Confusion, Panic and Harry Potter

1. Confusion, Panic and Harry Potter

Confusion, Panic, and Harry Potter

Summary: Hermione panics. Harry is terribly confused. Her parents play the part of matchmakers. Plenty of misunderstandings and vague attempts at humor, along with undergarments and bunny slippers. Please read and review -_-.

Hermione Granger was in a state of panic. Ah, she thought sarcastically, what brilliant timing! Coming to visit at 11 o’clock in the morning! When it’s quite obvious I don’t get up until at least noon... Oh, dear...

Her room was on the second floor of their rather cozy home, along a long and straight hallway. The doors were spaced evenly (her parents had measured them; she swore they had OCD): they were exactly 7.15 metres apart (all right, she had measured them too...). But none of this mattered; right now, all that mattered were the 7.42 metres from her bedroom to the bathroom (you use the Pythagorean Theorem and… yeah).

Ah, yes. She was definitely in a state of panic. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have described her house in mathematical terms. Bloody Arithmancy. She was holding a bra and pondering the mysteries of life... such as Why the bloody heck did Harry Potter have to choose today to visit? She positively tore off into the bathroom, neglecting to notice that she’d dropped that bra down the stairs.

Oh, dear! What am I to do? My hair’s a mess, my pajamas are on, my breath smells like eau de toilette...

Your breath smells like expensive French perfume?

No, you idiot, it smells like toilet water. Literally. Toilet water that hasn’t been flushed.

Oh. Nice mental image, Granger.

Thanks.

She ran back into the hallway, then around in circles. She finally decided to jump in the shower before he arrived. Just in the nick of time, as it turns out. Shedding clothes with abandon through the second floor hallway (some purple underwear dropped down the stairwell, ecstatically joining her other undergarments), she leaped into the shower just as the doorbell rang. Phew. Using her finely tuned sense of hearing (okay, okay, she had a pair of waterproof and wireless Extendable Ears in the shower), she listened to what was going on downstairs while supposedly taking a shower.

The door opened.

“Hi, come in!” It was her mother. Someone walked in... then paused. She heard a hesitant but familiar voice that sounded oddly high-pitched. “Why is there underwear on your front door?”

Crap. Bloody, bloody, bloody crap. Nice way to make a good impression, Granger. Dropping your underw... was that the purple underwear? Oh, geez... He’s probably traumatized for life now. Bloody hell. In spite of herself, she turned a very red colour inside the shower.

She finished her shower in record time, brushing her teeth at the same time (multitasking, a useful habit when four heavily armed and angry witches are always fighting for one bathroom). She didn’t bother to grab a towel; instead, she just threw open the door (not hearing the footsteps), dripping water everywhere, and then she ran into…

A magically appeared wall? A rather small elephant? Her father?

No, it was... oh CRAP!

Harry Potter was quite confused. He’d received a frantic owl from Hermione, obviously not in her normal handwriting, and so he’d assumed she was in trouble. But then he got a second owl from Hermione’s parents (owl cloning? he was sure the Grangers had only one owl...?), telling him everything was all right and that Hermione wished to see him immediately.

Visiting his best friend would be a nice distraction from his serious thoughts, so to speak, but he wasn’t really in the mood. But it was Hermione, and if he wanted to retain the ability to have children, he knew he should follow her wishes.

So, he packed cursorily, threw some stuff in the fireplace while his terribly abusive uncle and his cruel cousin snored like two competing bullet trains, and teleported to the Floo stop nearest Hermione’s house (it was hidden in a strangely large mailbox inside an oak tree). The daily routine of any 16-year old boy in England, he was sure.

It wasn’t comfortable, cramped in a mailbox in an oak tree, so Harry resolved to leave. He did so very ungracefully, breaking his hand in two places, as it later turned out. Quite fortunate that broken hand was, as it would turn out. But for now, he simply ignored the pain, brushed himself off, and rang the doorbell. Of course, nobody noticed that a young boy had fallen out of a large mailbox in an oak tree – Muggles were quite unobservant, after all.

A middle-aged woman, presumably Hermione’s mother, opened the door, greeting him happily. He entered the house, and was met by a purple... sand dollar? No, wait... Harry blushed an indeterminable color between red and purple. He was confused...

“Why is there, erm, underwear on your front door?” he squeaked. Mrs. Granger just smiled and replied, “Hermione’s upstairs.” Harry was quite, quite confused by this point. He’d been greeted with purple underwear... and Hermione’s mother hadn’t even batted an eyelash.

Batted an eyelash. What kind of idiotic cliché is that?

Shut up.

He took the opportunity to explore the house a bit… his eyes fell on the stairwell. Intrigued, he embarked upon this new adventure… a pink bra on the fourth step… a white tank top at the top of the stairs... some pajama shorts in the hallway... and he reached the final destination: the second floor hallway. Interesting. As he stared at the enchanted teddy bears on the shorts, a house elf ran into him.

A house elf? In this house? He turned, and saw... Oh dear. Oh dear dear. Dear dear dear. I wonder if those are B cups—

This can’t be happening.

He was quite, quite, quite confused and scarred for life. Was Hermione... stripping for him? But no, she couldn’t be a... erm... promiscuous scarlet woman, could she?

Then, he realized he’d been staring too low for too long, and quickly averted his eyes, inconspicuously adjusted his shorts, turned around, and ran. Quickly. He was definitely scarred for life.

But was he?

Conveniently, Hermione’s parents had left (a note was on the door), and so Harry sat on the couch and started pondering.

Let’s think rationally, Potter. There are plenty of reasons why Hermione would have... thrown her clothes all over the house and come out of a small room naked...

Uh huh, yeah. You know you liked it...

Shut up! He adjusted his pants once more. Right, so, anyway... rationally. Think rationally. Rationally... rashly... rashes... hives... she did look like she had some freckles on her left b... err… yeah. Harry was, quite frankly, terrified. He was terrified that Voldemort had invaded his brain, making him obsessed with parts of the female anatomy. Obviously, he was trying to weaken Harry, bring his guard down. Definitely. Because there was no way that he...

No. Impossible. Not a chance. Definitely not.

Harry and Hermione, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N...

“SHUT UP!” The burst of energy knocked a lamp onto his left hand, and for the first time, he noticed that it was bleeding. Horribly. “Oh, fuc...treacle tart!” Inconspicuously hide left hand in pocket. “Hello, Hermione! Beautiful weather, isn’t it?”

Hermione was a rather... cute (cute? Oh dear...) red color, and she was cutely (oh dear) wringing her hands. He looked at her shirt (more specifically, certain portions of the female anatomy hidden by her shirt). Several seconds passed, and Hermione turned a cuter red color. She cleared her throat. “Harry... my eyes are up here.”

Crap. Pull something out of your bag o’ excuses, Potter... I’m going to go take a sun bath.

Gee, thanks, Mr. Conscience.

Harry blushed, stammering, “I was reading your shirt.” Hermione was... grinning? So she was a promiscuous scarlet woman...

“Harry, my shirt is white.”

Oh... she was laughing at him. Then, his hand started hurting. Very badly. It had been in his pocket, and he pulled it out, and saw nothing but red. The last thing he remembered before passing out was that she wasn’t wearing a bra...

Hermione was still in a state of panic. It was obviously awkward, seeing your ugly best friend naked with clothes lying around, and so she’d decided to counsel him (after all, he would have been scarred for life after that eyeful). She walked down, they exchanged a few comfortable greetings (just kidding, it was awkward as heck), then he... pulled his hand out of his pocket and... passed out? Oh, dear! She rushed over, and saw that his hand was lying in a pool of blood... she gasped and covered her mouth.

Oh, my god... he was so scarred that he tried to commit suicide? I’m such an idiot! Running out of the shower with him in the house... and he’s obviously grieving over Sirius... shut up, Hermione, help him!

She muttered a charm that cleaned up the blood, then she immediately threw up. Covering her mouth, she ran into the nearest bathroom. She never did handle blood that well...

She returned, five minutes later, and Harry was still lying unconscious. She could see that his hand was broken (phew, not a suicide attempt), and so she waited for him to wake up. Five minutes later, she was asleep next to him.

Harry was lying down in... vomit. Oh, god... He knew the last few hours had been a dream. Every day, it was the same. He’d get up, sometimes actually get up off the bed, but usually, he would just lie in bed and drink the brandy and vodka that he routinely pilfered from Uncle Vernon’s alcohol cabinet (usually a vodka, although sometimes he was adventurous, trying some of the French cognac, although the whiskey was rather disgusting), and pass out into a pool of his own vomit... it was always the same. Every day that Hermione didn’t send him a letter (they were all in his pocket, magically shrunken; he’d pull one out whenever he was especially depressed), he was literally drowning in his own miseries.

Oh, god... my hand hurts like hell. He tried to pick up his hand... and met resistance. He opened his eyes, and saw... clothes. A person? In his bed? He tried to reach for his wand but yelled incoherently, as his hand just felt like Draco Malfoy had stabbed him repeatedly with one of his twenty body piercings. He noticed that Hermione had apparently fallen asleep on him, and for the first time, he noticed how cute (oh dear) she looked while she was asleep. But moreover, he realized it hadn’t been a dream, that he had really seen... oh, great. He was pinned under Hermione, and his... male anatomy was... active... crap.

She woke up at that moment. He grinned, hoping to distract her.

“Hey, Hermione. Nice weather, eh?”

She just chuckled. “Of course.” Then she realized that Harry was covered in vomit. “Oh, Harry! I’m so sorry! Let me get some paper towels!” She got up... and fell back down again. Harry made an odd expression.

“Hermione... it’s quite all right. I’ll handle it.” True to his word, he rose gracefully, walked five feet, and returned with paper towels. Hermione had risen to a sitting position as well, and she was, again, wringing her hands cutely (oh dear). He stared at her for awhile, then shook his head and began cleaning up the floor.

They sat around for a few minutes, very uncomfortable. Harry decided to talk to her.

“So, Hermione... why aren’t you wearing a bra?” Harry immediately blushed for obvious reasons, but Hermione looked... furious? “Err, not saying that’s bad... actually that’s good... err, what I mean is...” Harry paused dramatically, then started pleading. “Please don’t slap me...”

Hermione’s expression softened... just a bit. Now she looked like Professor McGonagall in a good mood. Then, she slapped him.

“Harry James Potter! Why are you staring at my chest?!”

He was caught. “Guess you caught me red-handed! Heh, heh, get it? Red-handed?” She just glared at him. He blushed and tried to come up with a better response. He blurted out, “They’re nice!”

Nice one, Potter.

He took one look at Hermione’s horror-stricken face and ran. Quickly. He’d never been in Hermione’s house before, so he just ran in circles and up the stairs, ending up in... Hermione’s room. Better than nothing, I guess.

So, rational thinking. Hermione’s probably very hurt and offended that I was staring... oh, geez. And she’s probably about to kill me... and I probably hurt her feelings.

Yeah. That just about sums it up, right there. Then you said her... you-know-whats... were “nice”... nice one, Harry.

She’s my best friend...

Harry started rubbing his forehead, convinced that he was a horrible person for hurting his best friend’s feelings. Of course, that didn’t apply to Ron... Hermione was different. He didn’t care one bit about teasing, laughing at, or humiliating Ron, but Hermione... Frankly, he’d probably curse (or punch, if his wand wasn’t handy) anyone who hurt Hermione’s feelings... like he had just then. He sat with his head in his hands, hoping Hermione didn’t find him there.

Harry, you idiot, you’re in her room. Ah, yes, and therein lay the problem. But he was just so... clueless... and he was a terrible, terrible person. More memories flooded back – he’d been the reason his parents had died... he’d been the reason Sirius died, Cedric Diggory... and probably countless others that he just hadn’t heard of. It was at that moment that he finally broke. The barriers he’d kept up for three weeks finally collapsed, and he started crying. Not really noticing where he was, he fell down onto the bed (Hermione’s bed) and started crying softly into the sheets.

In hindsight, he would realize that it was his unconscious mind staring at the picture of Hermione and her parents on vacation that finally broke him.

And ten minutes after a rather humorous exchange, all thoughts of that girl fled Harry Potter’s mind, replaced with nothing but death and, of course, flashes of green light. Some aspect, at least, of his daily routine at the Dursleys’ was present.

Hermione sat on her couch, feeling awful, to say the least. Oh, why did I bring that up? I could have taken the chance to ask him about how he was feeling, but no... I had to slap him. I’m worse than those Death Eaters... well, no I’m not. Should I go up and console him? And why did he stare at my chest? It’s not like there’s anything there...

He’s a 15 year old guy, Hermione. About to turn 16. Obviously he’s going to stare at your... yeah.

Hermione sighed. She had no idea what to do. She could try to go upstairs and find Harry, but... what if he didn’t want to see her? What if he wanted to be alone? What if he...

Oh, crap. Bloody crap. She tore upstairs and into the bathroom. She retrieved the items of interest and tore into her room, only to find... Bloody crap.

Hermione stood at the doorway, holding a pair of pink bunny slippers and a rather... revealing negligée. Harry looked up (Hermione noticed he had been crying), then immediately smashed his head into a nearby pillow.

“Hermione,” he said with his head buried in the pillow, “you’re scaring me.” He adjusted the pillow. “First, you strip in the hallway.” He shifted his body. “Then, you slap me.” He tried to get more comfortable on the rather short bed. “Then, you come into the room holding pink bunny slippers and... whatever that clear red thing is.” He looked like he was trying to smother himself with the pillow. “Hermione... are you feeling okay?”

Hermione smirked inwardly, an inward expression that was immediately replaced by guilt. “Oh, Harry... I didn’t mean to scare you...” Then, she came up with a most evil and nefarious plot. A plot that would rival Voldemort’s in cunning and guile, and sheer horror factor.

“Harry,” she said in her saddest voice, “look at me.” He looked up. “Harry...” She took off her shirt seductively. Why the hell am I doing this... She went over to her dresser... Harry licked his lips unconsciously. Why the hell is she doing this... She picked out a rather... tame shirt, Harry noted to his confused disappointment, and put it on. She turned around brightly.

“So, Harry! How’s that hand?”

Very, very strange, that girl was.

Harry Potter was a very confused boy. Here he lay on a girl’s bed, having just seen said girl naked twice in quick succession. He looked at Hermione’s shirt (this time there was something to read). “Parents? Who needs parents! They’re good for nothing but money and insurance!” He took one look at the words and buried his face into the pillow, sobbing uncontrollably.

Hermione was utterly ashamed. While she’d been carrying out her evil and totally unnecessary and cruel and pointless plot, she hadn’t been paying attention to the shirt she put on. She did the only thing she could do: she ran over to her bed and hugged Harry tightly, rocking him back and forth. “It’s all right, Harry, it’s all right... I’m so sorry... so sorry...” and she couldn’t help herself, as the images she was sure Harry was experiencing came to her mind, and a few tears escaped her barriers, as well.

The two teenagers had seen too much death to be embarrassed at the mere triviality of a good cry. As both would later learn, Hermione’s parents had hoped the two of them would finally get together, but... this was the result.

This was the end result. A young lady and a younger gentleman (only by a few weeks) sat on a bed, crying. They weren’t crying because they’d gotten terrible scores on the GCSEs; they weren’t crying because they’d been rejected from Imperial College, London; they weren’t crying because they’d just watched Schindler’s List. No, they were crying because they’d seen death, and perhaps the Plan set out by Hermione’s parents was the best thing that ever happened to them.

Crying beats what Harry had planned earlier in the day (there was a rather tempting bottle full of sleeping pills that he’d stolen from Uncle Vernon’s drawer).

But I digress.

Anyhow, Hermione looked up first, into those green eyes of his. She impulsively kissed his scar, sending jolts through both of their bodies. Harry looked up slowly. There were no romantic feelings there – no “butterflies in the stomach,” no impulses to kiss her “beautiful lips.”

Those moments had already passed when they’d met in the hallway in far-too-few clothes.

Those moments would come again later, much later. Instead, at this moment, they shared the much too common bond of shared tragedy, and as they looked each other in the eyes, they somehow knew that it was destiny. But, again, even the romances of fate would come later. She was tired, and he was tired. They moved into a more comfortable position and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Only later, much later, would they realize how significant this moment had been. Three years later, trapped in a cell deep in the depths of Scotland, they would recall this moment, along with countless others, just to stay sane. Five years later, finally healthy after a long period of recuperation (defeating the darkest wizard ever took some strength out of them, you know?), they would sit on her bed. She would blush, as she remembered her fateful and evil plan, while he would, once again, simply adjust his pants.

But for now, they supported each other. And this mutual support was all that mattered in the long run.

Fin.

A/N: I wrote this whole story listening to Rachmaninoff Piano Concertos and Preludes. Very sad pieces. The recordings sound much better than my attempts to play the pieces... The “humor” of this story lies mainly in the beginning plot. This is just a fic to “test the waters,” so to speak. Please be honest in your reviews; I might start up a novel-length fic soon. If you have any suggestions, please tell me. If you want to beta a future story of mine, or if you want me to beta one of yours, or anything like that, feel free to e-mail or PM me.

Cheers, et à bientôt, peut-être.