Disclaimers: JK Rowling owns any character or situation from the Harry Potter books. The rest come from my crazed imagination (with help from my betas).
Author's notes: What started out as a one-shot story assignment for the Smutty_Claus community on Livejournal turned into this fic, for which I wrote 7 full chapters and most of another as part of National Novel Writing Month in November 2004. Many, many thanks to my wonderful friends mione1977 (who actually worked out the germ of the story idea with me), mollymoon and abigail89, all of whom are great beta-readers. I really suck at titles, especially chapter titles, so I'm just going to number my chapters.
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Prologue
Mirror, Mirror, on the wall,
Who's the cleverest one of all?
Not you, dearie.
Chapter 1
July 31, 2002
I saw them again today. I can't seem to go anywhere in Diagon Alley without seeing them. This time they were at Florean Fortescue's. I just wanted some ice cream, just a bit of dessert after my sack lunch. As I walked up to the counter and placed my order, I spotted them sitting at the back of the shop, snuggling (or something else disgusting, I can't believe they do that in public) at a tiny table. He had his arm around her and was feeding her a cherry from the top of his chocolate sundae. She looked up at him and made a disgusting doe-eyed moon face like he was the greatest thing she'd ever seen. She's been making moon-eyes at him for at least eight years now. It took him a long time to catch on but he finally did and now she's with him and they look disgustingly happy. I don't understand why she should be so happy while I'm not. It's not fair, none of it. Not like I want him; I don't. He's so full of himself. But why should she be so happy? It sickens me. When they left the shop they practically ran over me, they were in such a hurry. What's the big deal? Couldn't they even say hello to me? Both of them just make me so angry.
I must get back to work now. Damn and blast, they even have better jobs than I do. They make me sick.
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When the young couple arrived at the ice cream shop for lunch, Florean Fortescue showed them to a small table at the back of the shop. Leaving a pair of menus on the table, he smiled at them, his eyes twinkling with amusement and perhaps a bit of nostalgia. In all his years of selling ice cream and lighter dining fare to the witches and wizards of England, he couldn't remember a young couple who seemed more in love than Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. Nor could he remember another young couple whose affection for each other had grown so naturally out of friendship and shared experiences. In the Muggle world they were unknown, but in the Wizarding world they were not just celebrities but actual heroes. Along with their friend Ron Weasley, Harry and Hermione had done more to rid the world of You-Know-Who - well, now he could think it and say it, the dreaded Lord Voldemort - than anyone else in the Wizarding World. Slightly less than four years ago, on Halloween of 1998, Harry had engaged the evil wizard in a battle so fierce and terrible that when he finally killed the old bastard, he was left comatose, then unable to remember anything of the battle - or his former life - for several weeks. Thanks to the ministrations of the staff at St. Mungo's - and the love of his best friend of seven years - Harry Potter not only regained his strength and his mind, but also eventually admitted the inescapable fact that Hermione Granger meant more to him than just his best friend. At least that was what the many articles in the Daily Prophet and The Quibbler said. But Florean Fortescue didn't need to read any magazine articles to know that. All he had to do was observe the way they looked at each other.
"You see anything you like on the menu?" Fortescue asked Harry and Hermione as they sat with their chairs close together at the back of the ice cream shop.
Harry glanced down at Hermione and smiled as she continued to peruse the menu. "I'll have the ploughman's lunch and Hermione will have…"
"The spinach salad, please," Hermione said brightly. Nodding, Fortescue took their menus and left.
Hermione pursed her lips and furrowed her brow when she noticed the amusement on Harry's face. "Oh honestly, Harry, what's that look for? Is there something wrong with the spinach salad here?"
"I wouldn't know, Hermione. I've never eaten it. But that's what you order every time we eat here."
"Do I?" A bemused look crossed her face. "You've kept track?"
Harry grinned, stroking her arm through the soft fabric of her summer robes. "Not consciously, no. I guess I just notice everything you do."
A light blush rose in Hermione's cheeks. "When did you start doing that?"
"Oh…back in sixth year…," Harry said, memories of that fateful year welling up in him. "When I started thinking about why it was that your voice was the one I heard so often in my head." As Hermione's blush deepened, she nevertheless looked Harry straight in the eyes with the look that had finally stolen his heart five years earlier.
"That long ago? I…had no idea…so when I wasn't stealing glances at you, you were stealing glances at me," she said, her matter-of-fact tone betrayed by a tiny smirk.
"I guess so," Harry answered. Hermione seemed quite impish, as though she could barely contain some happy surprise for him. Before Harry could ask what was on her mind, their lunches arrived and Harry decided to tuck in; he could pursue that thought later. Hermione ate her salad daintily, pausing every so often to look at Harry through her long, dark lashes, not speaking but just looking at him as though she couldn't quite believe he was really in love with her.
As they were about to finish their meals, Mr. Fortescue appeared with a smaller menu. "Can I interest you in some dessert?"
"It's Harry's birthday," Hermione piped up. "Do you have anything really special today?"
Mr. Fortescue raised an eyebrow. "All of our ice creams and other desserts are special, Miss Granger."
Hermione looked stricken. "I didn't mean-"
"Of course you didn't," Harry cut in. "I don't want a fancy dessert today, Hermione. I'd just like a chocolate sundae. Would you like something too or do you want to share mine with me?"
"I'll just have a bit of yours," Hermione smiled.
"One large chocolate sundae, please, with several cherries and two spoons," Harry said. Mr. Fortescue disappeared then reappeared a few minutes later with their order.
Harry and Hermione took their spoons then took turns feeding each other from the sundae. There was a playful, almost lustful glint in Hermione's eyes, which suggested that Harry had only begun to taste his after-lunch treat.
"Mmmm, you saved the cherry for last," she teased as she snuggled next to him. Plucking the cherry from the remains of his sundae, Harry dangled it just above Hermione's luscious lips, forcing her to open her mouth wide and reach for the cherry with her tongue. Long ago Harry realized that he never tired of seeing her tongue, especially when she used it for tasks other than speaking. She finally snatched the cherry from his fingers with a look of triumph, then swirled it around in her mouth for almost a minute. Then she parted her lips and stuck out her tongue. The cherry was licked clean and the stem was tied in a knot.
Harry gulped.
"I think we're done here," he muttered. Without waiting to see the bill, he slapped a couple of Galleons on the table, grabbed Hermione's hand and hustled her out of the ice cream shop. He pulled her into a nearby alleyway, took her in his arms and crushed his lips to hers.
"What was that for?" Hermione asked breathlessly when Harry's lips finally left hers.
"Oh…just checking…I was thinking of what a talented tongue you have and wondering what else I might get for my birthday." He clutched her tightly enough so she couldn't miss his meaning or his arousal.
"But I thought you liked my gift," Hermione pouted with mock-seriousness, one arm around his neck as the fingers of her other hand played with his hair.
Harry placed a tender kiss on her lips. "It's hard to beat a pair of seats in the top box at the Quidditch World Cup. But that's not till next month. I was thinking of something a bit more immediate…"
Hermione didn't miss his meaning. She wrapped both arms around his neck, nuzzled his ear and said, "You mean, now?"
One of his hands slipped down from Hermione's waist to cup her bottom and pull her even closer to him. "No…not here…our place," he whispered urgently. Wrapping his other arm more tightly around her, Harry closed his eyes and Apparated himself and Hermione into the bedroom of their flat in Muggle London. They landed, wobbling, so that they fell onto their king-sized bed, Hermione beneath him, laughing breathlessly. Harry cut her off with an urgent kiss then began tugging at her skirt, pushing it up over her hips.
"Harry…we have to…go back…to work," she panted as he pulled at the elastic waistband of her knickers. Despite the objection in her words, her fingers moved deftly, unbuttoning his trousers while he kissed her again more deeply than before. Without breaking the kiss, Hermione pulled down the zipper on his fly, reached inside and began stroking him, then giggled against his lips when she discovered his body was way ahead of her. He was ready to claim the birthday gift he needed most, and he could tell Hermione was ready to give it to him.
"Happy birthday to me," Harry smiled as he nuzzled her neck.
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Fifteen minutes later, their bodies sated, Harry and Hermione straightened their clothing and Apparated to the entrance to the Ministry of Magic. Unwilling to stray far from Hermione just yet, Harry pulled her into the telephone booth with him. There they stood, bodies pressed together from shoulder to hip, as the lift descended slowly toward the Atrium. When the doors opened, Harry and Hermione sprang apart quickly. Months of practice enabled them to snog happily right up to the moment the lift doors opened, then appear as though they'd merely been deep in conversation. When they reached level two, home of the Auror Division, Harry squeezed Hermione's hand, then left her in the lift and moved quickly to his cubicle on the opposite end of the level.
As he approached his cubicle, Harry noticed a flurry of inter-departmental memos hovering above his desk. It dawned on him that this might be Ron's way of getting his attention and wishing him happy birthday. Snatching the memos from the air, he pulled them open and discovered Ron's scratchy script on each of them. They all bore the same message.
Happy birthday, Harry
Come to level five
You'll get your birthday present
It's the best I could contrive
Harry crumpled one of the memos, stuffed it in his pocket and turned back toward the lifts. Once he'd reached level five, home of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, he had no trouble spotting Ron Weasley's ginger head. Ron leaned back in his office chair, his long legs stretched in front of him, ankles crossed on his desk, his hands behind his head. Harry retrieved the memo from his pocket and whispered a smoothing charm. Then he pulled out his quill, scribbled the words Show me what you contrived on the memo and sent it sailing toward Ron. When the memo poked the back of his head, Ron finally turned around and noticed Harry standing a few cubicles down.
"Happy birthday, mate!" Ron bellowed across the office. "C'mon over here, I've got something for you."
Harry raised an eyebrow. For the past year Ron had been living with his twin brothers, Fred and George, in a flat above Weasley's Wizard Wheezes in Diagon Alley. He was saving his money to get his own flat because, as he told Harry several times, living with the twins was "cramping his style." Though Ron's financial situation as an adult was dramatically better than when he was a teenager, he still rarely seemed to have more than two sickles to rub together. So Harry wondered what Ron might have got him.
"Okay," Harry said, walking over to Ron's desk. "What's up, mate?"
Ron bent down and pulled a large, square box wrapped in bright green paper from under his desk. "Well, like the memo said, I've got a birthday present for you. Happy birthday, Harry. Go on, open it." He flashed a blinding smile and winked at Harry, who started pulling the paper off the box with abandon. Opening the top of the box, Harry sucked in a breath. Inside was a Quaffle, but not just any Quaffle. It was an autographed Quaffle, with the names Padraic Troy, Moira Mullet and Siobhan Moran signed on it. Harry did a double take. These were the infamous "Troy, Mullet and Moran," the Chasers from the Irish team that defeated Bulgaria in the 1994 Quidditch World Cup game that he, Ron and Hermione had attended.
"Bloody hell, Ron!" Harry marveled. "This is amazing. How the hell did you manage to get this? It must have cost a small fortune. I hope you didn't spend your life savings on this."
Ron smirked. "No, not my life savings. I just had to mortgage a bit of capital equipment." Harry frowned. What the hell was Ron talking about?
"Siobhan Moran works in the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters. She and I have been seeing each other for a few weeks now but up till a couple days ago we hadn't done anything too…interesting," Ron hedged. "I was at her flat and discovered she had a collection of memorabilia from her playing days. I asked her what she wanted for this Quaffle. I thought she'd say something like 'a hundred Galleons'. But instead, she wanted a shag."
Harry felt his mouth fall open.
"A shag? You shagged her in exchange for an autographed Quaffle?"
Ron shrugged. "It was her idea, mate. And she's a brilliant shag. Of course I know you won't want to verify that. You've got Hermione and it's obvious you don't want to check out any of the other merchandise."
Before pulling his jaw up off the ground, Harry coughed, clearing his throat to hide his embarrassment. He and Ron hadn't really talked this way about women in several years, not since before Hermione had made the transition from Harry's best friend to his lover. Hermione had once called Ron a "serial dater," which was highly ironic considering how shy Ron had been at school. Something about helping vanquish Voldemort had given him a burst of much-needed self-confidence, so that in the past couple of years Ron had turned into quite the ladies' man. Harry knew that Ron had loosened up around witches in the past few years but he hadn't seen this cavalier attitude toward the fairer sex before.
"Uh…right…I mean, you're right, I'm not interested in any other women," Harry finally answered. "You know that, Ron. There hasn't been anyone for me except Hermione for the past two years. Actually, it's more like the past five years, but I was too blind to see it back then." He paused, searching for the right words. "I'm just a bit surprised at you, that's all. Trading sex for memorabilia…it just doesn't seem like you, mate."
Ron's eyes narrowed. and his mouth set in a thin line. "My sex life is none of your business, Harry."
"Then why did you tell me what you did to get the Quaffle for me?"
Ron's ears went red. "Maybe I wanted to impress you. You've always done better than me with the witches. Now I've finally discovered something they really like about me."
Harry snorted. "Give me a break, Ron. I know what your dick looks like. We used to shower in the same locker room. Your dick is no better or worse than anyone else's. If the birds like you better now, it's because of what's in here" - he tapped Ron's chest - "and not what's in your pants."
The redness in Ron's ears spread to the rest of his face and the veins in his neck stood out. "Get out, Harry. Just get out and take the damn Quaffle with you before I decide to take it back."
"Ron, I" - Harry sputtered - "I'm sorry, mate. You give me an amazing birthday gift and I dump on you…"
"Bugger, Harry. Like I said, just take the thing and go back to your office."
Harry's ears were starting to burn now; from the corner of his eyes he could see some of Ron's coworkers staring at them. "Sure…okay…I'll see you later," he muttered, grabbing the Quaffle and tucking it under his arm as he backed away from his best friend. He turned on his heel and shuffled back to the lift, pondering his conversation with his best mate, then stood mutely in the lift as it returned him to level two. Sitting at his desk, shuffling papers for the rest of the afternoon, Harry sighed heavily, wanting to kick himself for the way he'd buggered up his own birthday. The only bright spot was that he knew Hermione would understand and do just the right thing to make him feel better.
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