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 duly warned.
Chapter 2 lost all innocent connotations
They came back to find that the sleep-inducing effects of too much 'liquid refreshment' had worn off, and that the aged P.s as the Prick referred to them, were all awake and raring to go. Dad was eager for some amusement, so after Harry had been introduced to Auntie Loveday (almost a twin version of Mum, who was, in her turn, an older version of Hermione) and to Uncle Richard (big and bruising, unlike the Prick. At last, a normal name.), they sat around in the garden. Mid-green oriental honeysuckle densely climbed over the garden fences. A heady draught of honeysuckle smell was wafting from the creamy to yellow whirls of the flower mass into the air. The evocative scent filled Harry with pleasure and yet slight sadness, a sensation he seldom experienced.
'Why don't we play Charades?' said Mum.
'Oh, yes! Let's!' said Auntie Loveday.
The Prick and Hermione exchanged glances. The Prick rolled his eyes: Hermione very faintly shrugged her shoulders.
'But it's summer!' said Hebe.
'Well, It's winter in Australia. And why shouldn't we do charades in summer?' said Auntie Loveday. 'Come on, Miss Prim. It's better than sitting gawping at the television all day. Now how do we split up?'
'You and Andrew,' said Mum, 'and me and Richard.'
'I'm not doing it with Hebe,' said the Prick, earning himself a face from Hebe.
No, thought Harry; neither was he. He was not sure what this charades thing involved, but whatever it was he wasn't doing it with that child. He wasn't doing anything with that child. Not after the embarrassment she'd put him through, out there along the brook.
'Oh, I see,' she'd said, after he'd gone through practically every zoo animal he could think of. 'You mean they're homosexual.' Eyes sparkling, she'd not only shouted it at the top of her voice, but had dragged the word out as far as it would go - 'ho-mo-sex-ual', lovingly lingering over each syllable. The Prick and Hermione, some ten yards away, stopped dead and turned to stare. Hebe simply laughed.
'We'll take Hebe,' said Mum. 'You can join with Lovers and Andrew.' (Apparently, Lovers was short for Loveday. By now Harry was no longer surprised by the mere eccentricity in their names. He had seen 'better'.)
Andrew was Dad. Mum, he knew, was Joy (wait, it's short for Lovejoy, of course, couldn't he guess?).
The Prick was looking peeved: 'What about Hero?'
'I'll go with Harry. We can do one together.' (Go with him! ** Did she know the other meaning of it?)
The Prick, at this, looked even more peeved. Hermione leaned across to whisper in Harry's ear. 'They always want to do it. I think it must take them back to their childhood, or something.'
'Stop whispering,' said Mum, 'It's very rude. If you and Harry have secrets you can talk together later, when you do your word. Shall we go first?'
Mum and Uncle Richard left for the house, accompanied by a brightened-up-looking Hebe. The Prick said, 'God! I hope they don't do gynotikolobomassophilia * again. It took forever.'
'They won't, they did that last Christmas,' said Hermione.
'Franch, come over here,' said Auntie Loveday. 'We need you. We are going to pick our word.'
Grudgingly, the Prick took himself across to the picnic bench at the far side of the garden. Harry and Hermione were left together on the swing seats.
'When we go in for our word I'll open your present. I've got one for you for starting your auror training as well, but I didn't want to gave it to you in front of Franch.'
He was glad about that. Perhaps it meant she felt the same way about the Prick as he did.
Mum and her team back into the garden. Mum was wearing a lampshade on her head and had a red silk handkerchief clutched between her teeth. Uncle Richard had removed his jacket and opened his shirt right down as far as his waist, revealing a chest full of hairs (he bet the Prick didn't have hairs) and had tied what looked like a tea-towel round his middle. Hebe stepped forward, an oriental paper-fan in hand, and said: 'This is the first syllabub and I'm a fan.'
'Football fan?' said the Prick.
'No, you idiot, an air blowing fan.'
They did a scene in which Hebe stood and waved her fan about and Mum blew her handkerchief through her teeth and Uncle Richard sang a snatch from some opera or other (' "Carmen",' said Hermione. 'It's always "Carmen"') and they broke off to conduct a fierce quarrel in a mixture of foreign languages. After that they all trooped back into the house again and every one began to discuss what the syllable could have been.
'Isn't it hell?' said Hermione.
Harry tried to look as though it was, since she and the Prick seemed to be in agreement on the point, but in fact he had quite enjoyed seeing Mum dressed up in a lampshade and Uncle Richard in his tea-towel. For their next scene they were school children, with Uncle Richard in a pair of running shorts, Hebe and Mum in mini skirts, Mum showing all her legs. (Hermione groaned: 'She does that every time.')
'If you ask me, it's going to be mongoose,' said Dad.
'Mongoose?' said Auntie Loveday. 'How can it be mongoose? I say it's going to ending with it or "et" … ignite, basket, spirit --'
As it turned out the word wasn't any of those things; it was wicket. Dad said: 'I didn't hear anyone say wick.'
'It was all that filthy foreign gibberish,' said the Prick. 'It threw us.'
'It was meant to.' Hebe said proudly.
Mum looked pleased, clapped her hands. 'Go on, then! Your turn.'
Dad and Auntie Loveday leapt for the back door, the Prick, with an air of martyrdom, trailing after.
'Which word do you like to do?' said Hermione to Harry.
Harry looked around, at the Christmas scenes covering the coming holiday brochures on the corner of the garden table.
'Mistletoe?' he said.
'Anything, so long as it's not gynotikolobomassophilia *.' smiled Hermione, the groove in the middle of her upper lip darkened. (Alas, it's called philtrum.)
Dad and Auntie Loveday came back. They didn't go in so much for dressing themselves up in lampshades and mini skirts (the Prick merely slunk about in the background looking superior): they laboured through scenes of heavy drama. Dad kept muffing his words and tripping over bits of plants, and once he went down on his knees and got part of his shoe wedged beneath a bush and couldn't get back up again. Harry thought perhaps it had something to do with the large bubble of brandy from which he constantly refreshed himself.
'Isn't it chronic?' said Hermione.
'What's the word?' Uncle Richard took his bubble of brandy.
Hermione humped a shoulder.
'Penguin?' suggested Harry.
'Do you think so?' Mum sounded doubtful.
'How can it be penguin?' said Hermione. 'We don't have guin.'
It wasn't penguin but pensive.
'There!' said Mum. 'You got the first syllable right, Harry. And beat our know-all little Hero.'
The Prick looked at him sneeringly.
'Now, it's the "lovebirds",' said Dad. 'off you go.' He shooed Harry and Hermione off the swing seats, and sank down in their place. 'Don't take too long or we should begin to wonder what you're up to.'
They left for the house among the general titters of adult laughter. Hebe tinkled at them.
'Parents!' said Hermione. Harry was getting used to the Grangers' free-thinking and free-talking. He knew what Hermione meant. (Or did he?)
'Let's go in there,' She took his arm and pulled him into the study. She then went on to fetch the presents.
The present she had bought for him was a book called Prominent Aurors.
'I thought you might want to know how an auror's life would be,' she said. 'Just in case you're having doubts.'
'About what?'
'Well, you know … about whether it's right for you.'
'Oh, that!' he looked at her, 'I've made up my mind long time ago.'
'Well, the circumstance changed since Voldemort's defeat. If you enjoyed playing Quidditch and you are ever so good at the game…' said Hermione, 'I mean it is not as if there is no need for aurors. But anyone can be anything they like, these days. Being able to do magic is the only thing that - oh!' she had removed the wrapping from the otter brooch. 'A brooch!'
'Is it OK?' he said.
'It's super, Harry!' she hugged him warmly. 'I love otters. It'll go with my collection. Shall I put it on straight away?' (There! She said it again, to go with** …)
He made a mumbling noise. 'If you like.'
'I think I will. After all, it is lovely … Can you pin it on for me?'
He moved to her, awkwardly.
'Where shall I put it?'
'Here,' said Hermione. She patted the area directly above her left breast. (Why did she have to do that?)
He wasn't very good at this sort of thing at the best of times - pinning things on people, fastening gift ribbons; it always made him all fingers and thumbs. Gingerly, trying to avoid too much personal contact in case she didn't like it, he slid a hand beneath the neck of her white dress. (He remembered, Ron told him last term, Ron trying to grope Lavender out on the Quidditch pitch and Lavender slapping his face for his "trouble".) He swallowed - and realised, too late, that he wasn't just holding her dress but her blouse as well.
'Sorry,' he said.
'That's all right,' said Hermione.
'Did I --' He was about to say, 'pricked you?' but suddenly the word had lost all innocent connotations and had but the one, unmistakable, meaning. On the spur of the moment he couldn't think of another to replace it. 'Did I --'
'No,' said Hermione.
'Ah.' He swallowed again. Odd that when he and Hermione had their many adventures during their seven years being best friends he could catch hold of her or touch her without any stronger sensation than mild pleasure, whereas now, when he wasn't even being particularly intimate -
There was a sudden bang on the door and the Prick's head appeared.
'Aren't you ready yet? Everyone's getting tired of waiting.'
Harry took a step back. Hermione rearranged the neck of her pinafore dress.
'We are just coming.' (What?!)
'Well, so long as you are - before your guv'nor gets boozed to the eyeballs.'
The Prick disappeared again.
'I've forgotten what we were going to do,' said Hermione.
'Mistletoe.'
'Oh, yes, missal and toe. Toe's easy - I can be a ballet teacher, giving you a lesson. What about the missal? Is a missal a hymnbook for catholic mass?'
'Dunno,' said Harry. 'or a kind of bird?'
'You mean mistle thrush, I s'pose we can do that. We could be walking through some woods and listening to the birds and you could say, "what's that?" and I could say, "that's a mistle thrush. And then when we get to the last one --"
'We can be walking through some more woods and I can say, "What's that?" and you can say, "That's mistletoe".'
Hermione laughed: 'why not?'
The first scene they did lasted for about half a minute. The second, which was the ballet class, got a bit out of hand and went on for more like a quarter of an hour, despite Harry managing to slip in the word 'toe' right at the beginning. Hermione was enjoying herself. Returning from his afternoon haunts, Crookshanks joined in the fun. He kept wanting Harry or Hermione to scratch him behind the ears and rubbing his scent round their legs in turn. Harry had difficulty in not treading on CC (short for Captain Cooks, by Hebe again.), that brought endless amusement to their audience. However, he found the dancing basics quite interesting, not unlike maneuvering a high-speed broomstick with his body. He didn't know Hermione was good at dancing. It shouldn't be a surprise, really. Wasn't it every little girl's dream to dance like a ballerina? What amazed him was she knew male dancer's routines so much. But, she was Hermione, the one and only, with a hundred percent concentration, the brilliant intelligence and the unquenchable thirst for knowledge, after all.
'They should've guessed by now, shouldn't they?' said Hermione.
'Shouldn't think so,' said Harry. 'We only said mistle thrush and toe about ten times each.'
'Three times,' giggled Hermione. 'We mentioned lots of other things as well.'
'Yeah, like fairies, pixies and ospreys… they're just likely to be the first syllable of anything.'
When they went out to the garden to act the final scene, they found that a piece of mistletoe was swinging from a branch of the Silver Apricot, directly above the acting area. It dangled just above their heads, hanging by a vine from the blooming honeysuckle. (What's the mistletoe doing here in the middle of summer?) Steadfastly, they ignored it.
'Final scene,' said Hermione, 'Woods, as before.'
She linked her arm through Harry's, and they walked in a circle, talking about the fluty songs and the rattle flying calls of mistle thrushes, finally came to a halt beneath the branch.
'What's that then?' said Harry, pointing.
'That's mistletoe,' said Hermione.
Hebe gave a triumphant shriek.
'We knew it was mistletoe! We knew all along!'
The Prick rolled his eyes: Mum and Auntie Loveday applauded.
'That's surely not the end of it?' said Dad. 'What do you think we stuck the mistletoe there for?'
Hermione looked at it, blushing.
'Stupid word to choose,' observed the Prick. 'if you don't plan on taking advantage of it.'
Harry also looked up at the mistletoe and was lost for words. It had never occurred to him, it honestly hadn't. He glanced anxiously at Hermione, wondering if she would believe it. He wouldn't like her to think it had been part of some diabolical plot.
'Come on then, Harry!' That was Uncle Richard, joining in the fun. 'You know what mistletoe for, don't you? Give the girl a kiss!'
'And make it a good one!' said Dad. 'None of your quick pecks.'
They looked at each other.
'Well, go on,' grumbled the Prick. 'Get it over with.'
Hermione tipped her face up: Harry leaned forward.
'Hip, hip,' shouted Dad.
A cheer went up from the quirky lot: 'Hooray!'
'Lord preserve us.' muttered the Prick.
--------------------------
A.N.
* gynotikolobomassophilia - a proclivity for nibbling on women's earlobes.
** go with sb (RELATIONSHIP) phrasal verb INFORMAL: to have a romantic or sexual relationship with someone