Every one had to have a lucky break

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 …’

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

A.N.

This is a place holder. Because my update wouldn’t be bumped up after I accidently loaded chapter 3 to chapter 4 slot.

A warning: Harry was about to begin his journey of discovery, while Hermione took a back seat. But this is a h/hr fic, so naturally it would end with h/hr. Take heart. Be patient. Let’s see how Harry found the right one.

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 3 not in old flowery pyjamas

‘OK, ten-minute break. everybody! But don’t fall all to pieces.’

Harry staggered thankfully to the side of the hall, wobbling on legs like Hermione flying on a broomstick for the first time (Would he dare to say riding a broomstick?). His muscles had turned all to jelly: his hair, when he touched it, was dripping wet. He had thought Oliver Wood was a slave driver, but he was nothing compared with this guy – Sadismo Grausam. This guy, their physical trainer, was something else, a cross between the Marquis de Sade and Attila the Hun. (Fortunately, wizarding villains were not so inclined to be the same as them.) With such names, no wonder! (Hermione had informed him with a pert glimmer in her eyes, that grausam meant cruel in German.)

‘Oh, are you having Mr Grausam?’ Hermione had said. ‘He’s great.’

How did she know? How could she say that he was great when he was barely a metre and a half tall and looked like an ageing golden monkey? Harry couldn’t imagine, but he had learnt since his fifth year that there was no understanding of girls’ minds: they would be taken with the most unlikely of specimens. Take Hermione for example, she crushed on Lockhart, the peacock, the self-obsessed fraud when she was twelve (OK, she was too young at the time to know better). Two years later, she took a complete turn, she agreed to go to the Yule ball with the ever grouchy Viktor, an over-grown bird of prey, completed with large curved nose, thick black eyebrows and all. (He didn’t object Viktor as a person, but was Hermione really so holy and selfless as to fancy someone she (or he) considered ugly?)

He rubbed his hair with his towel vigorously, and slowly slumped down on to the floor, shoulder pressed against the wall. All the other five members of his group were doing the same, except for Zacharias Smith, who had been called over to Sadismo Grausam. Zacharias had arrived wearing scarlet leg warmers over his jeans. Harry wasn’t too sure about Zacharias. He wasn’t too sure about Kevin Entwhistle, either. Kevin was small, rather pretty, and spoke with a bit of a lisp. On the whole, he wasn’t the sort of person one would like to be seen out in the street with; not at any rate, by the Prick.

The remaining three –Dean Thomas, Terry boot, and Justin Finch-Fletchly looked quite normal. He knew they were normal. All, apart from the flamboyant Zacharias, were wearing regulation black trousers with black or white T-shirts. Zacharias’s T-shirt was scarlet, to go with his scarlet leg warmers, which he wore defiantly over vomit-green trousers. From the way Sadismo Grausam was pointing him about various parts of his anatomy with his wand, Harry gathered that his choice of colour scheme was subjected for criticism.

‘All right, you lot!’ Sadismo Grausam stopped pointing at the scarlet leg warmers and shot instead crackling sparks from his wand. ‘That’s enough lazing about.. On your feet – let’s be having you!’

Terry Boot groaned and pulled a face.

‘There surely must be easier ways of life than this?’

‘Yeah, like Knight Bus conductor,’ said Harry, ‘for example.’

Sadismo Grausam’s wand shot again: it was growing impatient.

‘Get a move on, over there, and stop gossiping! Like a load of old hags! What do you think this is? An exploding snap session?’

By the time the session reached its end, sharp on the chime of seven thirty, Harry was going to pay for this tomorrow; already, the thought of another session was an agony. The others were all in some degree or another, sharing his suffering. Zacharias had actually at some stage removed his leg warmers. Kevin was the only one who looked unruffled and unmarked.

‘Today,’ said Sadismo Grausam, ‘I have let you off lightly – seeing it was your first session. Tomorrow I shall expect everyone to put in just that little bit more effort. By the end of the week --’ he paused, to let it sink in – ‘we will start working’.

"If we can still move," grumbled Zacharias.

After half an hour of changing, they apparated directly from the ancient woodland, which surrounded the training complex, to the south gate, avoiding the cruising gay muggles (Yes, He had heard of the notorious nightly activities in Hampstead Heath, thanked to the Prick), and parted company. It was Terry who had chosen to walk with him, turning left, the others continuing straight on to Hampstead tube station.

‘Feeling like stopping off somewhere for a quick drink?’ said Terry.

Harry shook his head not without regret: ‘I’d better go straight in and hit the sack. It’ll be a pretty heavy day tomorrow.’

Terry said: ‘I suppose you live in digs nearby?’

‘Not exactly.’ He made a negative noise in the back of his throat. ‘Stay with people.’ He explained about Auntie Loveday being Hermione’s mother’s sister, and how they had a big house with more room than they know what to do with.

‘Handy,’ said Terry. ‘I’ve got this place in West Hampstead – well, I call it a place. Actually, it’s more like a cupboard – a hole in the wall. Still, I can do what I like there.’

‘This is it,’ said Harry. He had no doubt that if he really wanted he could do what he liked at Auntie Loveday’s. She was very liberal. There weren’t any rules or conditions – no one said that he had to be in by a certain time, or report his movement or anything like that. He just didn’t somehow feel quite comfortable.

‘I wouldn’t mind a place of my own,’ he said.

‘I’ll keep an eye open. Let you know if anything turns up.’ They walked on for a while in easy silence.

‘Tell me,’ said Terry, ‘you going to take the auror business up for real? You really aiming to do it seriously?’

‘Aren’t you?’ he assumed, automatically, that they all were. He must be catching Hermione’s bug – taking it for granted that everyone had the same burning passion for school or work as herself. Not that he had a burning passion, but he thought he needed some sort of commitment. No one endured several hours of torture like the one they’d just been through purely for the fun of it. He said as much to Terry, who hunched a shoulder.

‘Maybe you are right. It’s just that I haven’t made up my mind yet. It’s a bit like deciding to go into a monastery – dedication, and all that crap. I don’t mind the hard work, it’s not that bugs me, it’s all the bullshit that goes with it. All the camp. The prestige … as if it’s some kind of an elite club.’

Yes, he’d had some of that from Hermione. She tended to speak of her study and books as if they were objects of worship. He’d had a go at her about it once. Since then she’d tried hard to be a bit more rational (at least, in front of him: there was no telling what she was like all day with her new friends at LSE) but every so often, even now, she’d have a relapse and go all dewy-eyed and shining faced.

‘Anyway, ’ said Terry, ‘our group is lousy with flaming poufdahs. Look at the old Kevin Entwhistle … a right little raver. And the Lady Zacharias. Talk about flaunting herself! Next time round, if she’s not careful, she’ll come back as a peacock.’

‘You mean peahen,’ said Harry. (Peahen was wrong, peahen didn’t have anything to flaunt. OK, cheap laughs.)

He left Terry at the junction branching to Hampstead Village, he went on up the quiet road to Auntie Loveday’s. The house was called Wychwood (Did they know Hermione’s magical talent when they named the house?), and although it wasn’t as big as the auror training mansion, which had once been some lord or earl’s villa, still it was big enough. It was set back from the road, in a front garden the size of a park, with a vast semi-circle sweeping driveway and a flight of steps, leading up to the front doors. The front doors opened to another pair of doors which in turn opened on to a huge octagon hall with other doors opening off, and in the middle, a wide curving staircase covered in cascading water pattern stair carpet going all the way up to the attics.

This evening, when he came back, he found Hermione and Auntie Loveday watching natural history program in one of the rooms on the left-hand side of the hall. (He had never known a family house with so many rooms, Grimmauld Place 12 included, they seemed to have a different one for everything they did.) Uncle Richard wasn’t there, because he had gone off on a conference or something as always with Royal Dutch Shell. The Prick wasn’t there, either, because he was safely tucked away back at university reading his art history books, whilst the obnoxious Hebe was at her full-boarding school in Surrey (telling all her little pals about queers, he had no doubt, and sifting through the Kama Sutra for things that sounded dirty).

He opened one of the double doors that led into the room where the television was kept and cautiously took a look. You never knew when there was going to be company – one day last week he’d walked in on a whole dinner table full of them. In any case, the floor was covered in creamy white carpet of shag pile two inches deep, which he did not trust his outdoor shoes to tread on. Usually he took them off and carried them, something which Auntie Loveday seemed to find amusing.

‘Here comes Harry,’ she would say, ‘carrying his shoes!’

He bet she wouldn’t find it so funny if he trod dog shit all over the place, considering that Hampstead Heath had 791 acres (Thanks for the data, Hermione) of open land for all the leg-stretching dogs in London.

Tonight she said, ‘Hello, Harry! Had a good day?’

Hermione bounced round from her chair.

‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘Yeah, it was OK.’

‘You look tired,’ said Auntie Loveday.

‘Did you have Mr Grausam? How did it go?’

‘There’s some of Mrs Archers’ Irish stew downstairs if you’d like. It only needs heating up.’

He declined the stew in favour of bed: it had suddenly come upon him that he was not only tired but half dead on his feet. That hours with Attila the Hun, coming as it had at the end of a day perfecting all the basic charms had just about killed his appetite for anything and finished him.

‘Take a bath if you want one,’ said Auntie Loveday.

She was always urging him to take baths. So far, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do so, the reason being that the bathroom (one of the bathrooms) unnerved him. It felt like the prefects’ bathroom back at Hogwarts although it had a circular bath instead of the rectangular, with glass shells instead of taps and white carpet on the floor instead of marble slabs. The memory of the ordeal Myrtle and the mermaid put him through was still fresh. On top of all, there was a curious glass dome let into the ceiling, directly above the circular bath, which he was wary of. It looked to him suspiciously like a spy hole. Today, being all of a muck sweat after the Hun, and not wanting sours and aches in the morning, he decided to take a chance and risk it.

He ran a bath of thick bubbles and slip under the bubbles in a swift move. He enjoyed the warmth and softness for quite some time, almost forgot the spy hole. At long last, he hopped into a bath towel, and hot footed it down the passage to safety. Back in his bedroom, in his worn but very soft flowery pyjama shorts that had been his favourite for two years, he did a few gymnastic body contortion, using the headboard as a bar, just to reassure himself he still remembered what he learned today, and was on the point of climbing into bed when there was a tap at the door, and Hermione’s voice said, ‘Is it alright if I come in?’ She was in anyway. He felt distinctly foolish, standing there in his old flowery pyjama shorts and topless.

‘What d’you want?’ The words came out rather short than he had intended, but it was embarrassing being seen by Hermione in this state. Underpants he wouldn’t mind, but old flowery pyjama shorts –

‘I just wanted to know if you are all right.’

‘Um, I am fine.’

‘Did you have Mr Grausam? Do you like him? He’s super, isn’t he?’

‘Yeah, we had him. He’s a sadist, if you ask me.’ It wouldn’t have been so bad if he’d had a dressing gown on. At least he could have hidden the worst of it.

‘And you are going to go on with it?’

For crying out loud! He just started it. ‘’Course I am going to go on with it.’

‘Hermione,’ he said ‘I am a bit knackered.’

He didn’t actually say so if you wouldn’t mind shoving off, I could get into bed and get my head down. But the message obviously got across. A spot of pink appeared in Hermione’s cheeks, as it had in summer when he’d given her present.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise…’

She walked, stiff backed, from the room. Now he’d gone and upset her. For a moment he was tempted to go after her and tell her that he hadn’t meant to, but it just wasn’t dignified; not in old flowery pyjamas. Anyway, people shouldn’t be crashing in and out of other people’s bedrooms. God knows, he’d told Ginny about it often enough. He wouldn’t think he’d have to tell Hermione.

Grumpily, he crawled into bed, beneath the continental quilt. He didn’t enjoy upsetting Hermione – he didn’t mean to be curt to her. If only she would just use a bit of forethought and this little unpleasantness would never occur. Perhaps tomorrow evening he’d take her down for a butterbeer, then she could talk about the Hun to her hearts content. That would make her happy.

Duly, the following evening, he hurried back – only to find Hermione was not there, Auntie Loveday said she’d gone to see a ballet with a friend from her school.

‘A girl friend,’ she added.

He didn’t care if it was a girl friend (that was a lie: he did). He still felt put out. She might at least have told him. If he’d known she wasn’t to be here he’d gone for a butterbeer with Terry. When he had asked, Harry had thought of Hermione and how he was going to talk to her, to make up for turfing her out of his room the previous night, and now he got back to find that she was out enjoying herself. Well, tomorrow evening if Terry suggested they go for a butterbeer, he’d go for a butterbeer and be hanged to her. (Was he asking too much of her?)

The following evening, Terry suggested they go up to muggle West End on Friday night and mosey around for a bit, look at the loonies in Leicester Square, ‘You never been up there at night?’ Harry shook his head. ‘In that case, my son, your education is sadly lacking. Come along, let’s broaden your outlook.’

It was about time he had his eyes opened to some seamier things of life – the things they were always going on about in the Sunday Witch Weekly. Sex shops, prostitutes. He probably wouldn’t even recognise one if he saw one. Terry was right: his education was lacking.

When he got back at Auntie Loveday’s Hermione was waiting for him. She seemed anxious.

‘Harry, I’m sorry I was out last night.’

Why, he wondered, Why was she sorry? She had every right to go out. He was not the only one she should hang out. She was not the only friend he would hang out, either.

‘It’s just that we were given these free tickets… We’ve got some more for Friday. Do you --’ the colour was in her cheeks again –

‘Do you like to come?’(did she know what she was saying?)

Why did these things always have to happen to him?

‘I would’ve,’ he said, ‘but I’ve just arranged to have a guy’s night out with Terry Boot.’

‘Oh. Oh, well, never mind. It was just an idea. I can always go with Lavender.’

‘I would’ve come,’ he said (yes, he would.).

‘It doesn’t matter, Harry,’ said Hermione. ‘Do go and enjoy your night out.’

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 4 Not with her hung-ups

Just as he had expected, he didn’t recognise a prostitute when he saw one. Terry kept telling him which one was. He wondered how – they all looked like perfectly ordinary women to him.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Terry, kindly. ‘You’ll learn. When you’ve been around for a while.’

Terry seemed to have packed in a lot more experience. For a start, he had taken out four girls so far and currently had two girl friends. Having been busy with the Voldemort business since sixth year, Harry, so far, had nothing but one fiasco of a date with Cho who had floods of tears to spare in his fifth year.

About this Terry had some wisdom to bestow, ‘You will learn how to get what you want out of life. I’ve learnt you can always get what you want if you just set about it in the right way. Like I have to decide if the auror is what I want. If it is, then I stick with it; if it is not --’ he shrugged. ‘I move on to the next thing. Whatever the next thing turns out to be. You can’t tell till it happens. But that, in a nutshell, is the Boot philosophy… just take life as it comes and sod the lot of ‘em.’

Harry wondered if he could live like that; he didn’t think that he could. He liked to be able to see some sort of path ahead of him – some sort of goal waiting to be reached. There didn’t seem to him to be much point in life if you didn’t have something to aim at. (Wasn’t Hermione’s philosophy rubbing off on him?)

‘I do have something to aim at,’ said Terry. ‘I aim at having fun. What else is there?’

Maybe it’s time he set about to have some fun and experience, too. Why shouldn’t he?

***

On Saturday morning they had two hours training with Sadismo Grausam, followed by a half-hour break, followed by a curse-breaking class, again with Sadismo Grausam, but with the welcome addition, this time, of five assorted females.

Correction: six. Another had just walked in. Harry felt his throat go dry. Surely with all this lot at his disposal he should be able to make it with at least one?

‘So, which d’you fancy?’ muttered Terry.

He swallowed. He rather fancied the one who had just walked in. She was small and dark, with short black curly hair, unlike the others, she had this little elfin face, demure but sort of cheeky at the same time. Terry followed the direction of his gaze.

‘Mm … not bad. Not bad at all. Of course, you always liked the small and the black hair-ed, didn’t you? What with Cho in our fifth year … speaking of which, isn’t it Cho over there?’ (Apparently, Cho had tried professional Quidditch for a year, now she came to try her hands on auror, or should he say aurors? She’d had a go at ‘house champions’, hadn’t she?)

For most of the session Harry was put to work with Cho, who was still pretty and small, with her oriental looks. But Harry had gone off her long ago. It really had been Cho who actively pursued a relationship of sorts with him three years ago. Mentally he set Cho aside as a last resort. The little dark one -- Sally-Ann, her name was – was definitely top of the list. (Now he’s making a list. Hermione did rub off on him. The trouble with Hermione was that He could not put her on his list, or rather, he knew that she wouldn’t be interested in making his list.) After Sally-Ann, there was a girl called Mandy whom he wouldn’t mind getting his end away with. She was rather round and bubbly, and she had a giggle (he couldn’t say he had a thing about all that giggling,), but there was something that did things to him. He put her down as number two. Number three he couldn’t quite decide on. It was either another Chinese girl called Su – except that Dean was already making it pretty plain he intended to lay claim to her – or if not Su, then maybe the blonde bombshell at present wasting her energies trying to attract the Lady Zacharias (who was still wearing his vomit-green trousers and scarlet leg warmers). He didn’t know the blonde’s name but she didn’t look like the sort of girl who would say no in a hurry. That was the only reason he hesitated over her. Girls who didn’t say no tended to be girls who’d crammed in a lot of experience who according to Terry would practically rape you. Not that he wanted to fight any one for it – and this one was tall and willowy and looked like a Scandinavian sex goddess. He thought he could stand being raped by a sex goddess. She might as well go down as number three.

As he stood watching Sadismo Grausam showing Justin some sort of wand movement (Justin’s arm tended to flow about a bit, like a half-set jelly, or jelly-o as the people on the other side of the pond had it.) he ran through his list in his mind:

No. 1 Small dark Sally-Ann

No. 2 Round bubbly Mandy

No. 3 Big blond sex goddess

Reserve: old Cho.

If he couldn’t make it with one of them before New Year, then he might as well give up trying.

The following Saturday (he was still attempting, without success, to nerve himself to approach Sally-Ann). Terry said: ‘You still interested in getting a place of your own?’

‘You bet!’

He was even more interested now than he had been before. After all, if he were going to start making it with ‘birds’ (Did it matter if she was a witch or not?) – which he most certainly was, sooner or later – he was going to need somewhere where he could take them. He couldn’t very well smuggle them up to his bedroom at Auntie Loveday’s.

Terry’s landlord had a double bed-sit coming vacant in one of his houses also in West Hampstead. Harry and Terry took it together. It would be worth just to have a place of his own. He felt a bit like a farmyard animal, at Auntie Loveday’s. He’d have been happier living down in the kitchen than clumping about upstairs amongst the glass-top tables, in perpetual fear of breakage or trekking dirt across the carpet. It wasn’t even as if he saw anything of Hermione. When he left in the mornings, for an eight-thirty start at the training, she wasn’t yet up. After a day spent practising charms and curses and a lot of the Hun, he felt fit for nothing but a hot-water soak beneath the spy hole (he was growing used to it by now: he even on occasions, made rude gestures at it, just to show his contempt) and a quick dash back along the passage in his flowery pyjama shorts to bed. The only times he ever really saw Hermione were on Saturday mornings at breakfast when Dad came to pick Hermione up for home, and again on Sunday evenings, when Dad dropped her down from home.

Mrs Weasley was worried when he told her about his moving on (he went to see the Weasleys at the Halloween weekend).

‘You wouldn’t eat properly!’ she said, and, ‘You could get yourself into trouble.’

‘What sort of trouble?’

‘Girls,’ said Mrs Weasley, ‘There’d be orgies.’

‘There wouldn’t be orgies!’ What did she think he was? Some kind of super stud? If he could make it with just one girl he’d count himself lucky. ‘It’s only a bed-sit, not a penthouse, Mrs Weasley.’

‘Woo, hoo!’ Ron and the twins catcalled. ‘Harrikin boy looking hotty, hasn’t got a date yet?’ As if Ron himself hadn’t got girl problems, too!

Auntie Loveday was surprisingly sympathetic about his moving out. He’d been a bit worried, to tell the truth, in case she might take it personally but all she’d said was, ‘Harry, my dear boy, you don’t have to apologise. Believe it or not, I can still remember what it was like to be young. You want a place of your own: I perfectly understand.’

It had been Hermione who didn’t understand.

‘But why?’ she kept saying. ‘I don’t see the point.’

She still didn’t, because how could he explain? ‘I want a place where I can take girls back …’ Auntie Loveday obviously understood.

***

Harry looked across the canteen at Sally-Ann, little and dark, with her cheeky elfin face. He thought he did fancy her.

Armed with Terry’s encouragement and the plans he suggested for the day, (‘Girl friend of mine’s giving a party. This Saturday. Bring her along to that, then at a suitable stage in the evening you can twinkle her back home and I’ll guarantee to stay out of the way until the small hours’), Harry surprised Sally-Ann, as she just got her meal at the counter, by handing her some cutlery and inviting her to the party with him. Cho had just walked past, bearing a tray full of shepherd’s pie and chips. Sally-Ann, he was pleased to note, had more tastes: like Hermione, she stuck to green salads and yoghourt.

‘A party?’ She considered the idea, head to one side. ‘Whereabouts?’

‘Paddington Green.’

‘Paddington Green?’

He wondered if she was going to repeat absolutely everything that he said.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Paddington Green.’

He waited for her to say it again, but she merely wrinkled her nose and looked doubtful.

‘And you’ll take me home afterwards?’

‘’Course I’ll take you home afterwards.’ After she’d been back to West Hampstead. He’d do anything she wanted, after she’d been back to his place.

‘I’ll have to be in by midnight. My parents are very strict.’

‘No sweat.’ He would have plenty of time.

‘Do you think we should move?’ said Sally-Ann. ‘We’re holding up the queue.’

‘Ah, well --’ He stepped back a pace. ‘I’ll see you on Saturday, then. About seven-thirty?’

‘Yes,’ said Sally-Ann.

‘Good. Great. Um--’ still walking backwards, he bumped into the corner of a table: it happened to be Cho’s. She regarded him frostily.

‘Do you mind?’

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t looking where I was going.’

‘I could see that,’ said Cho.

He sometimes thought that Cho hated him – she had this tendency to be sharp. Still, whether she like him or not hardly mattered any more: she was only down as reserve. If things went as they should with Sally-Ann, he wouldn’t have any need of her.

***

There was only one point which still bothered him. If he could entice her back – and if , once she was back, she proved willing – what bothered him (assuming she actually let him) was whether it was up to him, or whether he could safely leave it to her –

‘Leave what to her?’ Terry seemed bewildered.

‘Um – you know … precautions.’ And anyway, what about AIDS?

‘What you are talking about,’ said Terry, ‘is the mechanics. And that is the least of your problems. First get your girl; that’s the difficult part.’

However, Terry taught him some contraceptive charms and they went to a muggle public toilet and bought a small packet from a slot machine.

‘It is commonly known, my son, as a packet of three,’ said Terry. ‘To be kept always about your person for when the need should arise –’ (was it?)

***

On Saturday evening, Terry and he met Sally-Ann at Paddington underground station, she was already there waiting. Terry and she immediately fell into an easy chat about anything and nothing.

‘I once heard people are always early are basically very insecure,’ she said.

‘And it that what you are?’

‘Oh, yes; terribly.’

Terry raised an eyebrow.

‘I can’t imagine,’ he murmured, ‘what you have to be insecure about …’

It was Harry, at that moment, who was feeling insecure. He didn’t like the way that Terry was taking over – almost as if he were the one who had asked her out. Sally-Ann walked between them, but it was Terry whom she talked to rather than Harry. Probably that was because Harry couldn’t think of anything very much to say, whereas Terry had a never-ending flow of banter, which obviously amused. He knew that because Terry’s banter always did, and in any case Sally-Ann kept laughing and screwing up her nose. (Did she know whom she came out with?)

‘Terry’s funny, isn’t he? I like people who are funny.’ she said, what at last they had reached the party and were alone together (Terry, who was apparently familiar with the place, having gone off in search of someone called Emilia).

‘Actually,’ said Harry, ‘he does already have a girl friend.’

‘Oh! I wouldn’t want to go out with him,’ said Sally-Ann. He wanted to ask her why not, but didn’t have a chance. He kept wondering about it all night.

At half past nine, he suggested to Sally-Ann that maybe they should be going now.

‘We’ve only just come!’ she said. He gave her another fifteen minutes, then tried again.

‘If we went now,’ he said, ‘We could have a coffee. And something to eat.’ In his experience (admittedly limited) girls could never resist the lure of something to eat. (Apart from Hermione, who was always an exception to him.)

‘Oh, all right,’ said Sally-Ann. ‘I suppose we might as well … it’s not much of a party, anyway.’

Good, thought Harry; that meant they still had time to make it back West Hampstead. He felt in his jacket pocket to check if the packet of three was still in there: it was. First, got your girl …

But the problem came when Sally-Ann would rather go in a small coffee shop they passed by than go back to his place. After a while of ‘tug-of-war’, she said, ‘I’m not coming to there. If you want a girl who would do that sort of thing you should ask Daphne, she’d do it with any one. And if you want to give me something to eat’ – he wasn’t sure he did any more – ‘you can give it to me here.’ He had no choice but to give in.

‘I’ll have egg, sausages and chips,’ said Sally-Ann. (So much for the green salads and yoghourt. Why did he always have to be reminded of Hermione?) ‘How about you?’

‘I expect you think I’m very odd,’ said Sally-Ann.

He shrugged. He had given up thinking women odd: they were just raving potty, the whole lot of them. What with Hermione, who thought of nothing but study and work, the old Cho back in fifth year who had dripped like a hosepipe, and now this one, wittering on about being odd –

‘All right, then.’ If that was what she wanted – who was he to contradict her? ‘So I think you’re odd.’

‘I knew you did.’ Now she was happy. ‘Men always do, but I can’t help it … it’s part of my insecurity thing, – the fact that I don’t want to go back with them to have sex.’

Maybe she should have gone into a magical nunnery (Were there such things?). Maybe they should all go into nunneries. It would be better than walking round enticing people. (Hermione was included in ‘them’ although she didn’t do it intentionally, that he knew.)

‘Once when I was young,’ she said, ‘when I was about eleven, I saw this naked man. It was dreadful. I mean, there he was, lying in this field … naked. Doing things. ’

‘Gosh,’ said Harry, getting his own back.

‘It wasn’t a very nice sight. As a matter of fact, it was revolting.’

‘Men are pretty revolting,’ said Harry. ‘I don’t know why you come out with us at all.’

‘I wouldn’t fancy going out with just anybody,’ said Sally-Ann. ‘I only ever go out with people I like the look of. Also, I knew you weren’t the sort to care only about One Thing. The ones that do … they have a funny look about them.’

He didn’t know why she agreed to come out with him, whether it was because she fancied him (whatever that might mean) or whether it was because she held him in contempt.

‘What about Terry?’ he said. ‘Why wouldn’t you go out with him?’

‘I never go out with bantering men, They’re not easy to control.’

Did that mean that he was easy to control? He glowered at her, as the meal and his coffee arrived. Why was it that he could never learn to be predatory? He bet if he were Terry he’d have her back in West Hampstead by now – not only back in West Hampstead, but actually in bed.

He watched her for a while as she tucked into the egg, sausages and chips. For all she was so tiny and delicate-looking, she was going at it like a garbage gobbler. It was a phenomenon he’d noticed before: it was always the little shrimp-like ones that stuffed themselves. Hermione never did. Hermione’s appetite was quite normal and healthy, she didn’t have anorexia or platefuls of egg and chips. If she’d be here she’d probably just have had a coffee. (There! He was thinking of Hermione again.)

‘‘D’you know who the nicest boy is? The nicest boy of all? It’s Kevin. He’s sweet. I wouldn’t mind going out with Kevin. I’d feel safe with him.’

So she liked the look of Kevin. Why had she agreed to come out with him? He should talk. He liked the look of Hermione. Here he was. He came out with this one.

On the way to her home, she told him more about the naked man, the sight of whom had been so dreadful. It was evidently a subject that engrossed her.

‘I mean, can you imagine?’ she said. ‘When I was only eleven!’

That prompted him of Hebe, who was also only eleven. He bet that if she saw a naked man she wouldn’t turn a hair. What, after all, was a naked man to one who had read Lady Chatterley? Likely, she’d go running over to take a closer look.

‘It’s not very big, is it? My brother’s is loads bigger than that,’ she’d say.

At least she wouldn’t end up with a complex. (If anyone did, it would be the naked man.) Perhaps for sex education, muggle or magical, there was something to be said, after all, for reading Lady Chatterley at the age of eleven.

He accompanied Sally-Ann to her front door. He thought he should dutifully kiss her. But he’d better not. Not with her hung-ups. She’d probably start screaming the place down and he didn’t relish the idea of some angry parent rushing out with a wand or worse with a pickaxe, or being charged of indecent assault. Apart from anything else, it might get into the Daily Prophet and then Mrs Weasley would worried sick, and Hermione would never speak to him again. (Or would she? She certainly stood by his side through thick and thin during their Hogwarts years. But it was hard to be certain, with Hermione, now. She seemed have only one set of morals lately, and they were centred entirely on her study and work: being able to do magic is the only thing that matters …)

He thought excessively of only One Thing all the way back to West Hampstead and thoughts of One Thing preoccupied him so much that he nearly splinched himself apparating.

‘A likely tale!’ Terry laughed when Harry told him Sally-Ann’s predicament, ‘Whacking in a field … she’s having you on!’ (Was she? Anyway …)

When their bed time came, Terry said, ‘Sweet dreams … or should I say wet ones?’

‘Get knotted!’ Harry pulled the covers up over his head. There were times when life could be very trying; very trying indeed.

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 5 It must be your lucky day

Harry was fed up with his staple food: tins of baked beans. It came as a relief when Hermione rang him to ask if he would like to have dinner at Auntie Loveday’s Friday evening, Dad would also be there (he was passing by from the regional dentists annual meeting and then taking Hermione back home the next day). Harry had made a vow to live by himself without running to dinners at any his associated families at least for a month, but since she was offering – and he hadn’t seen her for almost two weeks.

‘When shall I see you?’ he said.

‘Six o’clock?’

‘I’ll be there,’ said Harry.

‘So! You’ve set up an independent establishment, have you?’ Dad said, after dinner, as they sat in one of the sitting or thinking rooms. He gave Harry a wink, ‘Got yourself a flat, eh?’

‘Actually, it’s a bed-sitting room,’ said Hermione.

‘Well, that’s still a sight better than a poke in the eye with a burnt stick … nothing like having a place of your own.’

‘It’s not his own,’ said Hermione. ‘He shares.’ (Wasn’t she contrary today?)

‘Ah, yes!’ said Dad. ‘But there’s a world difference between sharing with someone your own age and sharing with some crusty old fossil of a geriatric, isn’t there, Harry?’

‘It does mean you can do things,’ agreed Harry.

‘I’m sure it does!’ Dad understood too.

There was a pause, Dad helped himself to some of his honeysuckle tea.

‘What sort of things?’ said Hermione.

Dad, at that, threw back his head and roared. Harry resisted the temptation to join in: the pinkness had come into Hermione’s cheeks and he didn’t like to see her embarrassed. Wasn’t he indulging her?

‘It means you can go out and leave things,’ he said, ‘instead of having to keep putting them away all the time. Like if the bed’s not made, or the sink’s full of stuff, there’s nobody to nag at you.’

‘God!’ said Dad. ‘Shades of the past … I’ll bet the place is a shambles!’

‘It’s not exactly spick and span,’ admitted Harry.

‘I’ll bet it isn’t. Needs a woman’s hand, by the sound of things.’ Dad shot an amused glance at Hermione. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Hermione. ‘I’ve never been asked round there.’

She turned, and looked out of the window at the dim gardens. Harry stared at her, in anguish. He hadn’t known she wanted to be asked round – he’d thought she wasn’t interested. That was the impression she’d given, the day he’d moved out. It had been Auntie Loveday who’d wanted to know everything, like whether they were on the telephone, and whether there were cooking facilities. Hermione had seemed not to care, very uncharacteristic if he thought about it. Before, she had always wanted to know everything happening to him.

***

He worried about it all weekend – about Hermione wanting to be asked round, and him not having asked her. He didn’t like to floo her and make a special point of it; it would be too obvious. He was happy she wanted to come round. But he wouldn’t like her to be certain that she could send him running with every little wish of hers. On the other hand, he didn’t want to do it in front of Dad, at Auntie Loveday’s. This was something between him and Hermione. In the end, he managed to get her by herself for just five minutes while Dad was turning the car out of the driveway on Sunday evening after dropping Hermione off at Auntie Loveday’s (Harry made sure he came to see Auntie Loveday earlier. Wasn’t this even more obvious?).

‘You doing anything Friday?’ he said.

‘No,’ said Hermione. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘I was wondering if you’d like to come round to our place.’

Now she’d gone all pink again. He’d never known her keep going pink, with him, like this before. (The only times he saw her pink for a short time were when Hogwarts professors praised her, the one time when she admitted to him and Ron that Viktor fancied her and the time when He and Ron caught her hiding Lockhart’s getting-well-card under her pillow.) Perhaps it was just something that happened to girls like Hermione at her age.

‘All right.’ she said.

‘Come round for a butterbeer about eight o’clock.’

‘All right.’

Eight o’clock would give him time to get back from training and stuff some baked beans down himself. Give him a chance to do a bit of tidying up, as well. He wouldn’t like Hermione to see the place as it was. He wondered whether Terry was going to be in, or whether (hopefully) he’d be going round to Emilia’s place. Tentatively, he suggested the idea.

‘Why?’ said Terry, at once. ‘What dirty little plots are you hatching now?’

‘Nothing. I’ve asked Hermione round, that’s all’

‘So why do you want me out of the way? I thought you didn’t have anything going between you?’

‘Well … no, not in that sense.’ Unfortunately.

‘So why can’t I just pop in and say hallo?’

‘You can if you really want.’

‘I do want; I haven’t seen Hermione since we left Hogwarts. I also want to see what’s so special between you other than firm school friends.’

‘There isn’t anything special between us. She’s just someone I happen to be friend with in school and after.’

‘Oh? You could have fooled me,’ said Terry.

The remark bothered him. What did he mean by it? You could have fooled me. What was that supposed to get at?

‘Well,’ said Terry. ‘she obviously wield great influence over you … Hermione says this, Hermione says that, … Hermione does such and such, Hermione thinks so and so … I not unnaturally concluded that she must be of great importance in your life.’

She was of importance; of course she was. If it hadn’t been for Hermione, he might have died several times over. On the other hand, he resented the suggestion that she wielded great influence over him. He wasn’t as easily affected by her as some people seemed to think. Was he?

To prove the point, he didn’t bother tidying up on Friday evening. He liked the place the way it was, so Hermione would just have to put up with it (Besides, she had been perfectly happy in Hagrid’s cluttering hut). It might not be what she was used to at home and at Auntie Loveday’s, but so what? Not everyone wanted to live with creamy white carpets and glass-topped tables. He half expected her to take one look and say ‘Harry, it’s a midden,’ but in fact she seemed quite struck with it.

‘It’s nice,’ she said. ‘You are lucky … I wish I had a place like this.’

He was gratified. (He kept discovering something new about Hermione even after seven years being close friends with her.)

‘Want me to try and find one for you?’

Regretfully she shook her head.

‘I couldn’t. They won’t let me – not until next September. I’ll be twenty then. They’ve promised me I can then, if I want.’ He kept forgetting she’s ten months older than he was. For all her super intellect and wizarding knowledge, she seemed even more lack of certain education. What sort of things could he be doing in his own place? Indeed! If she were to be dumped in the middle of Leicester Square at night without her wand, she wouldn’t know how to set about looking after herself among the loonies.

‘You have the chair,’ he said.

He waved her towards the room’s only armchair, but instead she chose to kneel on the hearth rug, in front of the fire. She was wearing a natural fine-knitted rib sweater, with a low cut neck and a pair of midnight blue stretch denims tucked into boots. Her hair, as usual, was hanging about her shoulders.

He poured her a bottle of butter beer in a traditional German beer glass.

‘I’d made you some food or something, except that all I could do is breakfast. I’m not a very good cook.’

‘Neither am I,’ said Hermione. ‘Baking chocolate chip cookie is the most I’ve done in my food technology group at my prep school. But, after all the potion making at Hogwarts, following some simple recipes shouldn’t be a problem, should it?’

‘Or you could try baked beans. I live off them at the moment’ he said. ‘I do.’

He sat at the edge of the bed, holding his bottle between his knees. A silence fell. He sought for some way to break it. He’d never tongue-tied with Hermione before; she had certainly never been tongue-tied with him. The silence continued. Hermione smiled, rather shyly: Harry contorted his lips. He must find something to say.

‘Have you --’

‘Did you --’

They both spoke at the same time; both stopped.

‘After you,’ said Harry.

‘Are you still enjoying it … being at the auror training?’ (Didn’t she know? They had this topic last Friday with Dad, hadn’t they?)

‘Yeah; it’s great.’

‘What do you brew at your potion training?’ He talked for a while, detailing her every potion he did this week. She listened with rapture and fired questions at him every now and then.

Then, there was a pause.

‘What were you --’

‘I was just --’

‘Go on,’ said Hermione.

‘I was just going to ask how you were getting on?’

‘Oh! Fine,’ said Hermione, ‘we’ve got Miss Flowerdew for our tutor group, she’s great. Much better than Miss Gover … ghastly Gover. She’s really bitter.’ He couldn’t possibly comment since he didn't know any of her tutors. She talked more of her study. He enjoyed listening to her clear description of her courses and tutors. She’s always there, always enthusiastic, and inquisitive. He felt more at ease when they talked as if they were back at Hogwarts.

He opened his mouth.

‘What --’

‘Hi, there!’ said Terry’s voice. His head insinuated itself round the door.

‘Hi,’ said Harry.

‘I trust I’m not interrupting anything? No!’ Terry slid the rest of his body in the wake of his head. ‘Obviously not. One on the bed, one on the floor … how very proper! How are you, Hermione?’ He held out a hand to Hermione, who's still kneeling on the hearth rug. ‘Long time no see, But I’ve often heard about you from a certain someone…’

Terry did the most talking, although Hermione contributed her share. All Harry did was sitting on the edge of the bed, listening to what they were saying, and interspersing the odd word or two. They didn’t really seem to have any need of him – he wasn’t at all sure that they would notice were he simply to dis-apparate (admittedly, he noticed Hermione often looked at him during Terry’s rambling.) Hermione, as always, talked about her school, things that happened with Miss Flowerdew. Terry made smart remarks and kept up his usual flow of banter. Harry was glad to see that Hermione, although she smiled politely from time to time, was not nearly such an appreciative audience as Sally-Ann had been.

Afterwards, as he accompanied her home, she said, ‘I hear you went to a party the other night with Sally-Ann Perks?’

The way things got round the magical London was nobody’s business.

‘It wasn’t much of a do,’ he said. He wondered how she’d come to hear of it. Most likely, some girl friends of hers are friends with Sally-Ann. ‘I’d have asked you to come,’ he said (that’s true, had she been interested in coming with him as his date), ‘except it was on Saturday and I knew you’d be going home.’ (was it only because she had to go home?)

‘I don’t have to go home,’ said Hermione. ‘I could stay if there is something to do.’

‘Well, anyway, you didn’t miss much.’ He didn’t really want to talk about the party, and about Sally-Ann. ‘They were all older persons– two of them were Terry’s girl friends.’

‘He’s the sort that would have two,’ said Hermione.

‘Don’t you find him more amusing than he was at Hogwarts? Most girls seem to.’

‘He’s all right,’ she said.

Hermione, plainly, had not been over-impressed. Terry, by contrast, the minute he got back at West Hampstead, greeted him with ‘Hermione is still every bit the superior lady you had back at the Hogwarts days. I can’t imagine why you waste your time chasing after all the rest of the rubbish when you could have her.’

It just showed how little Terry knew about anything: if he could have had Hermione, he wouldn’t be chasing after all the rest of the rubbish.

Since he couldn’t have Hermione he took the opportunity, next morning, of approaching number two on his list. Number two was Mandy – round, bubbly Mandy. He magnanimously stood her a coffee in the canteen and invited her out to a meal the following Friday. She accepted with an alacrity (like Angelina Johnson accepting Fred’s invitation to the Yule ball), which surprised him. (These girls really went for their food in a big way.)

On the day, Mandy didn’t look glamorous, but at least she looked approachable, that was the main thing. They walked towards West Hampstead in search of food.

‘D’you like Chinese?’ he said.

‘I like Indian.’

He hadn’t asked her if she liked Indian, he’d asked her if she liked Chinese. Why did they always have to make difficulties? There was a Chinese take-away only fifty yards down the road; also he didn’t go a bundle on curries.

‘What about Chinese?’

‘Chinese is all right. The only trouble is I keep thinking of pink and curled-up prawns.’

‘Pink and curled-up prawns?’

‘The way they cook them and eat them. Do you know,’ she said, ‘why it is that prawns are all pink and curled up?’

‘No.’ He wasn’t sure that he wanted to know.

‘It’s because they’re thrown alive into boiling water … like lobsters. You mustn’t ever eat them.’

There wasn’t really any argument against that; in any case you couldn’t expect a girl to give you her all if she was worried you were making her eat boiled-alive prawns. The least he could do was feed her a meal she felt happy with. He did rather wonder, though, why every female he encountered seemed to have some strange hang-ups. First it had been naked men lying about in fields, now it was curled prawns. He wondered if there were any woman, anywhere, who didn’t have hang-ups, or whether that was asking the impossible. Wait, he didn’t notice any hang-up of Hermione’s. No, she didn’t have one. Why wouldn’t the girls who would go out with him be like Hermione for a change?

He suggested them taking away curries, from a grotty (so they couldn’t eat in) Tandoori place, back to his place and listening to CDs. He waited for her to decide that they should go somewhere else. He should never have given her any choice in that matter. He should simply have marched her in and ordered two curries without even asking her. Once he’d gone and ordered the stuff she couldn’t very well start making a fuss.

‘Mm, … ’ She pressed her nose against the restaurant window. ‘It certainly is very grotty in there.’ Then, she agreed to his plan.

He could hardly believe what he was hearing – she actually agreed to go back. It was all he could do to stop from grabbing her hand and rushing her off there and then. He controlled himself enough to go in and order a couple of curries, but having to wait while they were being cooked (or warmed-up) was almost unbearable. Mandy kept looking round at the flock wallpaper and the pictures of Taj Mahal and saying, ‘It’s not as grotty as I thought it was … it’s really quite nice, once you’re inside … I wouldn’t actually have minded eating here. Still, now that we’ve ordered …’

‘You can’t chop and change,’ he said. ‘It gets them in a panic.’ She giggled.

‘Is Terry going to be there? I suppose,’ said Mandy, ‘he’s gone out with a girl friend?’

Harry looked at her, suspiciously. Did he detect a wistful tone? What was it girls he asked out all seemed to go after the other bloke?

The room was in its usual chaos. Mandy, fortunately, seemed not to be a girl who objected mess, or maybe she didn’t even notice. She dropped her duffle coat on the floor, on top of a pair of trousers that were waiting to be washed, sat down quite happily on the unmade bed to eat.

They listened to one of her favourites sifted out from Terry’s collection. To his disgust, he heard what sounded like a slurpy ballad drifting across the room. Really slurpy, sugary stuff, with lyrics that rhymed, like on greeting cards. He wasn’t surprised at Mandy going in for syrup, but he would have thought better of Terry. She kept giggling at Harry’s quite normal and plain remarks.

It was only after a bit that he realised why she’d giggled: on close listening, the ballads were nowhere near as innocent and slurpy as it seemed. He listened in growing amazement the nauseating little ditties slowly changed from greeting card twaddle to what could only be described as soft porn. The change came about so gradually that just at first you didn’t grasp what was going on.

Harry turned wondering eyes on Mandy, who giggled; yet again. Not that he minded her giggling quite so much now. He’d thought at first it might just be stupidity, but obviously it wasn’t. Clearly, in spite of being all round and bubbly and looking so innocent, Mandy knew a thing or two.

‘Great, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Mm,’ said Harry. Not exactly what you’d call subtle – you’d hardly not know what the lyrics meant; not unless you’d spent your life living in Azkaban.

Harry swallow up his curry at a speed he normally reserved for dishes that didn’t offend his palate, such as baked beans or roast beef and Yorkshire. With curry, he generally just pushed it about on his plate and picked out as much as he could manage to resuscitate. Today, thanks to the ballads, he got through it without even noticing.

Mandy lay back on the unmade bed, eyes closed, allowing Harry stretched out beside her. After a while, Mandy took his hand and firmly guided it inside her bra. Harry swallowed. This was furthest he’d ever got with any girl. (OK, she was only the second girl whom he got anywhere with.)

It seemed it was the furthest he was destined to get (for this evening, at any rate). As the CD drooled to an end, Mandy suddenly sprang up on the bed.

‘I think I should go now, before we go too far.’ she said.

‘Go?’ he was flabbergasted. What did she mean go? Go where? His immediate thought was that she must mean, go to the bathroom. It took a second or so for her meaning to sink in. That flabbergasted him even more. She lay there, letting him undo her blouse, putting his hand on her breast, listening to some slob of a pop star singing pornographic songs, and then she dared to talk about going too far? He pushed his hair out of his eyes. This was unbelievable.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Mandy. She looked at him, earnestly, all giggles gone. ‘Really I am. It’s not that I wouldn’t like to. It’s just that I never have – ’

That made two of them, he thought.

‘I keep thinking about it – I keep meaning to. But then, when it comes to it --’

Then when it came to it, she went and got cold feet. Or cold something else.

‘-- I am not really, absolutely, one hundred per cent certain that I actually want to. I mean, I do want to, but then again, I don’t. I know there are girls – I mean, Daphne.’ Big blonde Daphne. ‘She does it all the time, practically with anyone she fancies. I mean, she doesn’t have to be in love with them, or anything …’ she trailed off. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘Really I am. I do hope it hasn’t upset you, or anything?’

Upset him? Oh, no. He liked people leading him on. He enjoyed that kind of thing. A little bit of frustration was good for you every now and again.

‘I do feel awful,’ said Mandy. (She felt awful?) ‘I feel I’m taking advantage of you – being so nice-natured and everything. If you weren’t so nice-natured, I wouldn’t dare.’

She’d better be warned: he didn’t feel so nice-natured. Not just at this moment.

‘I mean,’ she said. ‘You could hex me or curse me or almost anything.’

Fat lot of satisfaction that would give him.

‘It must be your lucky day,’ he said.

Mandy giggled, though a little nervously looking round, big-eyed at the room. He knew she wasn’t nervous of him turning violent – what with him being so nice-natured, and all – but nervous, nonetheless, in case he was mad at her. He wondered whether he was. He thought about it and decided that on the whole he wasn’t. There really didn’t seem much point. He could yell at her and call her by a few names, but he wasn’t in love with her either. He wasn’t sulking, or being mad at her, or anything like that, it was just that the moment had passed: he wasn’t interested. He couldn’t be bothered at this particular moment in time.

On the way back from seeing Mandy home, a lady in a fur coat and high heels approached him. He thought she was going to ask him time, or directions. Instead, as she drew level with him, she winked and said, ‘Hallo, darling … want to learn a thing or two?’ He said that he didn’t, not just at this moment, thank you. The lady shrugged.

‘Oh, well, suit yourself,’ she said.

And why shouldn’t he? It was what everybody else seemed to do to him. From now on, he was going to be ruthless.

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 6 Just for the one night

In March, they did the assessment which would decide if they could be offered preliminary places in the second stage of auror training for the forth coming September. The assessment was just an ordinary training session, except that they were joined by six boys from another group and were watched from the far end of the hall by all their trainers. The Hun sat solemnly at the table making notes. The session was taken by a foreign wizard with a name like someone sneezing. (‘Art Kaszu,’ said Hermione. ‘He’s great.’)

Afterwards, they were called in one at a time to be interviewed by the panel of trainers, now reinforced by the sneezing man, who had also taken his seat at the table. They asked Harry what made him want to be an auror (enjoying hexing the evil?), if he enjoyed the training, (to this, the Hun answered for him, ‘he does, I can vouch for that.’ Harry nearly fell off his seat in amazement. The Hun? Putting in a good word for someone?), why he enjoyed it (It’s the thing he did best, what else?), what else he was good at (Quidditch, off course), what he would do if he could not be an auror (playing Quidditch, but he had chosen auror over it).

They said he would be informed the outcome in about four weeks.

He had lunch in the canteen with Hermione and Professor McGonagall, who had come along to give him moral support.

‘Off course,’ Hermione gave Harry her shining smile with her dewy eyes – ‘you’ll have had no difficulty.’

He wished everyone wouldn’t keep taking it for granted. It was going to make it all the harder if he failed.

‘Nonsense!’ said McGonagall, giving Harry her penetrating looks, ‘I have received excellent reports of you.’ (He hoped it hadn’t reported his girl problems.)

She raised her glass of water to her lips. ‘There is a child over there,’ she said, ‘who appears to be trying to attract your attention.’

Harry looked; so did Hermione with interest. The 'child' was Sally-Ann. She beamed, and waved at him across the canteen. Harry waved back.

‘Girl in my group, she’d been in our year at Hogwarts.’ he said.

As he was finishing his first course (jacket potato and cauliflower cheese) Mandy came by the table. She stopped, and dimpled.

‘Hallo, Harry … how was the assessment?’

‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘How about you?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Fearsome … if I get in, I’ll stand you that Chinese meal we never had.’

‘I’ll hold you to it.’ He said automatically.

Hermione waited till Mandy was out of earshot.

‘Mandy Brocklehurst too?’ she said with a slight smile that reminded Harry the same expression he had seen in fifth year when she asked him about Cho and him.

***

With the assessment over, and a fortnight’s break in training almost upon them, he was able to turn his attention back to that other little matter of importance in his life: namely, his list. He couldn’t make up his mind which one of the two remaining to go for. He kept thinking about what Mandy had said: Daphne does it all the time, practically with anyone… Did he really want to do it with someone who did it all the time? Practically with anyone? He wasn’t sure that he did. He was growing desperate, but not desperate as all that, and in any case, just recently he had noticed that Cho was showing distinct signs of a thaw towards him. She didn’t snap as much as she used to, and she hadn’t said ‘Do you mind?’ for ages. In the event the matter was decided for him by Daphne suddenly announcing, as they limbered up before sessions next day, that she was going away for Easter.

That settled it: he couldn’t afford to sit around doing nothing for a whole fortnight. Time was precious.

He played it very cool with Cho. He quickly discovered that her favourite pastime was walking round the shops, choosing outfits for herself (not buying, as far as he saw it) for every conceivable (and inconceivable) occasions. Even if the shops were closed she still got a buzz out of it. What amazed him was that she seemed to remember every single garment she’d ever clapped eyes on. She had a mind like a filing cabinet. (Hermione got a brilliant mind, but he never saw her using it on garment sorting.)

‘If I put that dress with that coat we saw in John Lewis … if I wore those shoes with that hat they had in Selfridge’s…’ said Cho to an absentminded Harry.

As a reward for tramping the streets – Oxford Street, Bond Street, Regent Street, Knights bridge – she let him kiss her on the doorstep when he delivered her back home. He couldn’t take her back to West Hampstead, because Terry was there. Terry was always going to be there. He’d obviously stopped fancying his two girl friends and hadn’t yet found himself anyone else – didn’t seem to be tying very hard, either. It was really rather a nuisance. He wondered, if he were to put to her nicely, whether Cho would come away with him to a hotel.

Old Cho was really quite fastidious. He’d discovered that over these last few days of tramping around. She wouldn’t drink from a cracked cup or eat off a not-spotless plate or anything like that. The least little speck and back it would go, it didn’t matter where she was, a tea shop in Diagonally or some posh place in the West End. She had standards, did Cho, and he couldn’t see her just lower them just for him (Hermione had liked his untidy room), even though Cho did let him kiss her good night. She once had let him do a tiny bit more than just kiss, which had encouraged him to hope, though after Mandy he didn’t place too much confidence on girls necessarily meaning what you thought they meant.

‘I was wondering if you’d like to come away somewhere for the night.’ said Harry, when Cho was window shopping again. He was sick to death of tramping the stores.

‘What d’you think about that little black jacket? That might go with it.’

‘I thought maybe next Saturday, after class.’

‘What? Go away?’ She turned at last from the shop window to look at him. ‘You and me?’

‘I thought it would be fun to celebrate a late Easter.’

‘But where would we go?’

‘There’s this hotel I found,’ said Harry. ‘Down by the river. Near Richmond.’ (It’s class that would satisfy the fastidiousness of hers.)

Cho considered him for a while.

‘You mean --’ he’d noticed before, she was a girl who had brains – ‘You mean, sleep in the same bedroom?’

‘Um – yes.’ That was what he meant definitely.

Cho considered him a bit more.

‘Are we going to be married?’ she said.

He recoiled at that. Who’d said anything about marriage? Then he twigged: people who went away together to hotels often signed the register as Mr and Mrs. It had been very naïve of him not to have thought of that for himself. He knew old Cho had brains: an expedient!

‘I s’pose we’ll have to,’ he said.

‘Harry!’ Cho flung both arms round him. ‘Now I can go and choose an engagement outfit!’

He was a bit nervous about that: so long as it was only one of her imaginary ones …

‘We’ll have to get a ring,’ she said. She sounded really happy about it. ‘I’ll get the wedding ring, you get the engagement ring.’

‘What do we want an engagement ring for?’

‘Because you can’t have one without the other, silly! It would look ridiculous.’

‘Oh. Would it?’

‘Of course it would! Don’t you know anything?’

Not about engagement rings, he didn’t.

‘What sort of thing have I got to get then?’

‘Oh, anything’ll do for now – so long as it look like a proper engagement ring. But you don’t have to spend a fortune. We can always get something better later on.’

He wondered what she meant by later on. If they went away a second time, he supposed.

Cho tucked her arm through his.

‘It’s the sort of thing they do stories on … Partners in Aurors – Partners in Real Life …’ She signed and snuggled closer. ‘I always thought you were romantic. Right from the very beginning.’

He didn’t know what to say to that. He couldn’t very well say he’d thought she was romantic right from the very beginning. After all, he’d only put her down as reserve. If Daphne hadn’t gone on holiday, it might have been Daphne coming with him to the hotel.

On Monday evening after training he experienced a rather embarrassing moment. Cho had hung around waiting for him (the girls finished half an hour earlier than the boys) and in front of the Hun and all the rest of them threw her arms about him and pressed a fond peck on his cheek. Were he in the habit of blushing, he would have blushed. Fortunately he wasn’t, but still he could have done without quite such a public display. He disentangled himself, to the predictable accompaniment of jeers and catcalls. Cho didn’t seem to mind them – she even seemed quite pleased.

‘Have you got it?’ she whispered.

‘Got what?’

‘You know … the ring.’

‘Oh.’ The ring; it had completely slipped his memory. ‘No, not yet. I’ll get it on Friday.’

‘Not till then?’

‘Well, we’re not going --’ he lowered his voice – ‘we’re not going away till Saturday.’

‘You’d better get it,’ said Cho. ‘I’m not coming without a real engagement ring.’

He wasn’t quite sure what constituted a ‘real’ engagement ring, but presumably gift shops would sell them. It was only for one night, after all. He had never realised the pursuit of experience would come with so much trouble.

‘My mother says,’ said Cho, ‘that you’d better come round on Friday night and have a meal with us.’

She said it not so much as an invitation as an order. He wondered why Cho’s mother, all of a sudden, should feel the need to meet him.

‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ said Cho. ‘In the circumstances.’

‘You haven’t gone and told her.’

‘Of course I’ve told her! She’s my mother, isn’t she?’

‘Yeah, but --’

Words failed him. He tried to imagine Ron telling Mrs Weasley he was taking a girl away to a hotel for a night. All hell would be let loose. ‘You mean she doesn’t mind?’

‘She’d rather we wait,’ said Cho. ‘She thinks we’re a bit young. She said as far as she was concerned, if we’ve really made up our minds then we’d better go ahead – but obviously she wants to meet you. That’s only natural.’

Bloody hell! It didn’t seem natural to him. It would have seemed more natural to him if the old girl had turned up at Hampstead Heath with a poker, threatening to beat the living daylights out of him. He thought that’s what Mrs Weasley would do if Ginny ever came home and said some yob was taking her off for the night. Maybe it was something to do with the fact that Cho’s family was of Chinese origin. But he had heard Chinese were quite conservative when sex was concerned. Maybe not seeing western ways so much Mrs Chang had not known what the westerners were like. Maybe she thought he was just taking her daughter away, out of the kindness of his heart, to give her a day’s break from home. Immoral Purposes probably hadn’t even crossed her mind.

‘Come round at seven,’ said Cho. ‘And don’t forget to bring the ring.’

‘No,’ he said. He was still feeling a bit bemused. ‘OK.’

***

‘So we’ve gone and got ourselves engaged, have we?’ said Terry, and winked at him.

Was the woman mad? Next thing he knew, she’d be announcing it in the Daily Prophet. (So this was why neither Sally-Ann nor Mandy was smiling at him any more. They just sniffed and walked straight pass him without so much as a word when he bumped into them in the corridor.)

‘It was what you might call expedient,’ he said.

‘Well, I gathered that,’ said Terry. ‘You might be green, but you’re not stupid.’

‘Thanks very much,’ said Harry.

***

Friday lunchtime he went into a small shop near Hampstead Heath and bought a ring for eight pounds. It wasn’t much of a ring, but it glittered quite nicely when it caught the light.

Duly at seven o’clock he presented himself at the front door of the Chang’s residence. Cho opened the door to him. The first thing she said was: ‘Have you got it?’

‘Yeah --’

He held out his hand for her to see. In her eagerness, she almost scratched his palm bleeding.

Mrs Chang had appeared, at the far end of the hallway, she looked disconcertingly like an older version of Cho.

‘So you are the promising young man, are you? I’m Cho’s mother. You’d better come in.’

They sat at the kitchen and had a Chinese meal. He was carefully avoiding any prawn dishes. Mrs Chang asked him many questions. He supposed she was just interested rather than nosy, but the way she shot the questions at him, on after another, pop-pop-pop, as if they were on a check list, definitely gave him the feeling that he was being grilled. She investigated thoroughly: how exactly was he getting on with his training? What was the probability of him getting a successful auror career? (What’d that got to do with anything?) Still, he supposed she had to make certain. She wouldn’t want her daughter to go away with just anyone (It still amazed him that she was willing to let her go away at all). At last Mrs Chang seemed to be satisfied enough:

‘I’ll make some tea. I like it with hot milk, and so does Cho. You’ll have to start getting used to all her little habits from now on, you know.’

Mrs Chang said this humorously – at least, he thought she did. He was not quite certain.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘It’s not all a bed of roses, I can tell you. You’ll find she’s got some funny little ways.’

‘Mummy! For heaven’s sake!’ Cho pulled a face at Harry across the table. ‘Don’t start on that … Harry doesn’t want to be put off before we’ve even done it.’

She was actually talking out loud about doing it – in front of her own mother. He couldn’t believe it; this was extraordinary. He didn’t know people had mothers that were that liberated.

‘When exactly,’ she said, ‘were you planning it for?’

The question was addressed specifically to Harry. He cast an anguished eye in Cho’s direction. (He thought she was supposed to have told her?)

‘I said,’ said Cho, ‘We haven’t yet fixed any definite date.’

What?

‘Well, if you ask me,’ said Mrs Chang, ‘the longer it’s left the better. In my opinion, twenty-five is about the right age.’

Twenty-five? Was she crazy?

He got out as fast as he could at nine.

Mrs Change’s parting words were: ‘Just don’t be in too much of a hurry, that’s my advice.’

Cho, fondly, said she would see him out.

‘I thought you told me,’ he said. ‘that you’d told her?’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Cho. ‘I did tell her. You heard her, carrying on.’

‘Yeah, but she was carrying on about waiting till we’re twenty-five!’

‘Oh, well, that’s just her.’

‘But she didn’t seem to know.’

‘Know what for goodness’ sake?’ Cho looked at him, rather irritably. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘About tomorrow!’

‘I didn’t tell her that. What d’you think, I’m dumb or something? I told her I’m going to stay with a girl friend. She’d do her nut if she thought I was going away with you.’

Something very odd was going on here. He couldn’t understand it. (He wasn’t too sure he wanted to understand it.)

‘Here, I got it. I bought the wedding ring,’ said Cho. ‘It’s real silver --’

The sweat broke out all over him. She stretched out her left hand, finger splayed with his ring on.

‘This looks really cheap … we’ll have to get another one some time.’

‘What --’ He cleared his throat. ‘What do we want another one for?’

‘Well, you don’t think I’m going to wear this for the rest of my life?’

‘It’s only for one night,’ he said. ‘You can chuck it after that.’

There was a long silence. Cho’s lips had suddenly gone all pinched and thin.

‘What exactly do you mean?’ she said. ‘It’s only for one night?’

‘Um, people only have proper engagement rings,’ he said, desperately, ‘when they’re properly engaged. After all, it’s only the one night, isn’t it? That’s what we agreed on – it’s what I booked for. It’s what I said.’

‘You said,’ said Cho, ‘that we were going to be married.’

‘Yeah, well … just for the occasion.’

‘Are you mad?’ said Cho. Now her voice had gone all pinched and thin, like her lips. ‘Do you really imagine that I would come away with you to a hotel and sleep in the same bedroom in the same bed unless we were going to be married? Properly? What do you think? I’m a whore, or something? Is that why you bought me a cheap ring? Because you think that’s all I’m worth?’

This was like a nightmare. He couldn’t understand how it had happened.

‘I think there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding,’ he said.

‘I should think there has been a bit of a misunderstanding! You’re the one that’s done all the misunderstanding. You’re just like all the rest of them … only after one thing! I thought you were different – I thought you were decent. Well, you’re not, you’re horrible!’

‘No, I’m not,’ he said. He refused to be called horrible just because there’d been a misunderstanding.

‘Yes, you are!’ cried Cho. ‘You’re horrible. Telling everyone you’re going to marry me then suddenly backing out at the last minute.’

‘You were the one did the telling. And, I’m not backing out at the last minute!’

‘Oh?’ said Cho. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘No! I never said --’

‘You said we were going to be married! You either mean it or you didn’t.’

‘I did mean it – but just for the night! Just the one night.’

‘People do not get married,’ said Cho, witheringly, ‘just for the one night. They get married in sickness or in health till death them do part.’

‘Unless they got divorced,’ he said.

‘You can’t get divorced,’ screamed Cho, ‘if you’ve never been married! You can take back your rotten lousy ring --’ She tore it off her finger and hurled it down at his feet – ‘it’s cheep and it’s nasty and I wouldn’t be seen dead in it! And you can go away, and get lost.’

In a daze, he got away. Cho's voice came screeching after him: 'If I wanted, I could have you up for breach of promise.'

Harry shook his head: he still didn’t understand how it had happened. Hadn’t she suggested they posing as the married to check in to that hotel? How did she turn it to a ‘real’ engagement?

And come to think of it, people did not get married unless they were in love, or at least they thought they were in love. He didn't think he was in love, at least not with Cho, that he was certain.

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 7 what you didn’t do

Terry, being always bang up to date with the latest development of the trainee circle, told Harry Cho had made no secret about that she had been ‘jilted’. Harry, still green as grass, thought that the girls would’ve all taken it as an ‘insult’ to their sex and gang up to ostracise him. But in fact Cho was the only one who practised ostracism. She simply went deaf, blind, and mute where Harry was concerned. None of the others, curiously enough, seemed to hold it against him. Mandy and Sally-Ann were smiling at him again.

‘I know someone who’s giving a party. This Friday …’ said Sally-Ann at the end of the session, ‘Feel like coming?’ she looked at him enticingly. She still had this little cheeky elfin face. Harry forced himself to remember that she also had hang-ups about naked men lying around in fields.

‘No, can’t,’ He shook his head. ‘Already going somewhere else.’ Hermione had asked him round to Auntie Loveday’s on Friday. The Prick was going to be there, and a school friend of Hermione’s called Laurel. He couldn’t really say he was looking forward to meeting the Prick and Laurel (another super brain, no doubt). He couldn’t imagine why Hermione had wanted him to. He would have got out of it if he could but she had taken him unawares, turning up during his afternoon break at the training, (where her appearance had attracted pairs of eyes). Besides, he always had difficulty in refusing any invitation issued by her, more and more so recently.

A further term of reading art history books had done nothing to improve the Prick – it had, if anything, made him even worse, more condescending than he had been before. They all sat in his sitting room – his sitting room – and watch some terribly artistic French film he’d recently acquired on DVD. As it turned out, Laurel and Hermione both happened to speak fluent French (he knew Hero did). Just at first Harry hoped it might take the wind out of the Prick’s sails, but no such luck, because the Prick also spoke fluent French: He and Laurel spent the evening ostentatiously speaking it together and sniffing at the subtitles. That gave Harry the satisfaction of having Hermione all to himself (She, fortunate for him, didn’t take part in the, mouth-full-of-water, French-twittering.)

Not only the Prick was home, but also the obnoxious Hebe as well. (She greeted him with ‘Hallo, Harry. I’ve found another word for queers. It’s bu--’ ) She poked her mop of straw in at one point and said ‘Oh, are you watching the Isabelle Adjani? Can I stay and watch?’

‘No, you can’t,’ said the Prick. ‘it’s not fit for juveniles.’

‘But I’ll be twelve next year.’

‘Sorry: should have said infants. Not fit for infants.’

‘Pas devant,’ said Laurel.

‘Pas devant,’ agreed the Prick.

‘Why not?’ said Hebe, greedily feasting her eyes on the screen, where a naked man was in process of climbing out of a bed containing a naked woman.

‘Yeah, why not?’ said Harry. ‘She’s already read Lady Chatterley, and she knows all about queers.’ (Hermione looked at him: Laurel gave a smothered snort of laughter.) ‘I don’t see how a bit of subtitled nudity can hurt her.’

‘That’s right,’ chorused Hebe, giving him a nod or two.

‘Done the Kama Sutra yet, have you?’ said Harry.

‘Calmer what?’

‘Kama Sutra … good book.’ (Hermione gave him a wide-eyed look.)

‘Better than Lady Chatterley? I’ll have a read then.’ said Hebe.

‘You bloody well won’t!’ said the Prick. He leapt from his seat and propelled the child by one ear from his room, glaring at Harry as he did so. Hebe gave him a round kick at the shin.

‘I don’t think that was very funny,’ he said, as he came back.

‘I thought it was hilarious,’ said Laurel. ‘Has she really read Lady Chatterley?’

‘Of course she hasn’t!’ snapped the Prick. ‘And if I find she’s gone and got hold a copy of the Kama Sutra from somewhere --’

‘You’ll nick it off her,’ said Harry ‘and read it yourself.’

Hermione and Laurel both giggled.

The Prick looked at him with loathing, and said ‘How would you be sure I haven’t read it?’ and to get his own back: ‘And how are you getting on with your conjuring?’

Harry said he was getting on all right, thank you.

‘Don’t be mean, Franch. You know it is not conjuring.’ said Hermione. ‘As a matter of fact, Harry’s doing very well.’

He knew she was only trying to be supportive, but he could have wished she hadn’t said it. He would like fighting his own battles. The Prick gave one of his supercilious smiles, top lip curled back.

‘Any girl conjurers in your class?’ persisted the Prick.

‘Six of them.’

‘At least you can’t complain shortage of women.’

‘No,’ said Harry. ‘I’m not complaining.’

‘He hardly could,’ said Hermione, ‘considering he’s been out with just about every girl in his group.’

This time he wasn’t sure that she was trying to be supportive, there had been a definite edge to her voice. (Thanked Merlin Hebe was out of the room. Who knew what she would’ve said? ‘All of them? Have you done it with them all? What about Hero?’) Later as Hermione came downstairs to see him off, he found out why.

‘You weren’t really engaged to that awful Cho Chang, were you?’ she said.

He gritted his teeth. (He could have wished he were gritting them on Cho. She deserved to have a few teeth gritted on her.)

‘’Course I wasn’t,’ he said. He wouldn’t want Hermione thought he had been engaged to anyone. He hadn’t. That’s the truth.

Hermione seemed doubtful.

‘She’s telling people that you were.’

‘That’s because she’s mad at me. She’s just doing it to get even.’

‘And she had a ring --’ Hermione seemed to be distressed by it.

That rattled him. Don’t say Cho’d gone and picked it up again off the ground? He wouldn’t put it pass her.

‘What ring?’ he said.

‘A silver one,’ said Hermione. ‘Quite nice. Actually … she told people it was a wedding ring.’

Relief. To tell the truth, he wasn’t totally easy in his conscience where Cho was concerned. For all it had been a genuine misunderstanding, he wouldn’t like to think that Hermione’d believed they were 'engaged'.

‘Well, I’ve never seen it,’ he said. ‘If she says I bought it for her then she’s making it up.’

‘She had always had a thing about you,’ said Hermione (Too bad, he didn’t have any thing about Cho in return). ‘Why was she mad at you?’

‘Maybe, because I wouldn’t be engaged to her?’ said Harry. ‘I think she is barmy.’

‘Yes, but --, Harry!’ she looked at him, her face looked both vulnerable and demanding like a spoiled child, ‘why did she assume you would be engaged to her?’

‘Look, Hermione, there is nothing between Cho and me,’ he held her arm, ‘Don’t worry about it, please. OK?’ at last, she nodded.

She had been his confidante and his counsellor back in their fifth year when the first fiasco with Cho happened, but right now he found that he couldn’t bring himself to tell her his girl problems. What had changed between Hermione and him? Why wouldn’t he want her to know about them?

He’d more or less made up his mind, after the new fiasco (yet again) with Cho, that he was going to give girls a miss for a bit: his conversation with Hermione decided him. He’d done his best, and all he seemed to have proved was that the female of the species was either stark mad or riddled with hang-ups (except Hermione, of course). He couldn’t keep on getting ‘engaged’ by mistake – or keep booking hotel rooms and cancelling them (forfeiting his deposits). The girls could get by without him (or they’d rather go without him). He’d given them ample opportunity (only if they’d give him one opportunity): if they failed to take it, then that was their loss (and his!). As far as he was concerned, he was through (What else could he do?).

He had reckoned without Daphne.

‘You are pretty good at the auror business, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘Cho was always going on about how good you were at duelling.’

‘Uh-huh,’ He grunted.

‘You doing anything Saturday night?’ said Daphne casually. ‘If you weren’t, you might like to drop round to our place for a meal.’

He was so surprised he nearly dropped his wand. It wasn’t the sort of invitation that anyone in his right senses would refuse. He forgot about giving girls a miss, he forgot about girls being stark mad or riddled with hang-ups, He forgot being engaged by mistake. Suddenly there was but one thought in his mind: he was going to make it with Daphne. He didn’t care if she did it all the time, practically with anyone; the fact remained she hadn’t done it with anyone from his group because Terry was the only one she had been out with, and Terry had freely admitted that he hadn’t taken advantage of the situation. Harry was tired of fighting for it. If someone were willing to hand it to him on a plate, he reckoned he’d reached the stage where he was prepared to take it.

‘Into the lion’s den … sooner you than me!’ Terry laughed.

Daphne shared a flat with other three witches. They were all in ceaseless motion, in a state of undress, constantly coming and going, whisking in and out and all over the place: either snatched something or threw a few cushions around and said ‘Merlin!’ in tones of exasperation and stalked off again half naked.

‘It’s all right,’ Daphne said. ‘They’ll go out soon. Have a lager.’ She sat him down on a sagging sofa in front of the television which nobody was watching. Harry did his best to keep his eyes fixed on the television. The sight of so much naked female flesh was rather disturbing, embarrassing, more than anything. The entire flat seemed to be full of scantily-clad buttocks, all treading a path through the sitting room. There were black silk buttocks, red satin buttocks and one set where you had to look twice to see that they were clad in anything at all.

‘I think I’ve over done the chilli.’ Daphne came in from taking a look at the food.

The chilli, when at last it materialised (round about nine o’clock) nearly choked him to death, he was coughing and splattering, but since Daphne ate it with every sign of enjoyment, he had to assume that either his soft skin was softer than other people’s or else he was missing a protective layer of asbestos. The only way he could get through it was by washing down each mouthful with liberal draught of lager.

Sitting on the sofa with Daphne was quite an experience. Unfortunately, being all filled up as he was with lager and burning hot chilli beans, he couldn’t concentrate on it: also the frequent drifting in and out of naked women didn’t help.

Harry wanted to go to the bathroom now.

‘Don’t be all day, because I don’t feel like waiting.’ She decamped to her bedroom.

Harry made a dash to the bathroom. To his horror and confusion, there was a naked female sitting in the bath. Red-faced, he mumbled an apology and started to back out. ‘That’s OK, we never lock the door. Just carry on,’ said the female.

He tried but nothing would come; not even though five second’s ago he was bursting. (And in five seconds’ time he’d been bursting again.) How was he supposed to do anything with a naked female sitting watching him? It was impossible. Nobody could. The worst of it was, she would hear he wasn’t doing anything.

No, it wasn’t: the worst of it was that Daphne was expecting him to go back and perform, and how could he do that when his whole inside was awash with lager?

He went searching for a milk bottle in the kitchen, found a bosomy girl eating chilli beans in her bra and knickers.

‘Wrong room!’ he shot out again.

‘Come on then!’ Daphne was already in bed when he reached the bedroom.

This was the thing he had been working towards – the thing he had dedicated his life to (Well, as short-term objective.) It was the thing he had determined to do before the year was out. He had tried it on with Sally-Ann, who hadn’t liked naked men, and with Mandy, who couldn’t make up her mind; and with Cho, who’d wanted him to marry her: all of them without success. Now there was Daphne, and she was offering it him.

There was only one small problem: he couldn’t do it. Not with all that lager swilling round inside him. It was no good; he would have to go.

‘Boy, You do have a weak bladder!’ sighed Daphne.

He charged off again to the bathroom. This time he didn’t care if there was anyone in there.

This time there wasn’t. He was about half way through, a girl walked in. She didn’t apologise, or anything. Just said ‘Hi’ and perched on the edge of the bath, turned on the bath tap and looked at him.

‘You at Daphne’s training? I take it you’re going to be a auror?’ she studied him, critically. ‘You look like an auror.’

How could she tell whether or not he looked like an auror? She was only looking at one small bit of him (not that it was as small as all that). Honestly, the place was full of nymphomaniacs. He bet they’d all like to have a go.

He finished and fled back, considerably relieved, to the bedroom – only to find the in his absence another girl had arrived, in a dress to be only half there in front of the mirror.

‘What do you think?’ she addressed Harry through the mirror. ‘If you were going out with me … would it turn you on or off?’

‘Dunno,’ he said, The only thing he knew was that right at this moment it was turning him off. Right off.

Daphne and the girl carried on for some time about the girl’s date and the dress. The girl described what had happened last time she had gone away with her ‘little randy sod’. He could hardly believe it. He hadn’t known girls talked like that. (And she looked such a studious sort of girl. Hermione was never talked like that.) Some of the things the girl said made his hair stand on end. Unfortunately, his hair was the only thing that did.

They had to start all over again when at last the girl removed herself.

It was hardly his fault that at the crucial moment there was a bang at the door and a girl called out that she was ‘Off now… see you tomorrow!’

The result was disastrous: catastrophic.

On Monday evening, in the canteen, Harry overheard Daphne talking to Su, who was by now firmly Dean’s property, ‘… the trouble is that you can never seem to find a real man here.’

Terry, standing beside Harry in the queue, obviously also overheard. He looked round at Harry, in mock reproof.

‘And what did you do to upset her? Or perhaps --’ he grinned – ‘I should say, what you didn’t do?’

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 8 It’s not earth-shattering

‘Cheer up!’ said Terry. ‘We all tarred with the same brush … nothing to be ashamed of.’ He raised his voice slightly. ‘Take an entire regiment to satisfy that one.’

Harry pushed him out of the way and reached across, with an air of disgruntlement, for a plate. His performance on Saturday evening had scarcely done very much for his self-esteem, and Terry’s attitude, just at this moment, was not helping. He could do without all the silly jokes and innuendo. ‘Put a sock in it!’ Harry, losing patience, gave him a shove. Terry twitched an eyebrow.

‘Bit touchy,’ he said, ‘aren’t we?’

Friday evening, Harry stayed indoors. He lay sprawled in unwashed apathy on a bed that hadn’t made since the last change of sheets, a week ago. A sense of failure hung heavily upon him. He was obviously some kind of sexual inadequate; he had to be, to have screwed it up with doing-it-all-the-time-with-anyone Daphne. It would be common property by now, girls, like Daphne and her flat mates, always splashed it about.

He needed to go to Auntie Loveday’s. He wanted to see Hermione. How could that help? He couldn’t very well talk his predicament to her. If he saw her, she would certainly sense his mood (She always did), then, very likely, she would badger the unfortunate event out of him. He wouldn’t like that. He’d better stay put. But, he couldn’t help thinking, wistfully, that just the sight of her would’ve brighten him up.

Terry, coming home at ten o’clock, seemed surprised to find him there. ‘Not out on the razzle?’

‘Does it look like it?’ said Harry. He still hadn’t fully recovered from his disgruntlement. It was doing nothing for his sense of humour.

‘What’s the problem?’ Terry eyed him sympathetically. ‘You don’t want to let it worry you, you know. I tell you, that Daphne girl’s a man-eater. She gets through men like other people get through chocolate bars. She’d have put the frighteners on Casanova, never mind you.’

His pride didn’t like that. Harry narrowed his eyes, automatically defiant. He hadn’t fancied her (Oh, you lousy filthy stinking liar, Harry Potter). She’s too easy (and may you be forgiven).

Terry smiled, ‘Poor old Daphne! Must be losing her touch. First me, then you … nothing but one disappointment after another. She ought to try Kevin. He’d give her what she wanted – and some.’

‘Kevin?’ Harry was sceptical. ‘You must be joking!’

Terry shook his head. ‘Don’t let looks deceive you … dead straight, our Kevin.’

‘How do you know? Are you sure?’ (He sounded like Ron.)

‘How do you think I know?’

Harry hunched a shoulder. He hadn’t the faintest idea how Terry knew and neither, at that moment, did he very much care. If Terry were right, then so much for Sally-Ann and her penetrating insights. The nicest one of all?… I’d feel safe with Kevin … She’d be in for a shock.

‘I don’t make mistakes about things like that … can’t afford to. Can’t afford the waste of time. Unlike Daphne, this boy doesn’t believe in proceeding by trial and error.’ (Wasn’t Terry full of himself? What's that?)

Harry looked at him. Uncertain; suddenly wary.

‘Not only that --’ Terry seated himself, thoughtfully, on the edge of the bed -- ‘one doesn’t care for rejection. A bit of fight is one thing; but an outright slap in the face --’ He was watching Harry as he spoke. Harry arched away slightly. ‘Rejection,’ said Terry, ‘is bad for the soul. Which is why, had I been Daphne, I wouldn’t have touched me with a barge pole – and why, contrariwise, being me, I wouldn’t lay even the discreetest of fingers on our Kevin. Much as I like to. He may give the impression of being a nice little number, but believe you me --’ He broke off. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’ Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. ‘Nothing’s the matter.’

‘Then why are you sitting there looking like some outraged virgin?’ (Was he still a virgin? He was not sure he wasn’t.)

He could hardly say that he wasn’t sitting there looking like some outraged virgin. If that was the way he came across, then that was the way he came across – and maybe it was not so far from the truth. Maybe he did feel a certain sense of outrage. If not outrage, at any rate grievance. All that guff Terry had given him way back at the beginning – our group is lousy with flaming poufdahs. Those were his exact words; Harry could still hear him saying them. Look at that old Kevin Entwhistle … Talk about a cover-up job! He’d get every right to feel aggrieved. If people couldn’t even have the courage of their own convictions – (he should talk! What about that he couldn’t tell Hermione his recent pursuits?).

‘I take it,’ said Terry, ‘that you had twigged about me? I mean … it’s not exactly news?’

Looking back on it, he could see that he probably ought to have twigged; but the fact was, he hadn’t (Talking about the gullible).

‘If you mean,’ he said coldly (caused by embarrassment of his own naiveté.) ‘If you mean did I know you wanted to screw Kevin, then no, I didn’t.’

‘Oh, now, come on!’ Terry laughed. ‘Don’t go all po-faced and moral majority on me.’ (Didn’t Terry go moral minority on him?)

‘I’m not.’ He resented that. Just because he was a bit slow on the uptake, that didn’t mean he was any tight-lipped prude. ‘I don’t give a damn who you want to screw.’

‘So long as I don’t try it on you?’

‘Yeah, It’s just not a scene I happen to go for.’ (Why should he feel apologetic?)

‘How do you know?’ said Terry. ‘Ever tried it?’

‘No,’ said Harry.

‘Really? You amazed me! Allow me to say that you don’t know what you’re missing.’

‘Some things,’ said Harry, ‘I don’t mind missing.’

‘You mean to tell me you have no natural curiosity?’

‘Only in certain directions.’ (Hermione was the proof.)

‘And this isn’t one of them?’

This most certainly was not one of them.

Terry leaned towards him, ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘It’s just one of those things --’ prudently, Harry removed himself from the bed – ‘that I feel, instinctively, that wouldn’t do a thing for me.’

‘Well, all right, you don’t have to pick up your skirts and go running off in a panic … I’m not forcing myself on you.’ (As if you could.)

‘I don’t advise trying it,’ said Harry firmly.

‘Why not?’ Terry regarded him quizzically, ‘I could seduce you if I put my mind to it. Make no mistake about that.’ (I’d like to see you try! Maybe not.)

‘I told you already … I’m not interested in that scene. I thought you said you didn’t like rejection?’

‘I don’t.’

‘Well, then. Why ask for it?’

‘Have you ever been wanting someone and not being able to have them?' (So what was he supposed to be? Flattered? Why was his life always contrary? The one he wanted he couldn’t have. The one who wanted him he wouldn’t give it to)

'You don’t know what it’s like,' said Terry.

Oh, don’t I ? thought Harry. He reflected, rather sourly, on the woman that he wanted and wasn’t able to have. -- Hermione. Terry should tell him he didn’t know what it was like.

‘I do flaming know what it’s like!’ he said.

‘Then why won’t you let me?’ said Terry.

‘Because I told you … it’s not my scene.’

‘What does that matter? All this crap about it’s not your scene? What’s not your scene? You want medals? You want their bits of tin saying you’ve been a good boy and played their false morality games? You want their approval? Is that what you want?’

‘I want no one’s approval,’ (not entirely true. He valued Hermione’s opinion very much.) He said, ‘I think I ought to tell you I’m getting really bored with this conversation.’

‘Then why go on with it? Why won’t you give in and let me?’ said Terry. ‘Why are you being all mean and prissy? Anyone would think I was making unspeakable demands. All I’m asking for is a bit of love.’

‘All you’re asking for,’ said Harry, sternly, ‘is a bit of sex.’

‘So what’s wrong with that? Is there a difference between what I am asking for and what you had been asking all those rubbish girls for?’

Harry frowned. He did ask for, more or less, only the One Thing from them. But --

‘There does happen to be a slight difference: unlike what you are doing now, I’ve only asked the seemingly willing parties. I didn’t accuse them of being mean and prissy when they’d proved unwilling.’ And he didn’t see why he should be accused of being so.

‘Don’t be so censorious.’

‘I’m not being censorious! I’m just saying you shouldn’t accuse me of being mean.’

Terry made a noise of disgust.

‘Some people,’ he said. ‘are just so trivial it’s pathetic.’

***

Next morning, Harry woke up and lay for a few minutes, wondering how he felt. On the whole he decided, he didn’t feel anything very much. Certainly he wasn’t going to nurse any grudges if Terry wasn’t. Not that he could see why Terry should. He, after all, had borne no grudges against Sally-Ann or Mandy – well, perhaps just passing grudges. Nothing lasting. He had always accepted it was their right to say no. Provided Terry played the game according the same rules there wasn’t any reason why they have to fall out, or even part company if it came to that. He didn’t hold it against the guy for trying: just so long as he didn’t persist.

The door opened and Terry came in.

‘Hi. Here!’ he tossed an envelope on to the bed. ‘See how that grabs you.’

Harry picked it up. His stomach promptly performed a double somersault. It bear the crest of auror training course.

‘You opened yours?’ he asked.

‘Yup. Offered a place for September … look, if I’ve got through the damned thing I’m bloody sure you have. Stop pratting about and get that envelope undone.’

He hadn’t realised until this moment, just how much it meant to him, how much depended on it. All the difference between achievement and non-achievement…

‘Well, go on!’ said Terry, ‘open it!’

He torn it open quickly. Relief washed over him in a great debilitating wave. The number of times he had laughed at Hermione – got mad at Hermione – lectured Hermione for taking things too seriously, for attaching too much importance –

‘What did I tell you? If anyone was going to get through, you were. Do I get a reward,’ half joked Terry, ‘for being the bearer of such glad tidings?’

‘What?’ Harry looked up, abstractedly. ‘What’s the time?’

‘Ten past eight, why?’

He threw back the bedclothes.

‘I’ve got to go to Wychwood.’

‘At ten past eight?’

‘I want to catch Hermione before she leaves for home.’

‘Telephone her.’

‘No.’ he wanted to be there, to see her reaction when he gave her the news. It would mean as much to her as it did to him. Firmly, he removed Terry from his path and began collecting up scattered articles of clothing from the floor. Terry watched him for a while.

‘No hard feelings?’ he said, at last.

‘Last night? Forget it.’

‘You mean you’re not start to take umbrage and start screaming you want out?’

‘I might,’ said Harry, ‘If I was as small minded as you accused me of being.’

Terry grinned.

‘For that, I apologise.’

‘So you flaming well ought.’

Harry went across to the wash basin.

‘You must admit,’ said Terry, ‘it was a fair try.’

‘Waste of time,’ said Harry, ‘I did warn you.’

‘Ah, well! You win some, you lose some… what are you doing this evening?’

‘Nothing I know of.’

‘Feel like coming to the Quidditch match? I’ll treat you.’

Harry turned and looked at him.

‘It’s all right! Scout’s honour – no string attached, no funny stuff. Strictly a business arrangement. You can do the same for me next time.’

‘OK,’ said Harry ‘You’re on.’

***

He caught Hermione as she was sitting down to breakfast with Auntie Loveday. Fortunately there were only the two of them. Uncle Richard was away on business (Not that he wouldn’t enjoy Uncle Richard’s laughs), the Prick was back at his art history books, and Hebe safely incarcerated in her progressive boarding school in the depths of Surrey.

‘Harry! How nice!’ Auntie Loveday looked up with a smile and invitingly patted the empty chair at her side. She always greeted him as if he were one of the family, which by now, in spite of sunken baths and low-slung coffee tables, not to mention the acres of white carpet, he almost began to feel he was. ‘Have you eaten? Then come and sit down – Hero, be a pet and run down to the kitchen and ask Mrs A. if she’d mind rustling up some more bacon and eggs. I’m sure Harry could do with some, couldn’t you?’

He certainly wouldn’t say no. Bacon and eggs would be most welcome after the super-hot chilli beans the last time he ventured out of his staple food.

He didn’t tell Hermione his news while Auntie Loveday was there. He kept nearly doing so and then at the last minute stopping himself: it was too important to be blurted out over bacon and eggs.

They had reached the toast and marmalade stage before Hermione, elaborately casual, said: ‘Did you come round for any special reason, or --?’

‘Got something to show you.’

‘Something to show me?’ He nodded. She stared at him, her eyes alight with a mixture of eagerness and apprehension. ‘About your assessment?’

‘Could be,’ he said.

‘Well!’ Auntie Loveday laid down her napkin. ‘I must be making a beeline, I’m due at the Cancer Research Campaign in half an hour.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘I’ll leave you two to get on with it.’ (Wasn't she a real pet?)

The minute Auntie Loveday had gone, Hermione (Hero) stopped eating toast and marmalade and said, ‘Harry?’ He pulled the letter out of the back of his jeans.

‘Read this.’

Nervously, she took it from him. Her face had suddenly gone very pale. It was always fairly pale (except after a French summer holiday), but not it was even paler than usual. Slowly, she unfolded the letter. He watched her as she read it. He watched the colour come flooding into her cheeks: the warm, bright pinkness of pleasure.

‘Harry!’ for a moment, he thought she might be going to jump up and come round and fling her arms about him and kiss him, as she had once before, on the day when Voldemort was defeated. Indeed, for a moment he was almost sure that she was going to; but then, at the last second, it seemed as if something (What?) held her back (Couldn't she tell how much he needed it?). She gave a little laugh – almost embarrassed – and dropped her hands to her toast and marmalade (Lucky them!).

‘You frightened me … I thought it was going to be bad news, when you wouldn’t say in front of Auntie Loveday.’

‘I wouldn’t have come if it had been bad news.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ she raised her eyes; very serious. ‘Wouldn’t you really?’

‘I would,’ admitted Harry (nothing could stop him coming as long as she let him. Coming! What was he thinking?), ‘After all, you were the one who had been always taking bad news from me, the prophecy …’

She laughed again; not embarrassed any more.

‘Well, You didn’t have difficulty after all, did you?’

He grinned happily.

‘Seems not.’

‘Have you told the Weasleys?’ (Surely she ought to know by now, he always put her first.)

‘Not yet, haven’t had a chance.’

‘Or McGonagall? Oh, Harry, you must tell McGonagall! She’ll be so pleased.’

‘You tell her.’

‘Why don’t you come home with me this weekend? We can celebrate.’

For a moment, he was tempted. The prospect of spending a weekend with Hermione, Mum, and Dad was certainly enticing. He could floo the Weasleys from the Granger’s and see their reactions to the news. They would be riotous to hear he’d made it. And Ron – he would do his bits and pieces. And McGonagall wouldn’t make a fuss, she never did. She probably just said ‘Mr Potter, well done. Of course, I never had any doubts.’ That would be all, and it would be enough.

‘The problem is I’ve already kind of gone and arranged to do something else … I said I’d go to the Quidditch match with Terry.’

‘Terry?’ said Hermione. He had the feeling she wasn’t impressed. (Why?)

‘Yeah, Um’ it was just one of those things. He’d done it now. To change his mind at this stage would look like rejection. ‘I could come next week.’ He said. (Now the difficult part began.)

‘I can’t go next week. It’s the end of year mooting**.’ Her tone was cool and accusing. How could he have forgotten about the mooting. It was the biggest thing in her study. He had known for weeks.

‘How about the week after?’ he asked.

‘You’ll have to have told them by then’.

‘But I still could come home.’ He urged. (Come on, Hermione, don’t be upset.)

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ She fiddled for a moment with the small silver ring she wore on the little finger of her right hand. ‘If you’re not doing anything else – next week, I mean if you’re not going to the Quidditch with Terry … would you like to come to a party?’

He hesitated, instinctively cautious.

‘Who’s giving it?’ For all he knew, it could be the Prick, having a break from his art history books.

‘Martin Redshanks. He just got into the Gray’s Inn* for Bar Vocational Course. Actually he’s the one I’m marshalling***, at the end of year mooting**.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Harry. ‘You told me.’ She’d told him about ten times, which was what made it even more unforgivable that he hadn’t remembered.

‘It’s a sort of celebration,’ said Hermione. ‘Everybody’s coming.’

‘What, everybody in your class?’

‘The whole school … everybody and their friends.’

‘Why don’t you come, you could meet them all.’

‘I might.’ In general, he liked the idea of being at a party with Hermione, but he wasn’t too sure that he liked the idea of being with her at this particular one. She would be surrounded by her cronies from LSE; he would be the outsider – the gatecrasher, (the one without super brain). It would put him at a disadvantage, and he was already at quite enough of one where his relationship with Hermione was concerned. He didn’t fancy adding to it.

‘I’ll think about it,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you know.’ Upon seeing her expectant look, he nearly promised right there that he would definitely come. (Was he whipped? He wasn’t even her boy friend, nowhere near it.)

‘You could bring a friend, if you like,’ she said.

‘All right.’

He pushed his plate away, the half-eaten toast still upon it. ‘Are you going up to the station?’ (Mum and Dad insisted Hermione using muggle transportation before her nineteenth birthday.)

They walked up to Hampstead Heath. Along the bank of the misty ponds weeping willows were dipping in the clear water. (They could come here have a swim in the mixed bathing pond. ) He walked with her talking quietly, then turned right out to the station. He waited while she bought her ticket.

‘I’ll call you about the party.’

‘All right.’ Hermione hesitated. ‘Are you absolutely certain you can’t come home this weekend? I mean … just going to the Quidditch match --’ She looked at him, rather wistfully. ‘Couldn’t you get out of it?’

He could get out of it; no problem about that. He wasn’t under any obligation. Terry didn’t own him. Just because he’s said he’d go, didn’t mean that he had to go. Anyone could have a change of heart.

‘It’s not that I couldn’t,’ he said, ‘It’s just that --’

‘Don’t worry.’ Hermione stooped to pick up her bag. ‘It’s not earth-shattering.’

He called after her, as she disappeared into the car: ‘I’ll send McGonagall an owl… I promise.’ (Don’t be upset …)

******

A.N.

* Gray’s Inn –- one of the four institutions, the Inns of Court School of Law in London, which provide the vocational stage of the barrister training.

** Mooting -- holding mock trials

*** Marshalling –- shadowing a judge.

on the razzle -- enjoying yourself, visiting bars and dancing, etc

wouldn't touch sth with a barge pole -- used to mean that you certainly do not want to buy something or be involved with something

flaming -- used to add force, especially anger, to something which is said

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 9 She tilted her chin

Of the boys, Terry, Harry and Dean had been offered the places for September: of the girls, only Cho. Daphne tossed her head and said she’d already decided not to take up a place even if one had been offered her. Who wanted to spend the next twenty years slogging away at perilous auror exertions? Mandy put on a brave face and declared that for her part she was now going to start eating like a pig -– cream cakes, chocolate cakes, cheesecakes -- as well as eating pigs – all the things she liked best and had been depriving herself of for months. Sally-Ann said that she would try for Goblin’s bank. No one seemed surprised Cho got through.

‘She may be a pretty cow,’ said Daphne, ‘but she can duel.’

Cho was still too offended to speak and always looked straight through him. Just as well really. If Cho had been too friendly Hermione might have thought he’d gone and got engaged again. He wouldn’t want any more misunderstanding of that nature. He hoped that come September he wouldn’t find himself stuck with partnering Cho again.

He was still dithering about whether or not to attend the party on Saturday evening. On the way home he put the idea to Terry. Terry was not enthusiastic.

‘A load of gawkers? You’re not going to go, are you?’

‘Dunno.’ He still hadn’t quite made up his mind. A party, undeniably, was a party – especially, Hermione would be there, and if he were lucky he might just be able to snatch a few moments alone with her. ‘I’ll probably look in,’ he said. ‘See what it’s like.’

Terry pulled a face.

‘In that case, I suppose I’d better come along.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘Oh, I might as well – if only to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t get up to any mischief and watch your back among those brainy pranksters.’

Terry grinned, trying to pretend that he was only joking. Harry shrugged. (What could he do?)

‘It’s up to you.’

‘So into the camp of the enemy… you realise we shall certainly be spat upon and generally reviled.’

‘We’ll survive.’

‘You might – I happen to be a very delicate flower. Why don’t we change our minds and go out for a meal instead? I’ll treat you.’

‘No way.’ He had already decided that he was going. ‘If it was lousy, we don’t have to stay.’

On their way to the party, they met Mum, Dad and Hebe, walking in the woods north of Hampstead ponds. (Mum and Dad had come to watch the mooting in spite of Hermione, being in her first year, was only marshalling.)

‘Harry! Hero said you passed your tests. Aren't you clever? Now you can stay one more year. Can I come and watch you training?’ Hebe called to him, joyously. (where did such an enthusiasm for him come from?)

‘Fancy a lunch with us tomorrow?’ that was Dad.

‘He’s not coming back for weekends anymore,’ said Hebe. She looked at Harry, accusingly. ‘He never comes back. He stays up in West Hampstead and does things by himself and I wonder what they are.’

It seemed that Hebe quite took to him now (But why? Maybe because he tipped her the Kama Sutra? Hell!). Obviously she took him as one of the family.

Harry caught Terry’s eye, and wondered what the fool was grinning at.

‘Tonight, as it happens --’ he addressed himself pointedly to Hebe – ‘I’m going to a party. Is that all right with your highness?’

‘What about last week? And the week before? And -’ (She’d been home for two weeks, one of the benefits of being attending public boarding school.)

‘Be fair,’ said Terry. ‘He has to be let off the lead sometimes.’

Hebe looked at Terry with cold distaste. Terry winked at her, and she turned her nose up with an air of haughtiness and said ‘Who are you?’ (that reminded him the very first time he met Hermione.)

‘Let’s issue him with a formal invitation, Let’s hold him to it,’ said Mum, ‘… why don’t you come and have lunch with us tomorrow, Harry?’

Confused, he mumbled that he would like that very much.

‘There you are!’ Mum turned, triumphant, to Hebe. ‘That’s got him for us. He can’t very well back out of that.’

‘He’d better not,’ said Hebe.

The party was held on Saturday evening in the school’s dinning hall. By the time Harry and Terry arrived (having stopped off at the Leaky Cauldron for a quick pint and to pick up a couple of bottles) the party was already under way. There was something about Martin Redshanks that really needled him. Maybe it was his hair, sleek and blond and beautiful, with never a strand out of place; or maybe it was his profile, which looked as if it had been carved with geometrical precision from a block of marble – or maybe, more basely, it was the simple fact that he was dancing with Hermione. Whatever it was, the guy was a pain. (Wasn’t he jealous? No, he couldn’t be.)

‘Flaming gawker,’ said Terry. ‘I am telling you, he’s a gawker.’ After a moment’s reflection, he added: ‘Of the Fifth Dan.’

It was his latest term of abuse. Harry wasn’t certain what it was supposed to mean, but if it meant what he thought it meant then he concurred: totally and utterly.

Harry and Terry stood together, by the drinks table, surveying the scene.

‘Gawkers,’ said Terry. ‘The lot of ’em. I knew we shouldn’t have come.’

‘Well, give it a chance! We’ve only been here five seconds.’ (Did Hermione see us?)

‘That,’ said Terry, ‘is what is worrying me.’

The Gawker of the Fifth Dan disappeared: so, as Harry quickly observed, did Hermione. (Where were they?)

‘I don’t know what your gripe is.’ Harry considered a small knot of girls, communing together to their right. Some of them were quite pretty, all poised and willowy. ‘They are not such a bad lot,’ he said, ‘on the whole.’

Glumly, Terry followed his gaze.

‘If that’s the sort of thing that turns you on.’

‘It is,’ said Harry. ‘Yes.’ Let there be no mistake about it: he was definitely girl-oriented (to be precise, Hermione-oriented). The pity of it was that so few girls seemed to be men-oriented. He sometimes wonder, deep down, if girls really liked men, or if they simply looked upon them as a necessary evil (Hermione didn’t regard him as an evil as a best friend, but what about as a full-functional man? Or boy? He just started shaving the wispy hair under his nose a month ago.).

‘Don’t look now,’ said Terry, ‘but your lady friend has just come back.’

He looked, and saw Hermione, flushed and sparking , in her little white dress that ended half way down her thighs and her hair all in a French plait. She was hand in hand with the Gawker.

‘Angels!’ cried the Gawker, to the room in general. ‘Sorry we’re distracted. We were unavoidably detained … you understand how it is.’ (What!)

Laughter broke out. The Gawker looked pleased, Hermione embarrassed. She turned, and said something, but the Gawker only winked, in roguish fashion, and shook his head.

‘Here,’ said Terry. ‘Have a drink.’

Harry took the glass that was being held out to him. He didn’t particularly want a drink, but he couldn’t just stand there doing nothing. Hermione and the Gawker were coming towards them: it would look foolish to be caught doing nothing (and staring!)

‘My dears!’ screeched the Gawker. He had grown decidedly shrill. ‘Bliss that you could come! Did you like the mooting?’ Without waiting for a reply, he pushed Hermione forward. ‘Wasn’t she wonderful? Wasn’t she too utterly brilliant?’

‘Utterly,’ said Terry.

‘Absolutely heaven to partner!’ – But of course you know all about that, don’t you? You’ve worked with her.’ (Much more than you did.)

Harry risked a quick glance, caught Hermione’s eye, and he looked away again. (If only one could stay at Hogwarts forever.)

‘Don’t you think she’s heaven?’ brayed the Gawker. ‘There are some women I could willingly drop from a great height, but you, my friend --’ he raised Hermione’s hand to his lips: Harry felt a desire to hex – ‘You are not one of them. What’ll you drink? Nothing? You’re quite sure? Well, you just stay here and talk to Harvey – sorry! Forgive me. Slip of the tongue. Henry, isn’t it? Please stay here and talk to Henry while I go and change some decent music on. Don’t run away – I’ll be back.’

The Gawker whisked himself off, across the room. He was wearing fine slim-cut black trousers and a pale lemon shirt and open to waist. Harry hesitated to tar him with the same brush as he had once, mistakenly, tarred Kevin. It seemed his judgement in such matters was not all that it might be.

‘Well!’ said Terry. He wagged an admonitory finger at Hermione. ‘And where have you been, my pretty maiden? I’ve been a-flirting, sir, she said --’

Hermione’s blush, which had almost receded, came flooding back in full force.

‘Miss Flowerdew was talking to us.’

‘Ho hum! A likely tale.’

‘She was,’ said Hermione, an edge in her tone.

‘Of course.’ Terry spoke kindly. ‘Are you quite certain you won’t have a drink? Cool yourself down?’

‘Thanks, an orange juice, please.’

‘An orange juice --’ Terry turned away to the drinks table.

‘We bumped into your parents in Kenwood.’

‘Did you? Did they--’

‘They had the Whizz Kid with them.’ That was Terry, over his shoulder. ‘The Greek goddess of youth … very curious and demanding of her dear old friend Harry, for being a naughty boy and not visiting them at the weekends. A rather sticky moment when she wanted to know what he did. – Voila! Un jus d’orange pour Madame.’

Hermione smiled, with a faint frown, took the glass, ‘Thank you, Terry.’

‘Je vous en prie.’

Terry gave a little bow. Harry looked at him, irritably. Why couldn’t he go away and talk to someone else? Terry was all right by himself, but the minute a third person appeared on the scene he had this habit of taking over.

‘Your mum invited me to lunch tomorrow,’ said Harry.

‘Did she?’ Hermione regarded him, anxiously. ‘Are you coming?’

‘Don’t worry.’ Terry placed an arm about Harry’s shoulders casual, but yet proprietorial. ‘I’ll see he gets there – I wouldn’t dare not, after that little lecture the little goddess gave us.’

‘She wasn’t lecturing you,’ said Harry. It had nothing to do with Terry; nothing whatsoever. Firmly, he removed himself from the encirclement of his arm. ‘It was me she was having a go at.’

‘But it was me she held responsible … if looks could kill, I’d be corpse by now.’ (What was it with all these peacocking?)

Why couldn’t he just belt up? Or go away, for God’s sake?

‘What time shall I come tomorrow?’ said Harry.

‘Oh … one o’clock-ish? Dad could drive you back, of course’

‘How super,’ said Terry, ‘to have a daddy … my miserable old skinflint wouldn’t give me the pickings from his ears, never mind giving a lift in his motor vehicle.’

‘Your dad is probably only miserable,’ said Harry, ‘because he’s got you for a son. Enough to make anyone miserable.’

Terry turned, mock deprecating, to Hermione.

‘He doesn’t mean a word of it … he loves me really.’

‘Don’t kid yourself.’

‘Go on!’ Terry winked. ‘Give us a kiss and stop being so grumpy.’

‘Get knotted,’ said Harry. There was times when Terry could be distinctly trying. He was only doing it to show off, though God knows whom he thought he was impressing. Certainly he wasn’t impressing Hermione. He could tell from the way her nose had gone slightly wrinkled that she didn’t find him funny. He was on the point of asking her if she felt like dancing, when the Gawker reappeared.

‘Sorry, angels, but she is mine … I have first claim.’ Gaily, he seized Hermione by the hand. ‘Come on!’

With a puzzled little frown at Harry, she went.

‘Strange,’ Terry murmured, ‘how they always seem to go for the gawkers.’

Certainly it looked as though Hermione did (he wished he had been wrong). For the rest of the evening he couldn’t get near her (Hermione!). Every time he looked up she was dancing with the Gawker, talking with the Gawker, listening to the Gawker, and laughing pink-cheeked and dewy-eyed at things that fell from his flabby lips (Hermione!). Just to compound her crime, she was doing it ostentatiously, giggling and ‘flaunting’ herself in a way he would never have thought her capable of (Hermione!). By half-eleven he had had as much as he could take.

‘Shall we depart?’ said Terry.

He could see no reason for staying.

‘I’ll just go and make an announcement.’

‘How awfully polite! Why bother?’

Because he wanted bother. He wanted the chance of just one final word with Hermione (Hermione!). She was currently standing next to the Gawker, one of a fond circle of admirers before whom he was holding court. Harry broke, without ceremony, into their midst.

‘Thanks for the party,’ he said. ‘We’ll be off now.’

‘My dear!’ The Gawker opened wide his blue eyes in astonishment. ‘So soon?’

‘Yeah, Well –’ Harry looked hard at Hermione. She tilted her chin (Hermione!). ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said. ‘About one o’clock.’

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 10 everyone had tasted avocado

Going to lunch at Wychwood with Hermione’s family (minus the Prick) would be all right (good, actually), he thought, so long as they didn’t have anything too fancy – anything he didn’t know how to deal with. (Did it matter that he tackled the wrong bit of food, or the right bit of food at the wrong time, or the right bit of food the wrong way?). He still remembered the episode of the artichokes. He defied anyone who’d never had an artichoke to know what to do with them. He hadn’t known you had to pull off all the leaves and drag them through your teeth one by one to strip or suck the ‘meat’ off, with ever-mounting plates of discarded leaves scarred with rabbit-toothed marks! (No, He didn’t think of Hermione’s ex-front-teeth. Thinking about Hermione was painful, yet again.)

To be fair, Hermione’s family were nothing but informal and relaxed to many things: ‘Dining etiquette rules are made to be broken’ said Dad; they liked minimalist table setting, ‘eating weapons’ delivered with each course as it came. Still, once in a while they treated themselves with a whiff of starchy formal dining: the array of quality cutlery, laid out on crisp damask napery, positioned precisely one inch from the edge of the table (What an impressive sight it was!). Harry found he enjoyed a bit (just a bit) of ‘flummery’* (‘As a true Brit!’ Mum laughed). He also found that he had paid more attention to his table manners recently (he wasn’t, back at Hogwarts, not much more than Ron, although he knew the basics, drilled into by the Dursleys.) The family, even Hebe, knew all the rights and rituals of formal dining, so he didn’t relish the idea of being the odd one out, no, not in front of Hermione, not now (even though oddity, no, eccentricity ran in the family).

Hermione, when he turned up as ordered at one o’clock, seemed unusually quiet (maybe subdued?) – unsure how to treat him, as if at any moment he might turn on her and bite (he might, maybe a different kind?). After her exhibition of last night (It hurt, still hurt), he was not surprised. Since he himself, however, was also treading warily, no longer certain just where he stood (what got into her?), it was as well that the rest of the family was there: without them, the conversation would have been decidedly sticky.

‘Models are dumb,’ passing her judgement again was Hebe. ‘and skinny.’ (Hmm, Hermione’d qualify on that count, skinny as a flaming broom handle. Wasn’t he bitter? Sour grapes, maybe. He was certain she was not. Skinny was when you haven’t got any shape. That’s not the impression he got when she had hugged him, tightly, the few times.)

‘Who was that beastly boy,’ asked Hebe. ‘you were with last night?’

‘What beastly boy?’ asked Auntie Loveday.

‘That Terry.’

‘He’s my room mate,’ said Harry, ‘and he isn’t beastly.’ (Hebe really was a gawker.)

Hermione turned her back to him, and moved to the French window.

‘Yes, he is! … with that lardy, dardy sort of voice,’ piped Hebe. ‘Thinking he’s funny. Well, he’s not, I don’t think so.’ (As if what she thought or didn’t think mattered. She was every bit as trying as Terry at times.)

Fortunately, he and Dad were on familiar terms by now. They didn’t have a great deal in common, since Harry knew nothing whatsoever about being a dentist (apart from being drilled on) and Dad knew very little more about training for an auror. But in spite of that they had developed their own brand of what Hermione had once, in somewhat contemptuous tones, called ‘masculine bonhomie’, which meant that Dad quite often winked at Harry over Hermione’s head, or grinned at him, knowingly, man to man (Were they chauvinist? No, they were merely resisting the female ruling party), or applied to him for support in moments of crisis when Mum and Hermione had ganged up against him. Today, as they were tackling their starters (half an avocado pear with some sort of yellowy sauce poured in it) he said: ‘So how is the world treating you, young man? Well, I trust?’

‘You know it is,’ said Mum. ‘We told you he passed his assessment.’

‘Ah!’ Dad nodded. ‘Of course; I was forgetting. I take it congratulations are in order?’

‘That’s the reason we invited him to lunch,’ said Mum.

‘Is it?’ said Dad. ‘I hadn’t realised. I thought we were just being sociable.’ He beamed amiably at Mum and then winked at Harry.

Harry, having waited a moment to be certain, selected the smallest of the spoon and dug it into the avocado.

‘Well, well! There you are. One lives and learns.’ Dad was obvious in one of his talkative moods. ‘And how are you getting on? With all the little dolly birds? Now that you have a little place of your own… leading the life of O’Reilly. I’d be bound.’

‘He doesn’t have little "dolly birds" anymore,’ said Hermione. ‘He’s given them up.’

With his mouth full of avocado, Harry froze. He didn’t like the way she’d said that.

‘Given them up?’ echoed Dad. ‘At this age?’

‘Yes,’ Hermione smiled, and with the air of cool poise, which she sometimes would assume when Ron annoyed her, push her hair over her shoulder. She looked at Harry, challengingly, across the table, ‘He has boy friends now, instead.’ (What?!)

There was a moment of silence. Hebe was fascinated, staring at him with widened eyes. Harry swallowed a mouthful of avocado and made an unwelcome discovery: avocado pear tasted like soap. He wondered how he was going to get through the rest of it (both the pear and the lunch with Hermione).

‘A boy friend,’ said Hermione. ‘anyway.’ (Oh, Hermione!)

It was Mum and Dad he mainly felt sorry for. They hadn’t used to doing battle with philistines: they probably weren’t used to people throwing out that sort of remark at their own dinner tables (so much for Hermione’s perfect table manners: ‘making pleasant table conversation free of controversial subjects’). Hermione ought to have known better. He didn’t understand why she had said it. On purpose, presumably, to embarrass him, -- but why should she want to? In any case, it had misfired. All she had succeed in doing was embarrassing Mum and Dad.

‘Really,’ said Auntie Loveday, trying to pretend that it hadn’t happened, ‘I don’t know what Mrs A has done with this vinaigrette. It’s far too oily – don’t you find it so?’

She addressed the question to the table in general. Dad made a vague agreeing noise at the back of his throat: Hermione, punch drunk on her own little burst of malice, said nothing (She must have been angry with him. Why? What did he do?).

‘I’ve never had an avocado before,’ said Harry. If no one else was going to come to the rescue, then obviously he would have to do so. ‘I’ve seen them in the shops, and on menus and things, but I’ve never actually had one.’

Mum latched on to it, gratefully.

‘Haven’t you?’ she said. ‘I do hope you like it.’

‘It’s a bit sort of … soapy,’ he said. Hebe laughed cheekily.

‘Soapy!’ Hermione gave a superior little laugh of amusement (She had never ever sniffed at anything he said before. To Ron’s, maybe she had). Mum looked at her, sharply.

‘The first time you had one you were sick all over the place.’

‘That was when I was seven.’

‘It’s still an acquired taste, whatever your age. Don’t eat it if you don’t like it, Harry.’

‘I might as well give it a bash,’ he said. ‘Might grow into it.’ (For Hermione’s sake?)

Hermione watched him, across the table (He had been watching her, or how could he know she’s watching?)

‘I’d have thought everyone had tasted avocado.’ (He’d never thought she could be spiteful, towards him.)

‘I’d have thought, everyone knew what a Châteaubriand was,’ said Dad. ‘It just shows how wrong you can be. Would you believe --’ he turned to Harry: one man of the world to another – ‘Would you believe only a few weeks ago she was under the impression it was something to drink? A kind of red wine, if I’m not much mistaken.’

Hermione flushed, angrily. Obviously, thought Harry, whatever a Château-whatever-it-was was, it wasn’t wine. (If anyone had asked him, in a quiz, it was what he’d have plumped for. Not that he would tell her that.)

‘I knew perfectly well it was steak! That was just a momentary slip.’

‘Many things are,’ (Did Dad mean Harry had been having a momentary slip? ) said Dad. ‘On the whole, it does not do to refine too much upon them. Nor to draw attention to them in public – not unless one wants a taste of one’s own medicine. If I were you, young lady, I should remember that for the future – Harry, why don’t you give that pear up as a bad job? I must say I’ve always found them grossly overrated. Let me pour you some liquid refreshment – take the taste away.’ (He could say the same about Hermione. But giving her up? Never thought of it, never heard of it, never wanted it.)

‘Uncle Andrew, you are the champion!’ chanted Hebe. ‘Are you really, Harry?’ (Hermione had the grace to look shame faced.)

‘That’s enough, Hebe!’

Hermione spent the rest of the meal in silence. He couldn’t understand what her problem was, other than the fact that she had been made to look small, which, he knew, she didn’t like, but she could hardly blame him for that. She was the one who had started it: he hadn’t even retaliated (how considerate of him!). He would have liked to tackle her (maybe literally) about it afterwards, but she made very sure he didn’t get the chance. Wherever Mum went, Hermione went too (‘I’ll help take the dishes down’, ‘I’ll help bring the coffee up’) flying out of the room like a startled fawn the minute there seemed the least danger of their being left alone together. (When Hermione wanted, she could be very astute. He could never catch her if she didn’t let him, as always. Just you wait, Hermione.)

‘I’ll give you a ring,’ said Harry at last, before he got in the car, leaving for West Hampstead.

Hermione shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t actually say ‘suit yourself’, but it was plain that that was what she meant. (Yes, he would! Make no mistake about it.)

He telephoned her on Monday evening, after training.

‘When can I see you?’ (he’d rather think that he sounded demanding, not like one with a heartache.)

There was a silence; then: ‘When did you want to see me?’

‘Any time that suits you … soon as possible.’

More silence.

‘What d’you want to see me for?’

Exasperated, he said: ‘Do I have to have a special reason?’ This was like fixing an appointment with the dentist (never mind the dentists’ daughter). ‘Maybe I just want to see you because I just want to see you.’

‘That would make a change,’ said Hermione.

He held the handset away from him and looked at it, reproachfully. What had he done to deserve that?

‘I suppose I could see you tomorrow evening,’ she said. She said it in the grudging tones of one who is prepared to bestow precisely five minutes of her precious time and not a second more. (Good, better than none.)

‘I’ll come round and pick you up,’ said Harry.

‘Pick me up? Why? Where are we going?’

‘Go and have a butter beer somewhere.’ He wanted to stand her something to eat. ‘Go to Leaky Cauldron,’ He said.

‘I don’t like Leaky Cauldron.’

She didn’t like Leaky Cauldron – Why didn’t she like it? She had been perfectly happy there more times than being anywhere else. As a matter of principle, that was why. She wouldn’t like anywhere if he were the one to suggest it.

‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘You think of somewhere.’ (Didn’t he indulge her? Just don’t spoil it.)

‘We could go to the Country Life.’

‘OK, We’ll go to the Country Life.’ He didn’t care where they went, so long as they went somewhere. ‘I’ll come round directly after training.’

A.N.

Flummery -- a complicated often ritualistic observance with elaborate trappings.

Vicomte de Châteaubriand – a writer and statesman who helped usher in the Romantic Movement in the years following the French Revolution.

It was at the Vicomte’s behest that a chef named Montmireil experimented with cooking techniques for beef tenderloin and thus hit upon the idea of cooking the meat between two thin steaks (which were subsequently discarded) for a uniformly pink and juicy result.

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 11 It’s true, isn’t it?

The Country Life was a simple, spotless buffet restaurant in the City, a few steps away from Piccadilly Circus. It felt quiet and peaceful with hushed voices and light panpipe music (rather like being in church, thought Harry). There were a great variety of fresh salads, hot dishes and yummy looking deserts, tapas style.

‘They are vegan food, all of them.’ said Hermione.

‘Oh, yes?’ At any other time, such a statement might have interested him; tonight it did not. He listened with half an ear while she numerated the health-giving properties of beans and tofu (was she nervous?), then seizing the opportunity of a brief break in the monologue, charged straight in with: ‘So what were all the snide remarks in aid of the other day?’ (In calm tones he hoped)

‘Snide remarks?’ She looked wide-eyed and innocent. ‘What snide remarks?’ (So serene, and so frustrating!)

‘All that about me having boy friends.’

He didn’t bother to keep his voice down. A couple of heads on the far side of the room turned, covertly, to look at him: he noted with savage satisfaction the tide of pink wash over Hermione’s cheeks.

‘You don’t have to yell,’ she said.

‘Why? Isn’t it the sort of thing you like people to hear?’

‘What I like or what I don’t like, why does it matter to you?’ (How could she say that?) He was stumped, speechless.

‘I wouldn’t have thought’ she said quietly, (needling all the same) ‘it was the sort of thing you’d like people to hear.’

‘I suppose that’s why you said it?’

There was a pause. Hermione, with a keen interest, investigated her spicy salad.

‘It’s no difference from how it was two seconds ago,’ said Harry. ‘Why don’t you answer my question?’

‘I’ve forgotten what it was,’ she said in a small voice. (How could she, with her super brain?)

‘I asked you, what was with all the snide remarks?’

‘They weren’t snide.’ (Oh, great, the question was not valid, now, was it?)

‘Oh? So what would you call them?’ (No childish bickering, he’s not Ron.)

‘They were just observations. Part of the conversation.’

‘Ordinary, everyday, pleasant conversation?’

‘Well -’ she looked up at him, a hint of defiance in her brown eyes. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

‘What is?’

‘You and Terry.’

‘What about me and Terry?’

‘Harry! --’ her voice petered out. (Did she sound distressed? Good.)

‘Is that what you really believe?’ he said. ‘I mean, if it is what you really believe --’

If it was what she really believed, then he might as well give up. (Did he mean that the only thing that mattered was what she thought of him?)

‘There is no flaming justice in this world, is there?’ he said. How could she believe that? He’d thought she knew him (how could she know? He had never dared to try anything on her. They kissed once, in front of everybody. Didn’t it count?).

Hermione looked at him and then drop her gaze on the remains of her salad.

‘I’m sorry.’

It was a bit late in the day for being sorry; the damage had already been done. He looked frowningly at Hermione, as she sat there, studying the composition of her greens.

‘It still doesn’t explain why you went and said it. I mean --’ He swept his hair back out of his eyes. ‘I mean, Merlin … in front of your family.’

Hermione swallowed. (That’s a change, usually it was him who did that sort of thing.)

‘I’m really sorry,’ she said.

It was the second time she’d said it. It still didn’t explain.

‘I mean, even if you did believe it … why’d you have to go and say it?’

She humped a shoulder: ‘Maybe I was feeling mean.’

Mean? Why should she feel mean, for God’s sake? What was he suppose to have done (he had been trying to do it, plenty of times, hadn’t he)?

‘It wasn’t because of that thing with Cho, was it? Getting engaged, and all? Because if it was, I told you … it was a misunderstanding.’

‘It wasn’t.’ (Did he detect a reluctant tone?)

‘Then what was it?’

She took a breath and looked up at him.

‘You and Terry. At the party.’

Him and Terry? What about her and the Gawker?

‘We didn’t do anything at the party.’ (He didn’t.)

‘No?!’ suddenly she burst out with ‘He was draping all over you, facetious and showing off. And, yes in that hateful ‘lardy dardy’ voice, … and he was, just so possessive!’ (Had she been jealous, of Terry? )

‘And that’s my fault? Was I responsible for what others chose to behave?’ (Hadn’t he blamed himself enough for others' ‘crime’ back at Hogwarts?)

‘No-, and yes, you could be. You were bantering...’ She looked away, vulnerable and forlorn. ‘You didn’t do anything to stop him, did you? … It’s not even as if you did much to discourage him, either.’ (He hadn’t been bantering, had he? Did whatever he had done or whatever he hadn’t done, hurt her so?)

‘Hermione,’ he pulled at her hand, ‘I didn’t like what he did. I didn’t mean to encourage him, either.’ Tears were slowly coming into her eyes. (Don’t cry, please. He was still the same Harry, wasn’t he? … Besides, hadn’t she subjected him her shattering display, at the party?)

‘Hermione -,’ he called firmly, ‘what about you and the Gawker?’

She looked up, puzzled.

‘What gawker?’

‘Old Martin Redlegs, or whatever his name is.’ (That had stopped the coming tears.)

‘Oh! Martin.’ That had made her uncomfortable. (As well it might.) ‘Martin doesn’t mean anything.’

He resisted the temptation to retort that no one would have guessed as much from her behaviour. He held her eyes (He didn’t want to sulk.) and then he said:

‘Neither does Terry.’

Hermione wrinkled her nose.

‘Well, he doesn’t’, said Harry. ‘You’ve just got a thing against him.’

‘I haven’t got a thing against him! I don’t like him, that’s all … he makes me squirm.’

‘He doesn’t make most girls squirm. Most girls go for him in a big way.’ Hebe hadn’t, of course; but then Hebe was unaccountable. ‘Most girl thinks he’s attractive.’ (Hermione’s not a most-girls, was she?)

‘Then most girls must be raving potty. Martin said --’ She stopped, aware, too late, of her mistake.

‘What did Martin say?’ (That gawker…)

She tilted her head.

‘Martin said he wouldn’t know what to do with a girl if he got one.’

‘You mean Martin wouldn’t too… great gawker.’

‘What exactly,’ said Hermione, side-tracked, ‘is a gawker?’

‘A prat,’ said Harry. ‘or otherwise known as arsehole.’ He didn’t tell her it was one of Terry’s words. He felt instinctively, that it would not be wise. (Just like her mentioning the Gawker in front of him? Was she supposed to be upset about or even jealous of Terry, Cho, and all the other girls? Why was she? What made her to?)

‘I thought it might be.’ She tinkled just like Hebe once did (they did match a little more than names, Hero); Harry grinned. ‘I’ll tell you who is a gawker … ghastly Gover. Does it apply to women?’

‘Applies to anyone,’ said Harry. ‘Martin Redleg, ghastly Gover … anyone you care to name.’

‘Terry Boot?’ she looked at him audaciously.

‘All right, all right, suit your self.’ (Was Hermione-indulging mood back?)

They bought another coffee along with two tofu burgers, which he had decided were quite palatable. (Now that he knew the Gawker was nothing.)

‘Not bad, this hand-knitted stuff … tastes almost like the real thing. I guess you could exist just as well on beans and things.’

He picked up the topic of vegan food to pleasing her, but it was her mind now that was obviously not on the subject. As he was in the process of telling her about a Chinese restaurant in Knightsbridge having an entire menu based on tofu, she said: ‘I’ve been offered a share in a flat for next term.’

‘Oh?’ he was interested.

‘One of the girls is moving out. They’d asked me if I’d like to take her room.’

‘And are you going to?’ (What was he hoping for?)

‘I think so, if Mum and Dad agree. They said they’d talk about it and let me know … it’s mixed, you see.’

‘Mixed?’

‘The flat – four boys and two girls.’

‘Some flat!’ (Four boys?)

‘Yes, it’s huge, a mansion apartment on the ground floor. Actually --’ She looked at him. ‘one of the boys is moving out as well. I was going to ask if you’d like to take his room, but --’

‘But what?’

‘I suppose you won’t want to, now.’

What did she mean, now?

‘Now that you and Terry are both going to be in second stage of auror training … I suppose you’ll want to stick together.’

For crying out loud.

‘We’re not Siamese flaming twins!’ Just because they happened to share a room (or even to be friends), it didn’t mean they were ‘married’, for God’s sake. (What was she thinking?)

‘But won’t he mind?’ said Hermione.

‘Too bad if he does.’ He had made no vows eternal togetherness with Terry. ‘Where is the flat, anyway?’

‘Highgate – quite easy for Hampstead Heath.’

Not that it mattered. He wouldn’t have cared if it were south Wimbledon: if Hermione were going to be there, then so was he. (Did he forget the main reason why he had moved out Auntie Loveday’s? Why was he so eager now to live in the same place as Hermione? What was he going to do? with her?)

‘I’ll come,’ he said. (Come! Must he use that word?)

Still she seemed doubtful.

‘Well? What’s the matter? Don’t you want me to come?’ (want, come, again! What was wrong with him?)

‘Yes, of course! I wouldn’t have asked you, otherwise.’

‘So?’

‘I just have this feeling that Terry’ll talk you out of it.’

Terry would not talk him out of it: he had made up his mind. (Give him some credit!) And it’s definitely not Terry who wielded great influence over him, he didn’t mind admit it, to himself.

If Terry were bothered by the news, he didn’t let it show.

‘It solves a problem, … I’d thought of giving this place up to go somewhere a bit upmarket.’

‘Oh?’

‘I decided, yesterday … I’m going to chuck the auror lark.’

‘You must be joking! Why bothered going through the assessment if you are going to chuck it?’

‘I didn’t know then, did I? I couldn’t contemplate doing auror stuff for the rest of my working life, I wanted to play the field more: start up a business, found an empire? Talking of which, do I take it that you have finally decided to give up chasing every female within sight and settle for the one that’s been under your nose from the word go?’

He stiffened: automatically preparing to be on his guard. He resented Terry interfering with matters, which were no concern of his.

‘If you mean Hermione –’

‘Who else? I told you. Didn’t I,’ said Terry, ‘that you were wasting your time trying to knock off all the rest of the rubbish when there was quality goods just lying around for the taking? Beats me why you didn’t get stuck in there ages ago – she’s only flesh and blood, when all’s said and done. Why do you think she put on that floor show the other night with the Gawker?’

He still found that something a puzzle – she’d only said the Gawker didn’t mean anything to her. (There, how did she give him the slip again? Hermione –)

‘Why?’ coldly, he shook his head.

‘Don’t be daft. She did it for your benefit, didn’t she? With the intention, you buffoon, of rousing your masculine instincts.’

Harry looked at him accusingly, ‘You said she was after gawkers.’

‘I wanted you, didn’t I?’ said Terry, ‘Honestly! What I did couldn’t stop her or you, could it? Yes, I know you want her. Don’t deny it, you dozy great yum yum! And she makes it just about as plain as she can, short of actually coming up and asking for it, and all old Dope can do is shake his head and look gormless. What do you want? You want it spelt out in words of one syllable? She-wants-you? She-fancies-’

‘Fancies,’ said Harry, ‘is two syllables.’

‘All right! So, you’ve spotted today’s deliberate mistake! Give yourself a pat on the back and a twinkling star. You know what your trouble is? You walk around with your eyes shut, that’s what the trouble is.’

‘And yours is: can’t resist shooting your mouth off about matters of which you are dead ignorant. There are times when you don’t know what you’re talking about.’ (Did he?)

‘You are rest assured, my son, human psychology is my strong point. I’m like a human calculating machine when my emotions are not involved. By the way, I’m going to be out Friday evening. Just thought you’d like to know.’

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 12 Have a pomegranate

He had been wanting her even before his diabolical pursuits of experience. He hadn’t known back then, having thought that she hadn’t been interested. Then he had been worrying away at ‘the rest of the rubbish’: enticing hang-up Sally-Ann to go back to his room, coaxing indecisive Mandy to stay, humouring fastidious Cho to go way with him for one night, braving the lion’s den to be eaten by insatiable Daphne. From the girls, he had wanted just the One Thing (was it unreasonable?). It was a good job (or too bad), come to think of it, he hadn’t made it. Or he would be in an even worse muddle with Hermione. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that from Hermione he wanted many things.

He’d like her to spend time with him. He’d like her to talk to him even in her monologues. He’d like her to listen to him (she understood things, she made his conversation easy). He’d like her to argue with him although he lost more than he won. He’d like her to tell him off when he was reckless. He’d like her to laugh at him: he didn’t mind. He’d like her to save him when he was a boy in distress (why not!). He’d like her to walk with him, their shoulders touching (occasionally). He’d like her to play charades with him: kissing him under the tree. He’d like her to swim with him (She had to wear bathing suit). He’d like her to look at him, warm and comforting (sometimes cool or demanding). He’d like her to beam at him with her dewy eyes and shining face. He’d like her to soothe him when he was angry or in pain. He’d like her to hug him (tightly, or knocking him flat!).

Hermione was one in a million. He’d like to watch her (she’s a sight: bushy hair in French plait). He’d like to smile at her. He’d like to keep her safe. He’d like to keep her all to himself. He’d like to hold her. He’d like to smell her. He’d like to indulge her. He’d like to spoil her. He’d like to touch her (not too much in case she didn’t like it). She’s warm. She’s soft. She’s heart-stirring.

He wanted her. Did she want him? She had wanted him to go home with her. She had wanted to be sure He had not got engaged. She had been jealous of Terry. She had wanted to make Harry jealous (She succeeded. Wasn’t she clever?). What did she want from him? What was he allowed to do to her? What was he going to do? He couldn’t decide. He desired her. He wouldn’t like to scare her. He wouldn’t like to be the ‘little randy sod’. He couldn’t imagine she’d like it. No, he dared not let himself pant after her (as if he hadn’t been!).

He agonised long and hard before finally telephoning Hermione and inviting her round for dinner. Even if what Terry said were true (and grudgingly he had to admitted that Terry did some times seem to know what he was talking about) Harry still couldn’t bring himself to approach Hermione in quite the same cavalier spirit as he would Sally-Ann and Mandy. Sally-Ann and Mandy could take pot luck: for Hermione a special effort had to be made. (He remembered that on the only previous occasion she had come round he had purposely, as an act of defiance, left the bed unmade and the floor strewn with clothes. He coloured, now, for his own uncouthness.)

On Friday, in his lunch break, he went shopping in the store. ‘And what we have here?’ said Terry, ‘Candles, already? Paper serviettes – bottle of vino. Are you by any chance entertaining royalty?’

He could hardly have gone to any more pains (or zeal?). Immediately on his return from training he tidied up the room, making Terry’s bed as well as his own, thrusting odd garments, willy nilly, out of sight into the first drawer or cupboard that came to hand. Couldn’t he do it all with just a swish of his wand? Easily. But, doing it by hand would blow off some of his steam (he hoped). He removed the dust of ages from window ledges and mantelshelf with the help of his wand (literally, thankfully) and an old pair of socks.

After cleaning the room he had a quick shower, dressed himself in clean clothes and spent five minutes in front of the mirror attacking his hair, an operation he was not normally bothering with (any point with such stubborn hair?). He toyed with the idea to scraping off what had by now become an unmistakable shadow on his chin and cheeks, but finally decided against it. He wouldn’t want to appear too green (Wouldn’t the stubble look distinguished in the candlelight?). He turned his attention instead to laying the table.

In the centre of the table, he stuck a candle in a cider bottle, the other candles he stood about the room in saucers. When they were all alight, the effect was quite like something out of the Prick’s clever French films which he insisted they all watch (Terry ought to get together with the Prick, they’d probably go down a treat with each other). There was a faint fresh aroma from the candle smokes: the smell of genuine bluebell wood.

He had told Hermione to get there for eight o’clock. At half past seven, he went down the road to fetch dinner. It hadn’t been easy deciding what to have. He didn’t compete with artichokes or avocados (no point in trying) but he certainly wanted to impress. He finally settled down for Chinese (He liked the cruisine himself); and just to show he not only listened to what she said but actually took note of it he ordered nothing but vegetable stir-fries and tofu dishes. They plainly thought he was mad (or stingy!) but they came up with the goods: he trotted back home with a selection of five different, colourful vegetable stir-fries and a couple of tofu dishes, remembering, on the way, to stop off for a bottle of chilli sauce (Hermione liked her food hot, he hoped she’d liked something else hot as well.) for flavouring and a few of pomegranates for afterwards.

Hermione arrived precisely on the dot of eight o’clock. She was wearing a little cornsilk-coloured dress similar to the dress she had worn to the party and had her hair braided in a French plait. She’d taken doing it that way quite a lot just lately: he couldn’t help wondering if by any chance the Gawker had expressed a liking for it or not. (That gawker!)

He led her upstairs to his candlelit cavern. Gratifyingly, the first thing she said as they entered was, ‘Harry! It smells like bluebell wood!’ and she beamed at him with pleasure. She even liked the candle light in the cider bottle.

He didn’t tell her that they had Terry’s cider bottle to thank; he thought the less said about Terry the better. As it happened, it was Hermione herself who mentioned him.

‘Is Terry out?’ she said. She said it cautiously, as if half expecting he might be hiding somewhere in a cupboard. ‘Or is he --’

‘Out,’ said Harry. ‘Feel like some music?’

He sorted through the CDs in search of something suitable. There wasn’t very much. Those slurpy dirty ballads were plainly out of the question, and so was the angry and aggressive stuff. No one wanted angry and aggressive music with Chinese food or the girl who came to dine. They played a CD full of light nature sounds of the sea and birds, one of her favourites.

The wine he had chosen was also one of her favourites (Wasn’t it a good thing to dine your best friend? You knew what’s her favourite). ‘And nothing but vegetables,’ he said. (Wasn’t he anxious for approval?)

‘Yes, and you see --’ she gazed at him, earnestly, across the table – ‘we don’t actually miss not having meat, do we? I mean, if you didn’t know you wouldn’t have noticed. Or would you, do you think?’

At that moment he wouldn’t have noticed what he was eating. It had just come to his attention that under the little cornsilk dress, all openwork and lacy, she wasn’t wearing any bra (No, the dress wasn’t of fish-net style. No. But You could tell one was not wearing a bra without actually seeing the flesh, couldn’t you?). Not that she really needed one – at least, not for the purposes of control. At the same time, no one could have called her flat-chested. Definitely not (He should know! Hadn’t he hugged her enough by now? And he’s not a monk).

‘Would you?’ said Hermione.

‘Would I --’ For just a second, such was the state of his mind, he thought she was putting to him the question that Ron often used to put (when Hermione was not with them), ogling after some passing female, ‘I would … would you?’ (Ron asked.)

Then he realised. ‘Oh!’ he said. ‘No. No, I don’t expect I would.’

‘That’s what I keep telling Auntie Loveday. She keeps trying to force pork chops and things down me, and … it’s not necessary. You don’t need it.’ (Hadn’t she a hang-up about meat and vegetarian food? He found he didn’t mind Hermione having hang-ups. On the contrary, he thought that’s very reasonable and sensible of her. Was he hopeless?)

‘That’s right,’ said Harry. ‘You don’t.’ He wondered what she meant by not wearing a bra. He wondered if he dared to ask her. Even now, he couldn’t bring himself to treat her as the object of his wants. (She was the object of his affection, that he was sure. And he had been thinking of her as the object of his wants. But actually acted it?) All very well Terry saying she was only flesh and blood, but there was flesh and blood and there was flesh and blood. Hermione just wasn’t the same as all the others of the female population. He did want her. He was even more stirred up now.

‘You can get all the protein you need,’ she was saying, ‘out of vegetables.’

‘But then of course,’ said Harry, ‘man cannot live by the potato alone.’

She looked at him and giggled (Hermione’s giggling never was of stupidity. It did things to him. It caused funny feelings on his body).

‘I’m not suggesting we live on potatoes,’ she said.

‘Ah. That’s all right, then. I mean --’

What did he mean?

He knew what he meant; it was just a question of finding the words to put it in. (So much for the easy conversations with Hermione.)

‘I mean … there are other things in life.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Hermione. ‘Eating is only a functional necessity.’

That wasn’t what he meant. (It was like explaining queer to Hebe, now.)

‘There are some muggle scientists,’ said Hermione, ‘who are researching on nutrient pills as an alternative to food. If they were proved successful, then we wouldn’t have to bother sitting down to meals at all.’

This wasn’t very promising. He obviously wasn’t expressing himself forcibly enough (or she was really made of ‘sugar and spice’, completely devoid of blood and flesh).

‘What I mean --’ He pushed his hair back out of his eyes, giving himself time to think. ‘What I mean is, there’s still a lot of the beast in us.’ (He hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to the zoo again.)

‘Oh, well, of course! But that’s what civilisation’s all about, isn’t it? Suppressing mere animal instincts in favour of more humanised ones.’ (Must she think with only her brilliant brain, expansive knowledge, and cool logic? Where was her flesh and blood?)

‘Except we can’t suppress them all,’ he said. ‘Otherwise humanity would just come to a full stop.’ Unless she wanted to start doing it entirely by the test tubes or cloning. But then, if that was the case, she surely wouldn’t be wearing a little cornsilk dress full of tiny holes without any bra underneath? He cheered up.

Hermione stared at him. Then the pinkness was rolling back over her soft complexion and her tender skin exposed by the little dress. He caught the glimmering lights in her soft brown eyes before she cast them down to her plate (At last!).

‘Have a pomegranate’ he said, ‘I’ve washed, carved and broken them open… can’t get more civilised than that.’

Actually, as he quickly discovered, you could: it helped if you had nut pickers. They had to resort to fingers and occasionally squatted little jets of the juice on each other. (Pomegranate juice!)

Hermione was kneeling on the floor by the CD player, looking at the CD that had been Mandy’s favourite.

‘I don’t think you’d like that one,’ he said.

‘Why not?’ (Obviously she didn’t know what’s inside.)

‘I just don’t think you would.’ It wasn’t the sort of atmosphere he wanted to create: it didn’t go with the candlelight and the bluebell wood aroma, or with the girl he had always wanted. Firmly, he took it away from her. What was needed was something beautiful and romantic, but knowing Terry that was probably too much to hope for.

‘Let’s have this one,’ said Hermione.

He peered at it.

‘Joachin Rodrigo - Concierto de Aranjuez?’ (Lucky he knew Spaniard pronounced ‘j’ as English ‘h’.)

With misgivings, he put it on. He still had unhappy memories, from the Dursleys, of being forced to listen to Beethoven.

‘Is it any good?’

‘It’s great. The second movement’s beautifully sad,’ said Hermione. ‘Honestly … I could die to it.’ (Wasn’t she quirky? Somehow, Hermione’s quirkiness did things to him too and made him yield to her. Hopeless!)

He didn’t want her to die to it; he wanted her to get turned on by it. He didn’t see how anyone could get turned on by a sad concerto.

‘D’you want to come and sit on the bed?’ he said. ‘It’s more comfortable there.’

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.

A.N. This belated chapter has simonsays to thank for the enriched content you may enjoy. (Not for the lateness! Or maybe he is the one to be blamed for the tardiness if you must. No! I am joking). Without him it would’ve been a crappy lame one without any fluff or enough humour. So, I am ‘forced’ to dedicate it to simonsays. I am blowing the trumpet for his kindly "brutal and nasty" criticism and generous help.

Chapter 13 positively lost his mind

‘D’you want to come and sit on the bed?’ he said. ‘It’s more comfortable there.’ (Wasn’t he bold? Was he plotting? It was a simple remark, part of the conversation. Was it? )

Or he would have to go and kneel along side her. How snug that would be; how fatuous he would look: genuflecting the pile of CDs (or Hermione, more likely), on the floor, goo-goo eyed, and doing nothing. No one could do much in that position, could they? No, he wasn’t a dolt yet, even though he wouldn’t mind if she insisted on turning him into one. But Hermione wouldn’t like a dolt, would she? No, his Hermione-addled brain still could tell that the bed was more preferable (to sit on!).

‘All right,’ said Hermione. Wasn’t she obliging? (he hoped she won’t be so with anybody else.) He liked the agreeable Hermione. (He enjoyed everything Hermione, really. But He’s not sure he’d tell her that).

They sat together on the bed, (his bed) on the edge of his bed, side by side, bolt upright, feet on the floor, carefully not touching. They faced forward, looking ahead, (not seeing anything, in his case), still and all sensitive, very sensitive, to every minute movement of each other. Harry was acutely aware of Hermione’s hand, on the bed, fingertips towards him, within centimetres of his own. He felt or imagined the warmth radiating from it. Candlelight was flickering from her fingertips. For a brief moment, he was distracted: he’d never taken notice how tempting her fingers looked, pinkish pale, slender and tapering, like… like spring onions (that’s a bad figure of speech, stop, he was turning sappy). But, if he just stretched out a finger …

It took him a while to nerve himself. It had to be admitted that the kicking rhythms of flamenco or fandango, or something of that sort, helped. (He was thankful they had not reached the sad part yet). Stretching out a finger had become, all of a sudden, an act of the deepest significance. If she moved away, he would know that Terry was wrong. On the contrary, if she moved closer –

Um, she didn’t move closer, but neither, on the other hand, did she move away (he liked the unpredictable Hermione). All the same, he still got a real kick out of the fact that she left her hand there with his, she trusted him with it. And he was making good use of it; he was touching it, feeling it, sensing it, with fingertips, at least. They had clasped hands together in the past when they were in danger. But this was different, this was new, this was unfamiliar, this was unprecedented, this was titillating, this was exquisite (he’s going sappy again) and to think that he’s not even holding it yet, but only touching.

They sat rigid, through the whole of the first movement (he wished it had been them doing some sorts of movement); the tips of their fingers just barely touching (yes, with every one of his fingertips he could find on that hand. He was getting bolder). Her fingertips felt cool, soft and yet firm. If anyone had told him, before this, that simply touching the tips of Hermione’s fingers could do things to him he’d have said they must be kinky (as if she didn’t do things already without using her fingertips). Or, perhaps he himself was kinky, after all.

In normal circumstances he would have been appalled at the thought of having to sit in silence through movements of someone’s concerto. This evening, the bright first movement seemed scarcely long enough (actually it was short in the first place, her fingertips muddled his sense of duration already). The quieter Spanish guitar was briskly strumming against the full orchestra, with the strings quickly bowing, sounding for all the world like a giant guitar. He found he had been enjoying it in spite of himself (did she know he’d love it?).

Hermione, in the quiet ending of the first piece, kicked off her shoes and clambered up to sit curled up against the wall, her feet tucked beneath her. (He liked the proactive Hermione, too!). He was buoyed up by her move (at last, someone made a ‘movement’). He got a surge of thrill when he thought that might mean that she’d want the same thing as he would. He humped himself across to sit with her. This time they sat with not only the tips of their fingers touching but with their actual bodies glued together, all the way down from shoulders to the hips (he made sure of that. He’s not bad, either, as far as boldness was concerned). He was tinglingly aware of the closeness of every bit of her. His skin, encased in its statutory layers of clothing, had acquired a new sensitivity, to which even the coarseness of blue denim was no bar: the pressure of Hermione’s knee against his set off a series of sparks that went shooting in a chain reaction throughout his body like a myriad of tiny jets of flame (Did she know?)

The second movement was indeed affecting. The guitar was slowly, quietly strumming, the English horn was plaintively lamenting, and he was gradually overcome by the slight sadness that he had felt at the Granger’s summer honeysuckle garden. The sound was heartfelt, it was languishingly yearning for something wonderful and yet it could not reach. The melancholy atmosphere touched something inside him. The longing sound drew out his uncontrollable tenderness towards the one and only girl next to him. He turned his head to look at her, her eyes were sparkling with tears, and she was ‘dying to it’. The sight captured his entire being, body and soul: candlelight was shimmering on the quantity of her bushy hair; on the smooth ivory tips of her shoulders; the fizzy spirals of her glimmering hair framed her pale, clear defined face, her soft brown eyes were gleaming with sadness. The emotional girl in front of his eyes, whom he cared for so much for so long, moved the something inside him, which he could tell was not his stomach (that had reacted to the prettiness of the old Cho when he first met her). He couldn’t turn his head back, he couldn’t take his eyes away, and he didn’t care. (Didn’t the sad movement turn them both on?).

Unable to contain his overwhelmingly ‘sappy’ feelings, he experimentally slipped an arm about her. For a second she stiffened, and he thought she was going to move; but then awkwardly, with none of the grace or fluidity she normally showed, she leaned her head against his shoulder. She was lightly shaking (and wasn’t he, too?), he was caught in whiffs of her light honeysuckle scent (Why had he never noticed it before?).

They sat for a few moments, poised and unyielding, like a piece of ornamental figurines. The guitar and the English horn conversed their longing back and forth; eventually the entire orchestra took it up, joining the keening. This was most uncomfortable, not the music, or the girl, but their rigid postures. His arm was going dead, his neck was getting a crick, and he must do something. … And he wanted to.

After a brief quiet moment, the guitar started to lead the piece towards the ending climax. When the first sound of a passionate climax came (the musical climax), with his free hand, he tipped her face up towards him and pressed his lips firmly against hers. The cathartic sound was soaring, long and hard (no, he wasn’t thinking about suggestive lines, not at the moment), he was overwhelmed with his own abiding feelings for her.

This was it: the moment of truth. By the law of average, everyone had to have a lucky break sooner or later.

Or perhaps it wasn’t so much a lucky break as managing at last to find the flesh and blood in the right person. – with a little help from Terry and the concerto, it had to be admitted. All right, so he didn’t mind admitting it. He wasn’t proud. So he had Terry and the Spaniard to thank. So what? He could afford to be generous – now.

At long last, he had his favourite girl whom he had excruciatingly wanted gathered in his arms. He couldn’t tell if he pulled her in or she pushed herself into his embrace (he had been enthralled by the pair of desiring lips between his eager ones, hadn’t he?). Her soft lips were affectionately touching his, coquettishly squishing his, diligently pressing his, blazingly grazing his, her breaths broken, her body tremulous upon his (wasn’t she a little bundle of nerves?).

He was properly exhilarated to discover that he was not the only party that was breathlessly ‘intoxicated’ by their first lip kissing– the girl he enfolded in his arms was made of flesh and blood indeed (not that he was ignorant that she also had other brilliant stuff in her). The Harry-eager Hermione thrilled him so much (how smug he was about making her so!) that he didn’t mind himself being lovey-dovey towards her any more, now that he knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her (at least she was greedy for his kisses).

Her lips were vivid red, gleaming in the dim light from the candles. He kept them his captives and kissed them ravenously, they were soft and warm, they were supple and bewitching. He studied them for a moment, then he started to worry at them: he pulled them with his teeth, he pushed them with his lips, he licked them with his sentient tongue and he suckled on them noisily (manners, Harry! He was not at the table, was he?). She was holding on to him. ‘Harry -’ she quiveringly said, her mouth opened slightly. He blundered into it to take a taste, it was wet and spicy, he took another thirsty sip, and it was delicious (didn’t he care about his image?). His boyish bumbling made her blush; she hid her mouth from him to his shoulder. He cuddled her gently back to him, he rubbed her neck softly and flitting one finger over her throat coaxingly, and he cradled her in his arms. She turned her face back, glowing pink as a rose. (He made bossy Hero bashful!).

He grazed her rosy cheeks with his thumbs, her cheeks were tender and warm as he always thought, he couldn’t help setting about ravishing them: he tested them with small pinches, he lightly nipped them with his teeth, he brushed his stubble over them, they were turning bright red and angry hot, and she was gasping and gulping. ‘Harry!-’ she spread both her hands between his mouth and her face. He pulled her on to his lap, he soothed her against him (He was sorry. He was remorseful. No, he wasn’t!). He petted her, he babied her: he blew cool air over her cheeks, he kissed them tenderly to make them better. He flicked his tongue over the tip of her nose, it was cold and springy; he nibbled at the delicate groove of her upper lip; and he flipped his tongue at the small dent under her lower lip (wasn't he officially a dolt? definitely). He made her giggle, he made her tinkle; she squeezed him back tight and lovingly. He sucked at the little nubs of flesh at the corners of her mouth; he decided they were his favourite spots (kinky dolt, to boot! Didn’t he mind?).

He had positively lost his mind; he was blithely drunk in his glass of Hermione. He savoured her mouth, he devoured her lips, and he bit his favourite spots (not hard enough in his opinion). He made her quaver, he made her shiver, and he made her shudder. He clutched her closer to let her straddle his lap, he squeezed her to him. He couldn’t get enough of kissing her, he wanted her, he -

The music quieted down. From somewhere or other he heard a voice.

His voice.

It seemed to be speaking of its own volition.

‘I love you,’ it was saying. ‘I love you.’ (What did he say? He couldn’t help saying it.)

It sounded incredibly corny; like something out of some junk TV soap opera Aunt Petunia had been following. But still it kept on saying it.

‘I love you, I love you …’

Hermione wrapped both arms round his neck, tightly.

‘I love you too,’ she whispered. (She loved him! Did she know what she had said? Did she mean it? Of course, she did, or she wouldn’t snog him, would she? Would she?)

Somehow, it didn’t sound quite so corny coming from her. In fact, it didn’t sound corny at all. He would have liked to hear more of it, but instead, to his indignation and disgust, what he heard were the unmistakable sound of footsteps creaking on the floorboards outside, followed by the equally unmistakable sounds of a key being inserted in the lock. Hermione raised her head from his chest.

‘What’s that?’

‘Don’t worry.’ Grim-faced, Harry swung him-self off the bed. ‘Whatever it is, it’s not coming in.’

He yanked open the door mere seconds ahead of Terry. Terry looked surprised.

‘Oh! – Great. Thanks.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ said Harry.

‘What?’

‘I said, don’t thank me.’

‘Why? What are you --’

‘Down,’ said Harry.

‘Down?’

‘Down!’ He pointed, in a fury, at the stairs.

Terry, after a momentary hesitation, began slowly and protestingly to descend. He went down backwards, one step at a time, keeping a wary eye upon Harry as he did so.

‘What are you playing at?’

‘I might ask you the same question! What are you doing here?’

‘What do you mean, what am I doing here? I live here!’

‘Don’t try being smart with me! I thought you said you were going to be out?’

‘Well, I’ve been out, haven’t I? Now I’ve come back.’

‘At half past nine at night?’

‘Yes. Well --’ Terry reached the first landing and carefully negotiated the curve. He was still going backwards, still keeping one eye fixed nervously on Harry. ‘Things didn’t work out.’

‘Too bad!’

‘So what am I supposed to do? Tramp the streets for the next two hours?’

‘Why not?’

‘Come off it!’ said Terry. ‘It’s raining cats and dogs out there.’

‘So go and sit in the Leaky Cauldron. See what trade you can pick up.’

‘Look --’ Terry missed the last step, snatched too late at the banister rail and ricocheted backwards into the hall. ‘This is my room you’re turning me out of.’

‘Our room,’ said Harry. ‘And I happen to be in possession of it, so you can just shove off … go on!’ He took the last few stairs at a bound, grabbed Terry by the collar and forcibly manhandled him to the front door. ‘Shove!’

‘But look at it!’ said Terry.

Harry looked. It was, indeed, coming down in buckets.

‘You can’t do this to me!’

At any other time, he probably couldn’t. Tonight, he could. He held open the door.

‘You can find a quiet corner to apparate. Out!’

Terry whimpered. He turned up his coat collar.

‘Have you no heart?’

‘Yes, but just at this moment it happens to be otherwise engaged. … go on!’ He gave him a push. ‘Get going!’

‘I’ll remember this,’ said Terry. ‘I’ll get even with you, don’t you worry!’

‘Tell us about it later,’ said Harry.

‘OK, OK, take your little tumble! How stupid of me to tip you off to the fleshiness-n'-bloodiness of your littly precious, angely Hermioneous!’ mocked Terry, laughing.

He closed the door and turned back, into the hall. From the second floor, the strains of the concerto’s breezy third movement could be heard. He set off, three at a time, up the stairs. He couldn’t waste precious minutes bandying words with Terry, he has other matters on his mind.

He had just made an important discovery: he was in love… and so was she. Were they?

A.N.

This is a place holder. Because my update wouldn’t send chapter alerts after I loaded chapter 14 in firefox.

Everything you recognise belongs to JKR and Ure’s 'You win some, you lose some'. You have been duly warned.

A.N. Thanks to the wonderful and ‘a-real-pain-in-the-neck’ (or substituting it with the colourful alternative phrase) simonsays who ‘butchered’ the poor pretentious drafts and ‘ridiculed’ the (luckily) thick-skinned author, this chapter is finally shaped up for your consumption. If you like it, kiss him, if you don’t, shoot him. That is to say, I meekly surrender this chapter to simonsays. (again?!)

Chapter 14 It's a curious paradox, isn’t it?

From the second floor, the strains of the concerto’s breezy third movement could be heard. He set off, three at a time, up the stairs. He couldn’t waste precious minutes bandying words with Terry; he has other matters on his mind.

He had just made an important discovery: he was in love… and so was she. Were they?

Hermione was sitting Japanese fashion (had she a passion for kneeling?) on the floor picking over the pile of CDs. She had her back to the door; didn’t she hear him thumping up the stairs? He stopped at the doorway (if a bedsit could ever have a doorway): under the glimmering candlelight, she looked somewhat otherworldly in the pale coloured dress. Her outline was mysteriously shimmering (was he astigmatic? at his eighteen year of age?).

For a moment he couldn’t think what he was doing, or what to do next. He wanted to be near her but his feet weren’t able to move. He was seized by a sudden bashfulness as he was when he first saw her wearing French plait. He was never a shrinking violet – reserved or even secretive at times maybe – that’s for sure. Why did he have to suffer a super-duper ‘Hermione-shy’ every time he caught sight of her under a new light? Just minutes ago, he had been right in the throes of passion. Hadn’t he rather boldly held her in some ‘scandalous’ manner? He should be better able just to stride forward a few feet up to her. If only he could command his own body alone, never mind what he might do with it!

Upon his ridiculous immobility, she turned and looked him over. The corners of her mouth (his favourite spots) curved up a straight and yet shy smile: her cheeks soft pink. She stretched out her sylphlike arm invitingly (at least he hoped that’s what she meant). Sylphlike? Skinny was the word he had used. Um, skinny or not, it worked like a charm with him. The painful shyness was gone within one flicker of the candle flame (the gods smiled on him), and he was unfrozen miraculously (It was Hero who smiled on him, he knew).

He returned her smile with equal warmth and a bit of an additional eagerness (which he couldn’t help). Breathing a little easier, he trotted up for her hand. He was very pleased to hold her responsive fingers: he was reassured; and he was wanted. He knelt down beside her, hardly noticing the discomfort of his position.

They simply continued looking tenderly at each other (tenderly? was that how he smiled?). If they were not careful, they would appear a little foolish: grinning non-stop for no apparent reason! (If the twins saw them now…). He’d better say something. It came to his attention that Hermione spoke but very little tonight apart from the veggie-talk. She usually had enough to assert on every subject (what with a nickname as know-it-all and such!) Was she stunned by their first kiss? Or was it his ‘corny’ way of a confession of love? It seemed that he had worked a small ‘miracle’ on her. If she lost her power of speech and thought, he’d better think of something.

He said the first thing that came into his mind:

‘Hermione?’ (To no one’s surprise, least of all his.)

‘Hmm?’ she said absentmindedly, watching his fingers following the intricate lines on her palm.

Suddenly she closed her hand around his fingers and burst out triumphantly with:

‘Caught you!’

Her joyous laugh made him relax and a funny peculiar devil-may-care attitude coming over him. So what if they were lovey-dovey? So what if everyone else in the world had to play gooseberry? He could not care less, not when she was smiling at him, her eyes glinting with mischief.

Wasn’t she childlike? She never was since he had known her. Wait, wait a moment, that’s not true. The image of the twelve-year-old Hermione doing a sort of jig danced in his mind: she had wanted to sing, too, at Molfoy’s detention the night they sent off Norbert. And at the twins’ firework havoc she had been so bright and happy admiring the hullabaloo that she had generously let them off their homework for the night. He should know she had an impulsive merry child inside her (not literally, he was not thinking about babies, or the making of them). Even if she were childish, he would still find her childishness fascinating (hadn’t he said that he was Hermione-minded? Keeping him rational about her was quite a bother). It was little wonder that he felt warm all over (was it love?) at the sally of her playfulness towards him.

He tried to imagine if any game could be dull when she took part in it. Her game actually looked amusing. He wanted to do more with her (the game). He pried her fingers open,

‘OK, first to three wins. May the best man win!’

‘Best woman you mean!’

‘As you wish!’

He dropped his fingertips on top of her open palm and tickled around deliberately. He watched every tiny twitch of her hand like a hawk, unnerved by her simple glances and her direct smile. She feinted to snatch his fingers a few times that made him jump and her giggle. They were engrossed with it for quite a while and managed to lose counts of the scores, laughing and wrestling each other (hands only).

He was too quick for her. Although she grazed his fingers often, she couldn’t get a proper grip. She was getting more and more frustrated but she was never petulant: she was still laughing with him (wasn’t he lucky?). In the end he took pity on her, let himself be caught several times in a row. Although she knew what he was doing (a clever clogs, maybe no need for her smartness, anyone could make that out), still, she whooped at her victories (wasn’t she a good sport?).

He never thought playing so simple (or silly?) a game with Hermione could mean such good fun and he thoroughly enjoyed it. They grew hot (in more than one sense of the word) and sweaty that they had to take a break to catch their breaths. While they sat, slumped against each other all muck of sweat and all (She did not seem to mind). He decided that he felt rather bold. He looked at her with a small grin as he called, for the first time,

‘Hero?’

‘Only my families call me Hero.’ she caught up fast, smiling a little cheekily as Hebe once did.

‘I thought I was granted to be part of the family,’ he squeezed her fingertips, not looking at her.

‘You are, only, you are neither my brother, nor my cousin.’

‘It would be a blast if I were.’ He pressed the pressure point between her thumb and her forefinger. (Dared he pinch it harder? She just might yelp).

‘I’d be a better cousin than Dudley, wouldn’t I? We would’ve been playmates before Hogwarts…’ She smiled with her guileless eyes (playmate!).

He released her fingers. Rubbing them did things to him, and seeing an element of innuendo in every other word she said was no help either. He’d have to let off some of his steam:

‘There's certainly something to be said for being bossed around by a raving little know-it-all instead of being a punching bag.’ He grinned under the full glare of her dirty look. ‘But, not when I do things that neither a brother nor a cousin should.’

For an instant, she was stock-still; her eyes looked down that he could see her tangled eyelashes clearly against her pink skin. If they were not already so hot, he would say her cheeks were warming up even more. He may be exasperated by his own bashfulness, but he could not say the same for hers. He was rather enjoying the view before him.

To relieve her from her shyness or embarrassment (if she really was embarrassed by his words, he was not sure) he took her hands in his, (actually, he found it difficult to keep away from them. Her fingers might do things but without them he felt lost). She looked up at him, smiled and said quietly:

‘All right, you can call me whatever you like.’

‘Hermy?’

She snatched away her hands and made for his shoulder, he fell back instinctively, chuckling. Half-annoyed, she hit his lap hard with both of her fists:

‘Don’t call me that, you cheeky!’

‘You said whatever I liked,’ still grinning he caught her wrists and pinioned them on his lap with mischief in his eyes.

‘Aren’t you too clever by half? I meant Hero!’ She was struggling to free her hands.

‘I love Hermy just fine, thank you very much!’ he beamed at her.

There was a lot to be said for tussling with Hermione. It was more exciting than the palm game and it definitely did things to him. He was addicted to touching her forcefully as much as sappily. If they kept tackling each other, he couldn’t guarantee things would not get out of hand. Did he want to try some dirty plots? It’s not so much what he wanted as what she wanted. He’d rather her come on to him of her own accord. He could wait, couldn’t he? He released her wrists, but hugged her in order to prevent her from attacking him again (For a ‘skinny’ girl like her, she did produce hearty punches). He kissed her pink cheek in an attempt to placate her. He smirked against her hot skin: he was still tempted to tease - provoked Hero was a sight for his sore eyes.)

‘Don’t push your luck, brother.’ she warned as if she read his mind.

‘Bad luck on you that I am not your brother.’ (Why was she fixed on the subject of a brother?)

‘Who are you, then?’

‘I’m your … You are determined to be difficult, Um, what would you like me to be?’

‘Leander?’ she said it with such ease and good articulation, lo and behold, you’d think she used that word every day.

What was it with all these lover talks? First Hebe, now Hero herself, they were obsessed with that myth. To be sure, her families (with an exception of the prick, perhaps) all had a liberal turn of mind, and Hermione certainly was not afraid to speak her mind. He adored her for that. It was not that he minded being the one for her, in fact, it was what he wanted to be (he was dying to be, more accurately), but actually saying it! He’d thought more along the lines of boy friend or boyfriend.

His heart beat faster than the moment he was catching the snitch to win the Quidditch cup for Gryffindor. For a time, he was utterly unable to know what to say. He held her waist tight against him and rubbed her back gently to convey some of what he was feeling. But clearly, she was ahead in a different frame of mind (too many ‘minds’ around here):

‘Harry, what about the girls?’ she asked quietly.

‘Who?’ It was hard to keep up with her sometimes (was it? Or was he stalling? Heaven forbid that she was talking about what he was afraid she was).

‘Don’t you like that child Sally-Ann, chatterbox Mandy, Lady Muck Cho, or the playgirl Daphne?’

She dove straight in and pinned him down to the stickiest places. (The ‘subtle’ Hero was not for beating around the bush. He should’ve known there was a snag with his glaring omission of his ill-advised and ill-fated blundering. And, how did she know the girls so well? Just because the girls had gone to Hogwarts with them? Hermione had been quite the expert on Cho’s tear-jerking campaign back in their fifth year.)

Her words shot out so briskly that he doubted if she was soft-pedalling it by any chance. There was distinctly a hint of pain (jealousy or bitterness?) in her tone. That made him uncomfortable and sombre. How he wished he had had the courage to ask her out first (think how much trouble it would’ve saved him, let alone what they might have done by now. Stop daydreaming and get on with the dire straits!).

He didn’t care for the prospect of wrangling, especially with an ever so logical Hermione. Heaven knows she’s reading for the bar! (What was he thinking pursuing a would-be-barrister?) He gazed at her vivid eyes. She looked endearingly Hermione-like even when she was upset with him. (No, he was not mad. If she would be a barrister, so be it.) He sat up straight, took both of her hands, which were no longer warm though still soft. He looked directly into her brown eyes, and said quietly,

‘Hermione, I am not in love with any of them, I never was.’ She opened her mouth but he forestalled her with, ‘Listen, Hero. Listen to me: I want to be Leander.’ (Fingers crossed that his simple dog peddling would be enough to cross the ‘straits’.)

She carried herself nearer to him; she extended one cool finger to soothe his eyebrows, and he couldn’t help responding to her touches. He kissed her. Her arms rounded his neck. She was so very soft. He murmured to her lips,

‘I had been wanting to…’ (was he addled by kissing her?)

‘Before all those girls?’ (She wasn’t a cleverest witch for show.)

‘Yeah, probably…’ (where was this going?)

‘Even when you were with them?’

‘Hermione!’ (Why did she have to ask difficult questions, one after another?)

‘Why can’t you tell me?’ (Why was she so persistent?)

‘It’s embarrassing. And you won’t like what you’ll hear.’ (This would only further excite her curiosity.)

‘Isn’t that my choice? I’d like to know.’ (Demands, demands.)

‘Hermione-, isn’t that I am in love with you and only you enough?’ he said in a quiet voice imploringly and yet accusingly, clutching her hands tight in his own. His heart missed a beat when he thought that he might lose her over his quest for experience (one could always pray and hope).

‘Yes, but I need to know: Why did you mess around with other girls?’ her eyes were glistening (were there tears? but, she did say yes).

But, how could she accuse him messing around? He hadn’t got her, had he? He looked at her ruefully:

‘It’s not fair to call it messing around, I wasn’t with you either, remember?’

Her chin was up again, and she let loose a torrent:

‘Why weren’t you? You loved me, didn’t you? You were closer to me than a friend should. Can you honestly say you have been strictly platonic to me? And yet, your eyes still wandered to other girls.’ she cried, piqued ‘What made you go after them? What did they have that I hadn’t?’ (So much for the thought that she was never petulant, it looked like he got what he wished for: his spoiled rotten Hero).

He pulled her back into his arms, holding her there (he was not spoiling her, was he? It was just that he couldn’t leave her in distress for any length of time, really). He said gently:

‘Didn’t you know? I didn’t think I was good enough for you. I couldn’t believe you could like me. Yes, I was dense and blind to it. But, you seemed not interested in the least. You were off-limits with a one-track mind on your study…’ (Oops, hadn’t he been one-track minded on the One Thing?)

‘Not good enough! Don't mock my own deep feeling of unworthiness. And you made it worse by going-a-chasing the others.’

How could she feel unworthy? It would be him if there were anyone unworthy in their relationship. But he reckoned this was not the time for self-deprecating competition. There was still hurt in her voice. Had someone said honesty was the best policy? OK, he’d made his bed and now he must lie in it. He tried again:

‘I am not proud of myself. I wanted to have some experience: since I couldn’t have you, I went for the rest. But, even when you were out of my sight, I couldn’t get you out of my mind – my head even speaks in your voice since the summer before our third year. You haunted me.’ (Was it a fine heart-to-heart? Wasn’t it a girl sort of thing? Or was he sweet-talking her? But he meant it, and most importantly, it was true.)

‘Are you telling me, you put me down as a nun, and you had so much unresolved urge of losing your virginity that you went trapping the girls?’ she scolded but there was a touch of a smile, too. (Yes!)

‘Aren’t you ingenious? Wasn’t it obvious?’

He touched her lips tentatively. They upturned to form a perfect bow shape (she was smiling) for him; he nudged at her lower lip to reshape the bow into a circle. Then he sucked her soft lower lip into his mouth and suckled on the pink flesh. The inside of her lower lip was silkily slippery that he had to hold on to the little dent under her lower lip to stop it slipping away. She was giggling now. He nipped her lip with his teeth. She emitted a string of laughter and her lip escaped from his clutch. Unannounced, a cat and mouse chase was commenced: he would capture one or both of her lips and would try all his might to hold on to it; she would smile, giggle or laugh to pull it free. He had his right hand on the back of her head, his left round her waist to hold her against him.

They played about for some time. Their breaths grew shorter; their hearts beat louder, they became more and more daring, less and less playful. At some points, they had both tremblingly lost in what they were doing. Her arms were under his T-shirt, tightly round his waist; his hands found their ways to her hips on top of her little dress (What handfuls of the softness! He loved them). They had worked their mouths together with a zeal until their lips were painfully tired and their cheeks were hurt.

‘Harry,’ she whispered, after awhile ‘Had you any success with the girls?’

‘Hermione!’ (Had she a habit of rendering him uttering but her name?)

‘What?’ she looked at him sheepishly and yet defiantly.

‘You’ll just have to be content with your own imagination because I won’t talk about it any more.’ He smiled coolly (Who said he couldn’t stand up to her?).

‘Well, I guess you haven’t done it, then.’ (Serve him right for being too friendly and too close to Hermione! As if being fiercely logical was not enough she was also maddeningly intuitive.)

‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’ (Clutching at straws!)

‘Very well, that means I don’t have to tell you about Viktor or Neville, doesn’t it?’

‘What?! Viktor? Neville! What do you mean?’ he was startled.

No matter what he tried, she wouldn’t tell him a word about them. He was sorely tempted to tell her every detail of his diabolical misadventures and be done with it! Before long, he’d have to, because her wretched secrets were gnawing at him. They were eating at him. He tried to console himself that he had her now and he was the one she loved. But, the more he dwelled on it, the more he was lashed into a pang of fierce jealousy. What he wouldn’t have given up to have her all to himself from the very beginning (what? from eleven?). Then why not tell her about his abysmal attempts?

He was a little frustrated (a little frustration every now and then was good for him, wasn’t it?), more puzzled and most of all jealous. He kissed her harder, he held her tighter, he loved her, he was mad at her, and he was truly hopelessly, helplessly in lust for her. Now he understood what pain she had endured when he went off with other girls. He didn’t half admire her courage and the level of control over her emotions. He couldn’t imagine how he would be if he had been her. He was conscious that he had never been so irritable in all his life. He felt an urge to chase Neville down and beat the truth out of him. He would probably beat the hell out of him if Neville were not already prone to be scared off his pants. How could Neville think he was good enough for her? And she had been very protective of Neville. Harry was in agony. He couldn’t understand why he was so possessive about her, about her past, no less.

‘Harry?’ her voice seemed to come from far away.

‘Hmm?’

She turned his face towards her and kissed him softly on his cheek. He was humbled; his ego was bruised. He wanted to know, please tell him (he didn’t give a toss about standing up to her at this very moment in time).

‘Viktor had kissed me once.’ (Ouch!)

‘On the cheek?’ he looked at her hopefully (on the hand would be OK).

‘On the lips.’ He shut his eyes and then snapped them open quickly upon catching a fleeting glimpse of an awful image involving a large bird of pray and …

‘It was a close mouthed kiss. He wanted more, but I couldn’t… That’s not so bad, was it?’ She consoled him, stroking his arms.

He was relieved at once: it was only a peck! It could have been worse. (What with a full-grown eighteen-year-old raging boy panting after his fifteen-year-old Hero, he would’ve had a mind to call him a paedophile if he had tried more than that dry peck!).

‘And Neville?’ he asked tentatively, he was preparing himself.

‘Oh, that could hardly be called anything: he wrote to me to confess his little-more-than-friendly feelings the summer before the sixth year, and I told him that I didn’t share his sentiment, that’s all.’

‘So, that’s why he was so down at the beginning of the sixth year?’

‘Maybe, I wouldn’t know. He never mentioned it again.’

What a relief! But Harry found himself very conflicted: he felt for Neville too, for his ill-conceived attempt at winning Hermione (his Hero. How possessive he still was!). He argued with himself: it was two years ago; Neville should be able to forget it now, shouldn’t he? Besides, for all he cared, Neville could have any other girl: say, Ginny, for a start.

He kissed his Hero protectively. She smiled,

‘Satisfied? Now, it’s your turn. Spill the beans!’

He sat her on his lap, messing her long lustrous hair up as he told her his fiascos with the girls, much to her not-so-delighted amusement. Just as he thought he had successfully done another heart to heart and earned the right to snog her, she surprised him with,

‘So, I am your last resort?’ (Yes, threw him into a state of panic, why not?!)

‘You are not. Didn’t you listen to me?’ he reasoned with difficulty, ‘I loved you from the start, before the girls.’

‘Be that as it may, it still doesn’t change a thing that you tried it in vain with every girl in sight, and then you invited me over,’ she frowned, ‘It still looked suspiciously like I am your last resort.’

‘What do you really want, Hero? You’d rather me have succeed with one of the girls?’ (Damned if he did and damned if he didn’t!)

Silence.

‘It's a curious paradox, isn’t it? ’ she said ruefully.

He knew she’s the first for everything. It’s only a matter of how to put it into words to make her see it.

‘No, it’s not. Think carefully, Hero. I asked you to let me love you. You are the first I asked. I didn’t ask the girls for this.’

‘You asked them for a bit of sex.’ (No, he’s not surprised she was quick.)

‘See? You are the first and foremost.’

‘But, I am still the last resort for a bit of sex.’

‘You can’t be, because I am not asking you for a bit of it.’

She stared, ‘why?’

‘Why? What do you think? I don’t want just it. I want much more, all of you. Would you rather me ask you just for the sake of doing it?’

‘It’s only that I couldn’t shake off the miserable feeling because you never asked me for it.’ His heart leapt (Was it a come-on? Didn’t he wish?!).

‘How clever of you going full circle like that! First or last! What matters is’ he pulled her nearer to him, and whispered to her ear: ‘that I am asking you now. If you don’t stop wrangling about the dratted first or last, I’ll demand it, a lot of it, my Hero.’