon enough, they were seated and having a late breakfast—or an early lunch for the two young
girls—and Hermione found herself smiling at how *domestic* the whole scene was and felt: Harry
sitting across the table from her, the two girls on the couch in their usual places, Cindy close to
Harry while Carolyn sat near her. All this needed, she reflected, were their books and
parchments—they may well be sitting in their common room tutoring the young Gryffindors—but there
were other, more important things to deal with.

Apparently, Harry had the same thought; after passing her a cup of coffee, he turned to the two
girls and raised an eyebrow—

“Professor Dumbledore sent us,” Cindy spoke up without prompting. She quickly detailed the scene
in the Great Hall earlier when the Headmaster had summoned Fawkes and seemed to request the phoenix
to carry the scroll and picnic baskets he’d prepared. They were about to leave for their classes
but he had asked them to stay until the phoenix returned.

“He asked us to go to you as soon as Fawkes returned,” Cindy continued. “He thought it best that
we uhm, *persuade* you to see him first; rather than go looking for Dean and the others.”

Harry and Hermione’s shrugged at the young girl’s concerned look; while they had both calmed
down by the time Fawkes showed up, there was no telling, really, what would have happened if they’d
come on the others unaware. Especially after Carolyn had accidentally let slip Dean’s—and now, the
whole house’s—knowledge of Operation Hermione’s Bean.

“Dean’s been strutting since he came down to the Common Room this morning, Sir Harry,” Carolyn
continued. “Dean said that you were talking in your sleep the other night—something about…”

“All right, I get the picture,” Harry hastily interrupted, ignoring Hermione’s smirk at the same
time. “But what is this”—and he held up the wedding invitation—“all about?”

The puzzled young Gryffindors took the proffered scroll and read—and turned to each other with
identical looks of disgust. “Ewww…*flower* girls? Is that even part of a wizarding wedding?”
Carolyn asked as Cindy shrugged. They turned to their mentors as Hermione asked, “Girls?”

“Oh,” Carolyn said. “It’s like this, Miss Hermione…” And the two girls alternated in telling the
tale: of Ron’s entrance into the Great Hall supported by Luna Lovegood to the shocked silence of
the Hall and the teachers… and then Carolyn started ringing her goblet, shouting “Kiss! Kiss!” as
if they were in a wedding reception, which led to the whole hall (except the Slytherins) following
suit…

Of the coordinated dining that Ron and Luna were doing at the table—Cindy and Carolyn tried to
demonstrate, only to douse each other with pumpkin juice, to the laughter of Harry and Hermione—the
arrival of the owls, Dean opening the Daily Prophet and turning as pale as a ghost (Harry and
Hermione’s eyebrows rose, wondering how Dean could have achieved such a feat)… Luna’s ideas about
how to keep Ron and the others from Harry and Hermione’s clutches… and finally, their ‘joking’
greeting to the still-absent pair which almost ended in disaster with the over-reaction of the
Gryffindors…

“I guess it’s my fault, Sir Harry,” Carolyn said. “I asked Professor Dumbledore what he would do
if you, umm, wouldn’t listen to reason. And he said…”

“Well, then, I guess we have to prepare for a wedding,” Cindy spoke up in a remarkable imitation
of their Headmaster’s voice and manner—an impersonation so perfect that Harry and Hermione gaped in
amazement.

“Are you going to listen to reason, Sir Harry?” a worried Cindy asked. Before Harry could
answer, she continued, “The *only* wedding where I’ll agree to be a flower girl will be at
*your* wedding—yours and Miss Hermione, that is.”

“Same with me, Miss Hermione, Sir Harry,” Carolyn chimed in.

“What makes you think there will be a wedding, girls?”

The sun-lit Room of Requirement turned dark and chilly at those words, as if a dark cloud had
covered the warm rays of the sun. No explanations were needed—and the two young girls watched,
fighting back tears, as Harry gave Hermione a sad, apologetic look while Hermione chewed her lip as
she refused to look at Harry.

Carolyn and Cindy, like everyone else, knew the history of Harry Potter, both from what was
written and what had been rumoured—especially that Harry was the “Chosen One” to defeat
Voldemort—and they knew what Harry was thinking: that it wouldn’t be fair to keep Hermione hoping,
that it would be best if she did not love him or even plan on his coming back…

“We cannot live in fear that something tomorrow may hurt us, or someone we love. You will not
have time to love if you worry always that she may go. Love her that much more because she is here
today.”

Amazement was the only word to describe the looks on Harry, Hermione and Cindy’s faces at
Carolyn’s words. She was seated quietly, hands clasped in her lap and looking at her feet, her long
black hair hiding her face as she continued, “Dad told me that—Mum said it was the only way to live
life… to love today as if there will be no tomorrow, because tomorrow will always be too late.”

She shook her head and looked up, though her eyes were far away. “She told me that if ever I
find someone worthy of loving with all my heart, to never be afraid to show how much I love that
person… or even to show the world what I felt. It was the last thing she told me before I left for
Hogwarts.”

Silence met these words… and Carolyn looked around at the stupefied faces watching her—and she
began blushing so badly that she was generating heat that could have toasted marshmallows at three
feet—and she squeaked out defensively, “What? It’s just something Mum said…”

To her surprise and everlasting embarrassment, the young girl found herself being pulled from
the couch and wrapped tightly in Harry’s wiry arms—quickly followed by a resounding kiss on the
cheek before releasing her—and she stood in mouth-open wonder, one hand touching her cheek as she
stared at her mentor (and truth be told, her secret crush). Whatever thoughts she may have had at
that moment were quickly washed away as she found herself once again in the midst of a many-armed
embrace, as Harry drew Hermione in—and both dragging Cindy and her into a group hug that warmed the
Room, vanishing the chill as if a dozen Patronuses had been unleashed, and the young girl happily
gave in to the warmth.

Poetic justice, Harry thought as he embraced Hermione and their two siblings-by-association.
Operation Hermione’s Bean had started with Carolyn literally begging him to buy her some Bertie
Botts Every-Flavour Beans and then sharing the trove with her friends. It was only fair that her
words would provide the ending to this adventure… or this journey.

He pulled back slightly from the group hug—and found that singular view that made his heart
leap: Hermione smiling at him, glowing with a surfeit of love and tenderness and his own feelings
for her reflected in her beautiful eyes. They broke away from the group hug as their bodies leaned
into each other, hands entwining without thought—bodies and faces turning towards each other, lips
mere inches apart, warm breath mingling once again as their world narrowed and closed around them…
seemingly unaware of two pairs of eyes avidly watching, two throats constricting with held-in air,
two sets of teeth biting down on lips as eyes shone with eager anticipation—

“Should we give them a show, love?”

The moment was broken, and two young girls pouted—moping as their academic and emotional mentors
held themselves scant inches apart, their eyes speaking volumes in a language they couldn’t even
decipher. Cindy and Carolyn looked at each other, a hint of exasperation in their eyes—partly
resentment at the interrupted snog session; partly cringing at the near-blatant display of public
affection—both of them wondering if they should excuse themselves from the room, or stay and watch
while Harry and Hermione… “Ewwww!”

The room erupted in laughter and the group hug was resumed, only this time it felt as if only
three people were in the hug—Cindy and Carolyn blinking at the sensation of embracing a single
person in the form of Harry and Hermione.

The hug broke apart again—Cindy and Carolyn standing apart, Harry and Hermione standing so close
that an ant would have a hard time finding a gap between them, arms around each other, Hermione
leaning her head on Harry’s chest…

“Time to face the world, love.”

“Awwww.” Harry raised an eyebrow at the teasing sound—and blinked when he realized that the
endearment had slipped out unconsciously, unthinkingly. He was about to say something when he felt
Hermione’s finger on his lips, and he closed his mouth even as he gave it a soft kiss. Carolyn was
right, he realized, why should he be afraid of letting the world know of his love for the witch at
his side? *They* should be afraid, he thought—not just of him and whatever power he had that
Voldemort knew nothing about… but also of the brilliant, powerful witch beside him.

Sirius’ voice came into his mind, something that his godfather had said during that short
Christmas they’d spent together in Grimmauld Place two years ago, “Home is where your heart is,
Harry.”

He jumped when he felt soft lips kiss the corner of his mouth, and he realized that he’d spoken
the words out loud. He grinned when he saw Hermione and the Terrible Two smiling at him, and he
knew that he was finally home. A deep, calming breath and he gestured towards the door of the Room
of Requirement—“Let’s go, girls. We have a wedding to plan.”

He grinned at the shocked look on the faces of the others and said, “Ron and Luna’s. You didn’t
think I’d let him go that easily, did you?”

Hermione’s grin matched his own in its sheer wickedness. “I wonder… what if green were the motif
for the wedding entourage?”

“Ewww!” Cindy spoke up. “Ron would look like a walking poinsettia!”

The four erupted in laughter at the thought of Ron’s red-hair and red-face atop green robes, and
stopped them from opening the door. Eventually, they calmed down and Harry gestured for the younger
Gryffindors to go ahead. As they stepped out, Harry held Hermione back for a moment to whisper in
her ear, “Whatever you want to do for *our* wedding, love—one thing…”

Hermione’s sparkling eyes met his and the smile she gave him lit up the room, completing his
thought with her own: “Absolutely *no beans* anywhere.”

He smiled and gave her a quick kiss. As they stepped out into the corridors of Hogwarts, he
heard her soft voice beside him: “That’s a promise, love.”

The End