Everything you recognise belongs to JKR and Ure. This is a rip-off or an adaptation, to please myself, of Ure's gentle bawdy frolic 'You win some, you lose some'. You have been warned.
Bits of background information: Voldemort was defeated by the good side, NOT by Harry alone. Harry didn't kill. Harry was not famous, thanked to Dumbledore's understanding of Harry's wish to keep his life normal. Harry had not extrodinary power but love for the others and the love from them. Harry's neither rich nor poor, GMP 12 belongs to the order, not to Harry. Girls did NOT crush on Harry right, left and centre. Harry, like everyone else, must work for his keep, so to speak.
Chapter 1 when there's a lady dog around
Harry was looking for a place in London to stay. He didn't need to, but he wanted to. He wanted to leave the Burrow when his auror-training started in Hampstead Heath. When he mentioned it to Hermione, on one of her visits to the Burrow, she said, 'Oh, you don't want to worry about boring things like that! I'll talk to Mum. She'll come up with something.'
That of course, thought Harry, was the real difference between him and the kids who were to take part in the training with him: they didn't have girl friends (not girlfriends, Harry didn't kid himself) with rich parents and connections in muggle London. (If Hermione could be called a girl friend. It was a point he had never quite decided. She was certainly one of his two best friends and she was certainly a girl, but that wasn't necessarily the same thing as being a girl friend. One of these days, when he was feeling bold, he really had to put it to the test.)
The very next day, Hermione had called him via floo network.
'I've talked to Mum,' she said, 'She says that if you like she'll speak to Auntie Loveday and see if you could stay there with me during term time. Would you like her to?' (Yes, Hermione would be staying with Auntie Loveday when she started her Law study at London School of Economics and Political Science. Reading Law at LSE! Wasn't she fiercely intelligent? How did she get the admission without any GCSE and A-level? Harry had to remember to ask her when he got around it. But he had no doubt that Hermione would shine wherever she went.)
Harry, at the other end of the floo connection, hadn't quite known what to say. He's never met Auntie Loveday, (What kind of a name was that? 'Does she hate night?' said Fred afterwards.), and Auntie Loveday had never met Harry, so how could he tell? Events were moving too fast. It was only three weeks since he left Hogwarts, his school of seven years. And already he received the offer of a place in auror training, was introduced to Hermione's parents, and visited her home twice, (once along with all the Weasleys, once with Ron,) and now, it seemed, they fix him up with digs at Auntie's as well. Not for the first time since falling within the orbit of the Weasleys and the Grangers, he had the definite feeling of being bulldozed. Between them, they were running his life for him - not that it was too late to back out even now.
'Look,' he could say, 'I've changed my mind. I've decided to stay on at the Burrow.'
Yes, and be coddled by Mrs. Weasley? The Weasleys were quite determined to have him stay in a permanent basis. Mrs. Weasley, especially, said he needs a home with his 'adopted' family, which was completed with parents, six brothers and a sister. What a feat! Harry loved them back and enjoyed himself at their home. He had great fun with Ron, the twins, and sometimes Ginny. He played Quidditch over the back of their kitchen garden, had water fights in the pond in the lush woods, (Which Hermione joined in whenever she was there, and she was a stylish swimmer and was the best at diving), and did his few chores allocated reluctantly by Mrs. Weasley. But he longed his independence. He'd like visiting the Burrow for short stays, but he found the idea of permanently moving in suffocating.
A sudden note of doubt had crept into Hermione's voice. 'You wouldn't mind staying in a non-magical home, would you?'
'--No, I don't mind.' He doubted that any Auntie of Hermione's would mollycoddle him. He certainly wished that Auntie Loveday would grant him more space to breathe at least.
'Oh, you won't have to pay rent,' said Hermione, when she floo him back as promised, the next morning. 'Auntie Loveday wouldn't dream of it. In any case, they've got more room than they know what to do with, specially when Franch (pronounced frun-tch not French) and Hebe (Pronounced: hee-bee) are away.'
Franch and Hebe? He felt the hairs at the back of his neck begin to prickle. Who on earth were Franch and Hebe? (And what kind of a name was Franch or Hebe, for heaven's sake? Had all her relatives eccentric names?)
'Have you told Mr. and Mrs. Weasley yet, by the way?'
No, he hadn't. He kept putting it off.
'I think you ought to,' said Hermione.
He knew he ought to. He didn't need her telling him. Next thing he knew she'd be offering to do it for him.
He almost wished she would. At least they would listen to her without persuading him to change his mind persistently. He could imagine what their disappointment was likely to be if he broke the news. But what's to come had to come. He did tell them and was grateful that the Weasleys only made him promise that he'd stay with them during holidays and come back whenever he changed his mind.
***
Harry was invited round for dinner to the Grangers' to meet Auntie Loveday the following Sunday. 'Come round about three,' Hermione had said, but at quarter to, the summer-holiday-occupants of the Burrow were still round the kitchen table mopping up the remnants of Molly's rich beef casseroles. Harry pushed his plate away.
'I'd better be off now,' he said.
'Have you got Hermione's thank-you present?'
Of course he had Hermione's present. It was in his jacket pocket, all neatly done up for him by Ginny in fancy wrapping paper.
'How about the champagne?'
'Check, Mrs. Weasley.'
'Off you go, then,' said Mrs. Weasley. 'Have a good time.'
He went outside. He felt like a kid going to a party - 'Off you go, then. Have a good time.'
He was only going round there to meet Auntie Loveday.
He apparated to the bank of a little brook along the cricket pitch near Hermione's house, clutching his bottle protectively to his chest. He was strutting across the smooth cricket field, through the deep-green mass of fescue. He wondered what the Grangers would be doing. 'Something rich and gracious, like eating caviare or sorting the family jewels,' Ron would say, he imagined, certainly not snoring their heads off in front of television sets.
He arrived promptly at three o'clock and rang the bell. (He was always surprised it wasn't one of the ding-dong sort that played tunes like the Dursleys' did. You'd have thought, what with both parents being high-earning dentists, they could have run to something a bit different. All they had was an ordinary buzzing thing, though admittedly it did light up in the dark.) The Grangers' large front garden was dedicated to meadow plants: deep red poppies, misty blue cornflowers, 'fox and cubs' and the 'love in the mist'. Crookshanks slunk out of the dense tussocks of velvety hare's-tails towards him, calling his attention, and jumping up with its head bumping his hand, telling Harry where to stroke. Harry did what Crookshanks asked for and then picked him up with one arm.
A fattish, freckled child about the age of ten answered the door. She looked up at him from beneath a thatch of straw-coloured hair.
'Are you Harry?' she said.
'Yes,' he said. 'Who are you?'
'I'm Hebe.' self-important, she held open the door. 'You'd better come in.'
He did so, carefully wiping his feet on the mat. Crookshanks pawed his hand without his claws. Harry set him down. The child stood watching them.
'Everyone's sleep,' she said, then cooed to Crookshanks, 'be a good boy and be quiet, Captain Cooks.'
Harry was startled.
'Everyone?'
'Well, not everyone … Hero's not. And Franch's not.' She closed the door behind him. 'They're in there.'
'Hero? Where's Hermione?'
'Hero is Hermione, silly! We call her Hero.' Who were we?
She conducted him following Crookshanks through to Hermione's study. In the centre of the room Hermione was standing, with a tall, well-dressed boy who must presumably be Franch.
'He's come,' said Hebe.
'So we see,' said the boy.
Hermione stepped forward, holding Crookshanks. She was wearing a white pinafore dress with a pale green blouse covered all over in little white flowers, and She wears her hair in a French plait. He'd never seen Hermione with her hair like that before; it was always hanging about her shoulders or it was scraped back with an elastic band. He felt suddenly embarrassed, and didn't know what to say.
'This is Franch, my cousin' said Hermione.
'Hi, there,' said Franch.
He was probably about the same age as Harry, but one of the suave, sophisticated type. You could tell he was suave and sophisticated just looking at him. He had a finely chiselled face with straight hair the colour of the same as Hebe's which fell forward into his eyes, and which he casually flicked out again with a finger long and narrow. The sort who could pass exams without even trying, played Polo at school, or went skiing every Christmas.
'We were just talking about going out for a walk,' said Hermione, lowering Crookshanks to a chair.
Franch picked up a pair of fine sunglasses.
'Counteract the effects of a surfeit of gastronomic indulgence.'
It was exactly the sort of remark that you would expect a person who wore posh sunglasses to make.
'Everyone else,' explained Hermione, 'has gone to sleep.'
Franch put his glasses over his eyes with a flourish.
'That, you understand, is a polite way of putting it. Sunk in swinish slumber would be a more apt description … the liquid refreshment, as you might say, has done for them.'
Talking of liquid refreshment reminded him. He held out his bottle.
'I brought this,' he said.
'Cor, luv a duck!' It was Franch who snatched it from him. 'A bottle of Moët … that'll go down a treat!'
'Also --' Harry fished in his pocket - 'I bought this for you.'
'For me?' A spot of pink appeared in Hermione's cheek. 'What is it?'
'Why not try opening it,' drawled Franch, 'and see?'
'I hate opening things in front of people.' She hesitated, looking across, rather anxiously, at Harry. 'Can I leave it till later?'
'I don't mind,' he said. To tell the truth, he'd just as soon she did. He still wasn't convinced that a brooch in the shape of an otter had been the right thing to get her. Ginny had approved, but then Ginny wasn't necessarily anything to go by: she'd spent the whole of last three weeks nagging Mrs. Weasley to have green strips charmed in her hair. You couldn't really rely on someone who fancied herself with green stripes upon a flaming red head.
'Look, now that he's here' said Hebe, 'why can't we go?'
They set off across the field and went along the brook, Franch and Hermione leading the way, Harry following behind with Hebe. He supposed it was only natural that a person would rather not have to be stuck with his own kid sister, but he could have wished the path were wide enough for them all keeping together instead of splitting up. He didn't know what to talk to the wretched child about. He ransacked his brains for some topic of conversation.
'What kind of a name is Hebe?' he said.
'Don't you know?' She looked up at him, surprised and contemptuous. 'It's the name for Greek goddess of youth.'
'Is it?' He hadn't known. How was he supposed to know? He'd never met anyone called Hebe. Come to think of it, he'd never met anyone called Hermione before the Hermione, either. 'Why do you call Hermione Hero?'
'Our short form for Hermione, of course. So our names match. You know, in Greek mythology, Hero was the lover of Leander. He swam across a strait every night to meet her.' It's obvious where the cleverness came from. Then, just then, she looked at Harry with a guileless smile, 'Are you our Hero's lover?'
'N-No, I-I'm not.' Harry choked.
'But you want to, don't you?' she contradicted cheekily. 'Most Franch's pals want to.'
Harry didn't answer. How could he tell if every boy fancied Hermione? He only noticed two boys who were quite taken with her and that's two or three years ago. He cast around for something else.
'My name's not short for Harold.'
'I know that.' Now she sounded scornful. 'Everybody knows that.' Yes, he supposed they did. It was pretty obvious.
'Sometimes Harold is shortened to Harry,' he said; and then quickly, before she could inform him that she knew that, as well: 'But Harry is really an old form of Henry.'
'I don't like Henry for a name.'
He looked down at her, stumping by his side in big, red, shiny gumboots.
'How old are you?'
'Nearly eleven. How old are you?'
'Nearly eighteen.' said Harry. If he'd thought she'd be impressed, he was wrong.
'Franch's nearly nineteen. He's at university.' Of course, thought Harry, he would be, wouldn't he?
'What's he studying?'
'He's not studying,' said Hebe. 'He's reading.'
'So what's he reading?' He felt like saying, 'Penthouse magazine?' but thought perhaps he'd better not. Tamely, he substituted: 'Noddy books?'
'Art Hist'ry.' said Hebe. Art Hist'ry. That sounded like an easy life. Anyone can sit down and read a bit of hist'ry. You didn't need any sort of a brain to do that.
'You went to Hero's old school,' said Hebe. She said it as if it were a decision that had been made over his head. (Which in some way it had.) 'My brother,' said Hebe, 'says that all men that do magic are queers, like the man played Gandalf.'
Harry swallowed and choked again. 'He says they are what?'
'Queers. What's a queer?'
There was a silence. Harry stared venomously at the swaggering figure in its commando-style jacket. So Franch said that all men that do magic were queers, did he?
'Nothing.' Prudishly, he said: 'It's something you shouldn't be talking about.'
She looked up at him aggrieved, from beneath a frizzy fringe of hair. 'Then, It is something rude. I s'pose it's like saying tit and prick, is it?'
Franch was a prick, great stringy academic beanpole. Just let him get him into a quiet corner and he'd show him a thing or two. He'd -
'Well, is queer like saying tit and prick?' said Hebe, growing impatient.
For crying out loud! 'You don't have to shout,' he said. 'And I can't tell you. Well, why don't you asking your brother, considering he said it to you --?'
She scowled, as Hermione sometimes did. 'He won't tell me; He didn't say it to me. He said to Hero.' Her chin jutted up, 'I can always find out … I've already read all the dirty bits in Lady Chatterley.'
At eleven years old? He was outraged. What were these kids coming to? At eleven years old he hadn't even heard of Lady Chatterley.
'I see.' He glared with renewed venom at the Prick. It had now removed its hands from its pockets and was beating his arms across its broad chest - if chest it could be called after Harry had done with him. The guy simply wouldn't stand a chance; he'd be mashed to a pulp. People with sunglasses like that ought to be a bit more careful, the things they went round accusing people of. They could get themselves into a whole lot of trouble. 'What did --' he strove to keep his voice casual - 'what did Hero say?'
'Not telling, if you want to know you can ask her.' He looked down at her with dislike: obnoxiousness obviously ran in family. She tossed her frizzy fringe, 'Why should I tell you what you want to know if you won't tell me what I want to know?'
'Because what you wanted to know isn't good for you.' He was talking like Mrs. Weasley. Why shouldn't he tell her what she wanted? What the hell did it matter? She was going to discover sooner or later. And anyway, if she really had read all the dirty bits in Lady Chatterley - 'OK,' he said. 'I'll strike a bargain. You tell me what Hermione said, then I'll tell you what you want to know.'
'All right. But if you don't, I'll tell Hero. I'll tell her you wanted to know what she --'
'Look, just shut up,' he said. 'And get on with it. Tell me what she said.'
'She said she didn't care what people were so long as they could do magic. She said being able to do magic was the only thing that matters.'
In spite of himself, Harry found a slow grin starting to spread across his face. Trust Hermione. Being able to do magic was the only thing that matters … that must have been one in the eye for the Prick.
'Now it's your turn,' said Hebe.
'Um --' He hesitated. This was not going to be so easy. How in heaven's name was one supposed to explain to an eleven-year-old, even if it had read Lady Chatterley? He cleared his throat. 'Um,' he said. 'It's like this … you know how you would feel queer when you ate too much?' she nodded. 'And that's when you might be called a queer. Well -' He stopped.
'I'll tell Hero!' said Hebe.
'All right! All right!' He shushed her again. 'I'm getting there.' It wasn't something you could just launched into, without any preparation. He didn't want to be accused, later in life, of having warped her. (Come to think of it, she might have already warped him with her 'lover' question and the last 'lover' judgement.) 'Look,' he said. 'You know what dogs sometimes get up to when there's a lady dog around and it's got them all excited?'
'No,' said Hebe. 'What?'
Merlin! This is going to be hard work. He tried again. 'What about the zoo?' he said. 'Now, you must have been to the zoo …'