Harry Potter and the Half-Arsed Pinch

Harry Potter and the Half-Arsed Pinch

A/N: Much commentary about HBP has been made, and it seems that almost everyone has put in his two cents worth. Almost, but not quite, since nothing has been heard from the main subject of discussion. I refer to Harry Potter, and what HE thinks about sundry matters revealed recently in Book Six!

This is a first person, way-over-the-top parody of parts of HBP, so expect OOC-ness, or maybe not, depending upon how strong your feelings are. Warnings are given, and should be heeded, for smut, profanity, really excessive vulgarity, always-popular gratuitous Slytherin/Draco-bashing, and other nastiness.

I do not own Harry, Hermione, Ron, et al, who are property of the usual suspects, though Harry himself may have different ideas about that.

Chapter 1: Optimist or Pessimist?

"There comes a time in every man’s life - and I’VE had a LOT of them!"

- Charles Dillon "Casey" Stengel

Quite a few years before I was born, the above was said by a famous American baseball manager, philosopher, and all-around clown. He was the inventor and sole practitioner of a peculiar dialect of English, "Stengelese," with its own uniquely bizarre grammar, syntax, and logic. Nevertheless, in a single sentence, this quotation captures the sixteen years of my life far better than does anything else that I’ve ever heard or read.

I, Harry Potter, also have experienced a lot of interesting "times" in my still young life, and most of them have been decidedly less than pleasant. But, there have been just enough good ones to keep me going.

Perhaps I should have written "created" or "invented" in place of "born" in the first sentence of the first paragraph above. After all, most people believe that I’m only a fictional character, and not a real person! It’s undeniably true that the esteemed biographer of my student days at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, J. K. Rowling, initially did construct me, my friends and enemies, and my entire magical world solely from her own imagination. Further, she made up my personal background, including the first eleven years of my life, which were NOT very nice.

However, regardless of legal technicalities related to commercial rights to my name and its use in various media, I’ve taken on a life of my own, and as time passes on, I’ve become more and more independent in my own mind. With such independence comes a realization and I, and only I, ultimately will make the meaningful decisions in my life.

In short, I have issues with my creator, and among the more significant ones are her depictions of my relationships with magical persons of the feminine persuasion in general, and with two young witches in particular.

I find that no longer can I remain silent, in the light of the most recent publication of what my "owner" deemed to be a worthwhile chronicle of the important events of my sixth year at Hogwarts. While almost everything in the book did happen, so much else was omitted. Now, I do realize that she writes for a very large audience, including young readers, for whom certain delicate matters must be handled very carefully, if at all. Also, certain constraints afflict every writer, such as book length, editorial requirements, and other policies of the publisher.

That said, I once read that one of the most effective ways to lie is to tell only part of the truth, and then to shut up, allowing the listener to draw the wrong conclusion from insufficient data. Accordingly, I offer here a small portion of the "so much else" missing from the book, which I assure the reader is the true, unvarnished, and uncensored story of what happened.

* * * * * *

In the Gryffindor House common room, my best mate, Ron Weasley, and I were engaged in a conversation, concerning what had become A Most Important Subject for both of us. It was not about Defense Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, or any other area of scholarly magical theory or practice. Nor was it serious preparation for or speculation about the war with Voldemort, his Death Eaters, and possible other evil doers. Nor was it concerning Quidditch, our mutually favorite form of magical sport and recreation.

Rather, it was about certain fellow classmates, specifically student witches of roughly similar age as us, their virtues and vices, their strong and weak points, and most important of all, their potential "shaggability."

Yes, both us have grown up, to put in mildly, and just as with almost all other males in middle to late teen years, our interests are changing. To be blunt, both of us have become VERY interested in the aforementioned female schoolmates, or at least in certain parts of their bodies, since constantly we are as randy as the proverbial three-balled tom-kneazle!

Temporarily, Ron’s style was somewhat restricted, as he had become involved with house and classmate Lavender Brown. She was Gryffindor’s prime airhead and self appointed Gossipmonger-in-Chief, BUT, she did have some redeeming features; a body built like a brick broom shed, AND an enjoyment of physical contact with members of the opposite sex.

She and her sidekick, Parvati Patil, entered the common room and sashayed across it. Ron’s back was to them, but I got a double eyeful of the fronts of their VERY tight cashmere jumpers, pink and light blue respectively, both tremendously misshapen and moving about in the most delicious of ways.

Observing my attention becoming locked onto some obviously interesting sight, Ron turned, only to get a glimpse of the rear ends of the pair of witches, by no means unpleasant in themselves, as they headed toward the dorm stairs.

"WON WON!" yelled Lavender, looking back over her shoulder. "Don’t wowwy, I’ll wush wight back! I weally want to wun my fingews thwough your wondewful wed haiw!"

The first time I heard Lavender’s new, cutesy, "Won-speak," I thought someone accidentally had stepped on a duck. But, I was used to it by now, and I could easily ignore it.

On the other hand, Hermione Granger, my other best friend, never had - gotten used to it, that is. She was sitting across the room and reading. She cringed visibly, shot Lavender a dirty look, and seemed to be contemplating whether or not the old custom of burning witches at the stake might be worthy of reinstatement, at least in certain special cases.

"Some fwiend you awe . . . ERK . . . she’s got me talking that way!" Ron exclaimed to me, "why didn’t you let me know that THEY were passing by?"

"Sorry, mate," I replied, grinning, "but I was preoccupied with the sight of the four, er, the TWO of them for a while. Have you ever seen a pair of witches whose bodily accessories can move in so many different directions simultaneously?"

"You’re right about that, mate," said Ron, and he turned to catch one last glimpse of the girls’ bums, as they headed up to their dorm. "And, if those jeans of theirs were any tighter, they be wearing them on the inside!"

"HONESTLY!" huffed Hermione from across the room, "don’t you think of anything but female backsides, Ron Weasley?"

"Sure, I do," answered Ron, "I’m a firm believer in practicing a balanced approach to reckless eyeballing, but my good friend here failed to warn me in time!"

"I said I was sorry, mate," I said, and then I exclaimed, "HEY! Just to show you that my heart’s in right place, here comes another way-too-tight-jumper bit of goodness!"

"BOYS!" Hermione huffed again, as if that four-letter word was a REAL four-letter word, and she returned to perusing her well-read copy of 101 Reasons Why Cucumbers Are Better Than Men.

We ignored Hermione, and Ron turned to see a young witch heading directly for us. Indeed, she was wearing - or maybe it was painted on - a very tight light green jumper, which also was VERY distorted in shape in the upper front, and under which the two causes of said distortion were bouncing and jiggling in a most wonderful manner.

Unfortunately for Ron, she possessed both a beautiful head of red hair that contrasted nicely with her green sweater AND a too closely shared genetic heritage with him.

"YUCK, Harry," Ron said, looking away from his sister’s chest, "I can’t stare at GINNY, for heaven’s sakes! She’s my sister!"

"That’s alright, Ron," I said, "what are friends for? I’LL be more than happy to stare at her enough for the both of us!"

"Er, ah . . . thanks . . . I guess," Ron said. "Wait a minute!" he continued, but his sister interrupted.

"HARRY!" exclaimed Ginny Weasley, as she flopped onto the couch beside me, causing me first to smell flowers, and then to experience gastrointestinal distress. Yeah, right!

No, I just lied. What actually happened FIRST is that I enjoyed the view of her boobs alternately defying and obeying the law of gravity, by continuing to move up and down for a bit, after the rest of her had stopped.

‘Hmm,’ I thought, ‘should I follow Lavender’s example with ‘Won Won’ and make up a cute nickname for Ginny, or not? ‘Gin Gin’ sounds either Asian or like a drunk demanding a refill. Somehow, a flowery name such as ‘Hollyhock,’ or ‘Snapdragon’ or ‘Rhododendron’ just doesn’t do it. Nor do ‘Pepto Bismol’ or ‘Miss Maalox,’ either.’

"My tummy hurts," I said, "are you ready for us finally to get together? Could you rub my tummy? Would you like to go somewhere private and, er, TALK, or whatever? Answer the last question first, please."

"Yes, no, and yes!" answered Ginny.

"Huh?" I said. "Oh shit! Had I actually asked those questions ALOUD?"

"Yes, I’d like to go somewhere private, but I can’t, because, no, I’m not ready yet for us to be together. BUT, yes, I could rub your . . . tummy," Ginny answered brightly, giving a brief glance at my midsection and a much longer look at the area immediately below it.

"Uh, why not?" I asked.

"Because there remain at least three student wizards here at Hogwarts whom I haven’t yet shag - , er, I mean DATED," said Ginny.

"ARGH . . . URGLE . . . BURGLE," A very red-faced Ron attempted to speak, but he sounded less like an angry teenager and more like an elderly member of the House of Lords who had been partaking of an excessive quantity of port too early in the day. Alas, he did confirm my fear that I had vocalized my thoughts, and he did seem to be expressing his brotherly protective instinct toward his sister.

"Ginny, if you’re really interested in and have feelings for me," I began in a quiet voice, "then why are you, er, DATING so many other blokes?"

"Because I’m saving the best - YOU - for last, of course," said Ginny. "Anyway, look on the bright side, Harry, at least I don’t swing both ways. Think of how much longer you’d have to wait, if I had to date every witch in the school, as well!"

"BLOODY HELL!" Ron shouted, finally recovering his voice.

Ginny ignored him, but Hermione gave him a nasty glare from across the room.

I tried to warn Ron about his language, but Ginny continued speaking.

"I wonder," she said, "if I should try to give Draco another chance? When we got together yesterday, things did not go very well."

"M-M-M-Malfoy?" Ron sputtered, but before he could say another word, the lovely and clinging "Lav Lav," having sneakily returned from upstairs, pounced upon him from behind, pulled his head around, and planted a classic lip-lock on his mouth.

"D-D-D-Draco?" I asked.

"It was sad, Harry," said Ginny, "you remember how I used to become paralyzed and speechless around you for the longest time, don’t you?"

"Yes," I replied, unsure precisely where this conversation was heading.

"Well, I seem to have the opposite problem with Draco," said Ginny, "and every single thing I said to him yesterday seemed to be wrong!"

"How so?" I asked.

"After quite a while, we decided to take the next logical step in our relationship. I mean, we had been on our first date and snogging for ten whole minutes!" said Ginny.

"MMPH . . . BLOOG . . . " Ron tried valiantly to speak, which was impossible due to Lavender’s tongue massaging his upper esophagus.

Both Ginny and I attempted gamely to ignore the sounds emanating from the juncture of their mouths, which resembled nothing so much as the gurgling of bathtub water emptying into an old drain pipe. From across the room, I noticed that Hermione had begun to huff and puff like a steam engine.

"We got undressed, and Draco showed me his . . . his ‘Little Draco,’ and he asked me what I thought of ‘him.’ I told him the truth, that ‘he’ was cute, and that ‘he’ looked just like a typical erect penis, only smaller!" Ginny continued.

I couldn’t help but to laugh, and Ginny went on.

"Draco didn’t like my answer, so I asked him if it would get any larger. Sadly, that too was the wrong thing to say, because it got both somewhat smaller and a bit . . . less firm. Come to think of it, ‘Tiny Draco’ would have been a more realistic nickname. Then, we got into an argument about semantics, of all things!" said Ginny.

"Huh?" I said

"L-L-L-L-LESS FIRM!" Ron shouted, Lavender finally having been forced to break off oral contact, due to oxygen requirements.

"Well, yes," said Ginny, "it just wasn’t up to performing as designed. Think of trying to shoot a game of snooker with a length of rope, instead of a cue, to use an apt analogy."

Now, Lavender started to giggle. So did Parvati, who had entered the room and taken a seat near us.

"Anyway, the argument started when I asked Draco why his thing was half-soft. He accused me of being a pessimist, rather than an optimist, and he insisted that ‘Little Draco’ was NOT half-soft, but rather, ‘he’ was half-hard!"

On hearing this, even Ron had to smile.

"Though it took a while, with some help from me, ‘Little Draco’ was restored to operating condition, more or less. So, we started to do the deed, as it were," said Ginny. She continued, "I knew that something had to be wrong, because I wasn’t feeling much of anything. Draco must have, though, because after about fifteen seconds, he started to move faster. Then I said something else that he didn’t appreciate."

Amid our laughter, I managed to ask Ginny, "what was that?"

"I simply asked him the most obvious of questions, ‘is it in yet?’ and - how shall I put this most accurately - either it never had been, or, if it had, suddenly it wasn’t anymore!" said Ginny. "Of course, then we found ourselves back in the ‘optimist/pessimist’ and ‘half-hard/half-soft’ debate situation. Draco was NOT happy, and he seemed to take even greater offense when I giggled and showed him that all I needed to handle ‘Little Draco’ was a thumb and forefinger. He told me to get out and never to come back!"

No one in the room, including Ron, said anything for a long time, mainly because all of us were laughing so hard. Even Hermione seemed to have calmed down, and she actually gave a slight chuckle.

"I heard Draco yell for Pansy Parkinson, and just as I opened the door to leave, I saw her outside it on her knees. The sneaky bitch had been listening or watching us through the keyhole! And," Ginny continued, "she was dressed in a black leather outfit, topped off with a feather duster in one hand and a cat-o-nine-tails whip in the other. AND, she had a ‘you-know-what’ attached to a harness strapped around her waist!"

Everyone seemed too shocked to laugh at first, and Ron looked a bit confused.

"I got the hell out of there VERY quickly," said Ginny, "and I started to run when I heard Pansy and Draco calling each other ‘my bitch’ and ‘big daddy,’ though with conventional gender roles reversed, if you understand my meaning!"

"BLOODY HELL!" Ron exclaimed, and Hermione’s face clouded over. Ron continued, "what exactly did you mean by ‘a you-know-what,’ Ginny?"

Ignoring Ron, Ginny lowered her voice and said, "if I’m not mistaken, it looked like a ‘Model HP’ from Fred and George’s ‘special’ catalog!"

"NO!" exclaimed Lavender.

"REALLY?" said Parvati, and all three girls smirked in my direction.

"How did Pansy manage to get one?" asked Lavender.

"Fred and George said that they’re almost impossible to keep in stock, and they’ve been backordered for weeks!" added Parvati.

"Months, actually," said Ginny, "but, I suspect that my prats of twin brothers might just have arranged for some special payment method from Pansy!" That said, she winked at Parvati, opened her mouth wide, forming a circle with her lips, and in front of it, she curled the fingers of her right hand, as if grasping a cylindrical object.

I couldn’t resist that opening, so to speak, "you’re probably right, Ginny, because when the twins visited last week, somehow, the subject of Hogwarts witches came up." The girls rolled their eyes, but I continued, "both of them mentioned that in spite of her Slytherin affiliation, Pansy did have one of the most talented mouths that they had ever come across!"

Hermione hid her face behind her book again, but I did hear a giggle from her direction. The other girls blushed furiously, but also they laughed very loudly at my crude joke.

Ron, who missed it completely, still seemed to be at a complete loss. Then, he noticed my red face.

"BLOODY HELL!" he yelled again, and Hermione dropped her book, and she gave him a REALLY nasty look, but he continued. "What the bloody hell is ‘a Model HP you-know-what,’ Ginny?"

"It’s one of Fred and George’s ‘adult novelties,’ Ron," answered Ginny. "You have seen their special catalog, haven’t you?"

"NO!" yelled Ron, "I haven’t a clue of what all of you are going on about!"

Without a word, Hermione reached into her book bag, withdrew a glossy sales brochure, and threw it across the room at Ron. She glared at him and returned to her reading.

He looked at the cover:

WEASLEYS’ WIZARDING WHEEZES

Adult Products for Adult Fun

WARNING: Not for Sale to

Underage Witches or Wizards!

"Turn to page eighteen, the section of ‘Toys for Witches - Realistic Famous Wizard Wands - Extra Large,’ and I believe that you’ll see what we’re talking about," said Ginny.

"BLOODY HELL!" Ron shouted, "what exactly are these . . . these THINGS?"

"See," said Lavender in a whisper to Parvati, "I told you that ‘Won Won’ can be totally clueless at times!"

"They’re . . . they’re ‘phallic symbols,’ Ron," said Ginny, with a grin, but also with her blush deepening.

"Huh?" said Ron, with a puzzled expression, "you say they’re ‘phallic symbols?’ Are you really sure about that?"

I was biting my tongue to keep from laughing.

"I’m sure, Ron," said Ginny.

"Well, thank the gods for THAT," said Ron, "I hate to say what I thought they looked like!"

Everyone burst out in uncontrollable laughter. Ron glared at us, and then he started to laugh, as well. "I had all of you going there, didn’t I? Of course, I know what they really are . . . let’s see . . . Aha! Here’s ‘Model HP’ . . . Holy dragon dung, that one’s a real whopper! Hmmm, I wonder just what the ‘HP’ stands for. It could be ‘Hippogriff Pecker’ or ‘Horse Prick’ or . . . or . . . "

Suddenly, a look of horror appeared on Ron’s face. He looked first at me and then at Ginny. Then he looked at each of us again, only this time below our waists. He looked back at the catalog description of ‘Model HP’ and carefully read the exact measurements. His mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound emerged.

Ginny arose, blew me a kiss, and said, "well, I’m off. I have people to see and things to do . . . and vice versa." Then, to Ron, she added, "now, do you understand why I’m saving Harry for last?"

"BLOODY HELL! BLOODY HELL! BLOODY HELL!" Ron shouted, but before he could say another word, from across the room, Hermione exploded.

"RONALD WEASLEY! You are the most insensitive, insufferable, and thoughtless piece of shit I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing!" she screamed, as she got out of her chair, grabbed her book bag, and stalked across the room to the portrait hole exit.

"What the bloody hell are you talking about, Hermione?" Ron yelled back.

Just before passing through the exit, she tossed off as a parting shot, "why don’t you owl your brothers’ shop, order a centaur-sized ‘wand,’ and go fuck yourself!"

"WOW!" I said, speaking first after a long period of silence in the room.

"Definitely, ‘wow’ is right!" added Parvati next, her eyes wide in surprise, "I can’t believe it! Hermione Granger just laid TWO profanities on you, Ron, including the ultimate ‘F-word,’ no less!"

"Ignore her, sweetie Won Won," said Lavender, "you know how Hermione gets on her special day each month."

"Oh," said Ron, in a very small voice.

"I tried to warn you a couple of minutes ago, mate," I said, "and if I recall, I definitely mentioned to you first thing this morning about Hermione’s ‘day of the month’ and your ‘B-H’ comments."

"I know, I know," said Ron, "but, I just can’t help it! What can we do, Harry?"

"I think I know where she may have gone," I said, "I’ll see if I can find her and square things."

In reality, I knew precisely where Hermione had gone, to a place she thought to be private from everyone, including her two best friends.

To be continued . . .

A/N: There will be one more chapter, in which Harry will describe what happened in Hermione’s secret hideaway, which unfortunately was omitted from the HBP canon version of his sixth year, hopefully to be finished by next weekend.

Also, I hope to have Chapter Six of Gryffindor Sixth Year Follies posted within a few days.

A/N: This concludes a "two-shot" story of some unrevealed sixth year happenings, at least in HBP. Now it’s time for less farce and a LOT of angst, complete with tears, plus hints at what the future may bring, and the all-important explanation of what REALLY happened, relationship-wise, during Harry’s sixth year at Hogwarts. Also, for those disappointed in Hermione's minor role in the first chapter, this one's for you.

This was inspired by various "bad-time-of-the-month" stories in general, and by the wonderfully funny, first person Time of the Month by kyc639, in particular.

WARNING: There will be some humorous filth (or filthy humor or whatever) in this chapter, but consider it to be a bit of an experiment. Its purpose is to elicit BOTH laughter AND tears from the reader.

Thanks for all of the great reviews, and please enjoy this concluding chapter.

Harry Potter and the Half-Arsed Pinch

Chapter 2: True Love is a Durable Fire

Before I detail my adventure with a very irate Hermione Granger, a background digression concerning my two best friends is in order. This involves sensitive subject matter that my "official" biographer never has mentioned, for obvious reasons.

As should be painfully clear from her recent outburst, Hermione is not ALWAYS a friendly, kind, caring, rational, and studious witch. One day each month, on the first day of her period to be precise, she experiences terrible cramps and backaches. She suffers from a condition called dysmenorrhea, if I have the spelling correct, which is different from premenstrual syndrome, which to a greater or lesser extent afflicts many more women, both witches and Muggles.

The good news is that it affects her seriously only for the single day, after which a combined dose of a mild muggle pain medicine and a magical potion taken for a few days seems to alleviate the symptoms considerably. The bad news is that on that "special day" each month, she is not well, either physically or emotionally.

Both Ron Weasley and I know this, and we have known it since the start of our third year. We were reminded of it following the winter holiday break, and at the start of our fourth year, etc. Since then, and on the same semi-annual basis, the two of us have been accosted by a group of Gryffindor females, consisting of Lavender Brown, Parvati Patil, and Ginny Weasley. Each time, they have grabbed us by our ears, in my case figuratively, but in Ron’s quite literally, hustled us into a deserted classroom, sat us down, and lectured us concerning Hermione’s condition.

Now, Ron is NOT stupid, in spite of his uncanny ability at times to give the strong impression that he is no more intelligent than a pile of rocks, or, to be more charitable, perhaps a two-slice toaster. But, he can be very stubborn, or, to put it more accurately, stubbornly, aggressively, and INTENTIONALLY ignorant of certain sorts of things.

To him, the exact details of female reproductive biology rank very, very high, if not at the top, on his list of "Things-That-Ron-Weasley-Never-Ever-In-A-Million-Years-Wants-To-Know-About!"

I suspect that if asked, he would say that "PMS" is an acronym for "Potion Master’s Shorts," and that a "menstrual cycle" is some sort of French two-wheeled vehicle. I’m fairly sure that he remembers only one word that both begins with a "d" and ends with "rhea," and one other word that ends the same, and that he DEFINITELY does not want to talk about either one!

In short, his memory of such things in general is approximately as long as Malfoy’s prick, and he forgets everything he’s heard about Hermione’s particular situation almost immediately as well, setting the stage for the inevitable shouting match each month.

It matters not that I maintain a calendar, annotated months in advance with Hermione’s probable bad days, and edited/adjusted as may be necessary. Nor does it seem to help when on each such day, the first thing in the morning that I do after we awaken is to remind him of her status.

The real problem, as perceptive readers undoubtedly have guessed already, is that Ron has a certain favorite all-purpose exclamation that he uses quite frequently. Superficially, it is made up merely of two simple words, an adjective and a noun, but when spoken together, "bloody hell" arguably is THE single most offensive sound to a young woman who presently is suffering precisely that!

Of course, insult is piled onto injury, when it has been uttered in a masculine voice belonging to someone who is supposed to be a friend, but who nevertheless does not enjoy an impeccable reputation for possessing a refined appreciation and sensitivity for certain sorts of feminine problems and feelings.

Bearing all of the foregoing in mind, is it any wonder that after hearing a few dozen of Ron’s patented "B-H" exclamations, that Hermione’s current short fuse ignited an explosion?

* * * * *

Returning to the problem at hand, deciding how to approach Hermione when she most needed some comforting help, I called upon my Gryffindor courage. I remembered the immortal words of a famous film comedian, "the time has come to take the bull by the tail and face the situation!"

Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. I did mention that I knew where she had gone, didn’t I?

Sometime during our third year, when Hermione was overworking herself by use of a time-turner, she had discovered the completely deserted nature of the rooms in a certain part of the castle.

Notwithstanding the fact that the Philosopher’s Stone had been destroyed at the end of our first year, the third floor corridor that led to the entrance of its former hiding place had remained "forbidden" to this very day, at least in the official school regulations and on castle floor plan maps maintained by Caretaker Filch.

Hermione had appropriated a room there, created her own private "uncommon room," to coin a phrase, for the purpose of having absolute peace and quiet in keeping up with her excessive load of schoolwork. Even after third year, when she had returned to carrying a normal course load, Hermione would return to her special room occasionally. More often than not, such excursions followed "special day" arguments with Ron Weasley.

I had discovered her little hideaway immediately, by means of the Marauders’ Map, of course. While I did feel slightly hurt that she had felt the need to keep such a place secret from her best friends, I did understand that she must have had a good reason for doing so. At first, I was worried that she might have been seeing some bloke there, but every time I checked the map whenever she was missing, her label appeared on it always very much by herself.

Regardless, I had kept her secret and respected her privacy for three years. However, today, I determined that I would violate it.

I went to my dorm room, verified Hermione’s location on the Marauders’ Map, grabbed my invisibility cloak, returned to the common room, and left.

Since it was a Saturday, Filch was patrolling outside, in order to try to catch any students attempting to leave the grounds and sneak off to Hogsmeade. I was able to make my way to the door of Hermione’s special room without being seen by anyone else, as well.

I knocked on the door, and after a brief silence, I heard her muffled voice.

"Go away . . . there’s no one here," she said.

I laughed out loud, thinking, ‘even Ron’s not dumb enough to believe that. She must be really upset. Well, here goes nothing!’

"Damned Stupid Prat," I said, speaking aloud the password shown on the map, and sure enough, the door unlocked itself. I turned the knob, pushed the door open, and entered the room.

To the right was a large desk, and on top of it were a half dozen books and a lot of writing materials. To the left were a modest bookcase and a comfortable looking easy chair next to the single window of the room.

Across the room, Hermione was sitting on a very large couch, with her head bowed and her face buried in her hands.

"May I come in?" I asked in a quiet voice.

"No! Go away!" she replied, with her face still hidden.

Slowly I walked across the room and sat down next to her. Belatedly, I asked, "may I sit down, Hermione?"

"NO!" she yelled, finally looking up. "I WANT YOU TO LEAVE!"

‘Oh, my!’ I thought, noting her very red and tear-streaked face, ‘she really is hurting, and she’s been crying her eyes out!’

I reached for her, and said, "you look like you could use a good hug. May I?" only to be greeted by flashing eyes AND a strong slap to the side of my face! Without giving it much thought, somehow I forced my head to turn and said, "go ahead and hit the other side, if it’ll make you feel better."

Hermione glared at me, but her lower lip was quivering, and then, her entire body began to shake.

‘Oh, shit,’ I thought, ‘Potter, you had better do something and quickly, before she breaks down completely!’ Then, in all humility, I was struck by an idea both brilliant and risky. I would try to shock her in order to defuse the now tense situation, by appealing to her sense of humor!

Now, dear readers, before you fall on the floor laughing in contemplating in the same thought the name "Hermione Granger" and the idea of "a sense of humor," let me assure that she does possess one, contrary to almost everything that has been written about her by my biographer.

There was the time when she jinxed Professor Snape’s robes so artfully that every time he uttered my name out loud, he appeared to break wind in the form of multi-colored soap bubbles, accompanied by spectacularly vulgar sound effects. Also, there was - wait, I’m getting off the subject!

To be sure, Hermione has NO sense of humor concerning some subjects, such as schoolwork, most school rules, my personal safety, and such, but this situation was different. When she did not slap the shavings out of the other side of my face, I took my chance.

"Well, let’s see," I said, "you didn’t want me to come in, or to sit down, or to give you a hug," and I reached out under her chin to lift her head. I looked into her eyes, and I gave her my very best "Harry-Potter-Knickers-Wetting" smile. "I suppose that my asking you for a blow job would be completely out of the question?"

Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped, and for a long pause, no sound emerged from her mouth. I wondered if I had miscalculated badly.

I laughed, and that broke the ice. Hermione giggled, then she laughed. She grabbed me in a hug, buried her face in my shoulder, and she laughed even harder. Unfortunately, after a while, her laughter took on a hysterical tone, and just when I thought that she was about to begin to cry again, she pulled back, and looked at me.

"I . . . I . . . I’m sorry, Harry. I shouldn’t have hit you. It’s . . . it’s just - " she began, but I cut in.

"You don’t have to apologize, Hermione. I deserved at least some punishment for invading your privacy, and for that rather crude attempt at humor, but I couldn’t just let you - " I said, only to interrupted by her.

"You don’t have to explain. But, you’ve got to promise me not to try to make excuses for Ron," she said.

I took a deep breath. "I’m not here for Ron," I said, "I’m here for YOU . . . to see if you’re alright, I mean."

"Well, I think I am now," she said, "and . . . oh, shit!"

She whimpered, twisted her upper body, and reached around and tried to rub herself in the small of her back.

I screwed up my courage once again, and I made a decision. "Hermione," I said, "let me help you."

She looked at me with a puzzled expression.

"I . . . I’m going to give you a back rub," I said, blushing a bit. Then, I added, "here, try to sit up straight . . . and . . . and . . . "

"How are we going to do this, exactly?" asked Hermione, blushing a little also, but an actual small smile seemed to have appeared on her face.

"Er . . . ah . . . why don’t you take off your jumper, and . . . uh . . . unbutton the top of your blouse," I said, stumbling along, with my blush deepening.

Hermione gave me a strange, crooked little smile, but she complied, and hastily I jumped in to assist her. As I folded her sweater neatly and laid it aside, she broadened her smile and said, "thanks, Harry. Now what?"

"Here, sit beside me, and try to relax," I said. She did so, turning sideways on the couch and folding her jeans-clad legs tailor fashion. The, she looked straight into my eyes, and spoke.

"You WILL be a gentleman, Harry, and promise me that I won’t catch you trying to peek down my blouse?"

"I promise you won’t catch me," I blurted out, unthinking. Then, realizing what I had said, I quickly added, " . . . er, ah . . . doing anything ungentlemanly, that is . . . I mean, I won’t do anything . . . whether you catch me or not. That still doesn’t sound quite right."

The smile left her face, but only for a second, and then she giggled! I knew then that I had helped already, and Hermione Granger, on a "bad" day, actually was laughing at my unintentional and weak play on words!

I turned to face her, and with only a slight hesitation, I reached around her body. I placed my hands gently on her, and slowly I began to massage through her blouse the undeniably tense muscles of her lower back.

I’m pleased to note that in a gentlemanly manner, I turned my face to the side, so as to avoid getting eye-tracks all over her, er, upper chest.

After only a minute, I noticed that she winced a bit whenever I pressed directly over her kidneys.

"Hermione, you need to drink more water," I said, and as she started to interrupt me, I continued. "Please, I do know about bloating and water retention issues at certain times for some women, but your kidneys really do need plenty of it to function at their best."

"Harry . . . " she started again.

"Hermione, please believe me on this, even if it is a real pain to have to use the ‘girls facilities’ more often. A lot of lower back pain in otherwise healthy young people is due simply to drinking too little water. Now, how about your upper back?"

I reached up from her front and touched her neck and shoulders. They were truly knotted and very tense. I rubbed the sides of her neck, and I saw and heard her close her eyes and sigh with relief.

Naturally, I had raised and straightened my head along with my hands, and unfortunately, Hermione chose that exact moment to arch her back and to take a deep breath.

To mangle a metaphor, suddenly I found myself "face to face" and VERY "up close and personal" with what used to be described in more innocent times as "a heaving bosom." Holy dragon dung! Three problems became manifest.

The first two were the lovely matching halves of said "heaving bosom," and their precise characteristics. Now, I did understand that she was a seventeen-year-old woman, and that young women do possess such body features. But, my first exposure to Hermione Granger’s improving bodily possessions was in our third year, when they seemed to be somewhat smaller, and usually always very firmly caged under several thicker layers of clothing than she had on today.

They were more significant in our fourth year at the Yule Ball, but that doesn’t really count, since every aspect of her, literally from head to toe, was so radically different on that occasion, that even hormonally charged fourteen-year-olds actually were looking at other parts of her . . . at least part of the time.

While what I was seeing was not a "C-cup" chest, whether natural or an enhanced monstrosity, nevertheless, it was a real, honest, and JIGGLING pair of tits! AND - pardon the expression - more to the point, they were covered only by a thin, translucent white blouse and what I thought originally to be a peach or flesh-colored bra. Then, as she had arched her back and taken in the deep breath, thus causing a modest but delightful slight strain on the front of her blouse, I realized that under it was only flesh-colored FLESH!

‘Don’t go there, Potter, if you value your face, your family jewels, or your life,’ I thought. The old reliable visualization of "Snape in a dress" didn’t work to head off the third problem, the real possibility that "Little Harry," who was beginning to stir most vigorously, might decide to put in an appearance. Fortunately, my penultimate "down, boy" trump card, "Snape and Filch snogging," did work, and when enough oxygenated blood flowed back into my head, I had the sense to break away.

"This will be easier if we change positions, Hermione," I said. "Unfold your legs, and straighten out."

She did so, and I moved around and sat directly behind her, with my legs spread forward on either side of her hips, and my back supported by the end of the sofa.

I went back to work on her neck and shoulders, somewhat relieved that her eyes could not accidentally see what was going on south of my belt line. Of course, mine also were safely hidden from the tantalizing view of the bouncing and jiggling of her lovely, high, pear-shaped, soft . . . ‘Snape and Filch! Snape and Filch! Down, boy!’ I mumbled to myself. After a minute or so, Hermione spoke.

"Good grief, Harry," she said, surprise evident in her voice, "that really feels wonderful. You are very good at this."

"Just keep relaxing, Hermione, and let the tightness melt away," I replied.

I thought to myself, ‘if only you knew just how I did get so good with my hands . . . ’

* * * * *

It had started in the privacy of the locker room after an informal Quidditch scrimmage in my fourth year. Although the official House Cup season had been cancelled in favor of the special Triwizard Tournament festivities, occasionally the Gryffindor team would engage that of another house in a strictly friendly and unofficial match, and there were the usual pick-up games throughout the year.

Fred and George Weasley had decided that young Harry Potter required immediate medical assistance, and unceremoniously, they had shoved me, dressed only in my boxers, into the Girls Locker Room, accompanied by a shout about my shoulder injury.

An older female teammate, who shall remain nameless (she was dating someone at the time), ordered me to lie face down on the training table. I obeyed, and she began to massage my shoulder, which had almost become dislocated due to a particularly spectacular low level grab of the snitch and subsequent crash into the ground. After kneading the muscles on the back of my neck and shoulder, she asked me to turn over onto my back. I did, and she began to work on the front of my shoulder, practically thrusting into my face her rather ambitiously proportioned upper front torso, covered only by a thin, white, and DAMP tee shirt. Being a teenaged male, the view had the inevitable effect. To put it bluntly, something came up.

A certain part of my anatomy, which had grown quite a significant amount over the past year, even when in a ’resting’ state, began to enlarge and elevate its attitude. The young witch who was witnessing this phenomenon quite literally screamed at the sight of it, attracting the attention of my other two older female teammates, who came immediately from their showers, clad only in towels. Needless to say, this expanded vision of semi-nude and wet female flesh did nothing to counteract the still rapid flowing to and collecting of blood in the aforementioned part of my body, ‘Little Harry,’ as I continue to call him.

Following some wildly inaccurate comparisons of ‘Little Harry’ with, er, other things, by the three lovely ladies, certain activities ensued, and continued over the next couple of hours. Modesty compels me to omit more graphic details, but suffice it to say that all three of them walked in a strange manner for a few days. However, It took somewhat longer, a good week or so, for the smiles to leave their faces, and longer still for the one on mine to do so!

Anyway, to cut the story short, I learned from these loving and caring teammates a GREAT deal concerning the proper handling of feminine body parts, including some things as mundane and useful as how to give a really nice massage and back rub.

* * * * *

To return to the subject at hand, namely Hermione Granger, on her personal "Hell Day," I was not at all surprised that she was enjoying my ministrations. ‘This was going to be okay, after all,’ I thought, but then she started to make certain noises.

Now, if the sounds coming from her mouth had consisted of ordinary inhalations and exhalations of breath, AND had stayed that way, there would have been no problem. Unfortunately, they increased steadily both in volume and in duration, until she was sounding less like a young woman being pleasantly comforted and more like one being shagged by a reasonable facsimile of "Little Harry," and approaching closer and closer to an orgasm!

With no small amount of disbelief, I looked closely to verify that both of my hands indeed were only on her shoulder and neck area, and were NOT either between her legs or caressing her boobs.

Of course, the real problem was "Little Harry," who, in a traitorous failure to appreciate his owner’s longstanding platonic relationship with Hermione, indeed had decided to put in an appearance by stretching his owner’s trousers almost to the breaking point.

A scientifically minded person would describe the situation as a "positive feedback loop." Hermione’s moaning auditory demonstration was encouraging the exertions of "Little Harry," which, in turn, were increasing the vigor of my manual manipulations of Hermione, which, in turn – you get the picture.

To no avail, I played my final, ultimate "softener" trump, ‘Snape, Filch, and Umbridge in a threesome!’ By heavens, THAT one’s even tough for me to write down, much less to try to visualize it!

To my horror, Hermione had begun to wriggle her hips, which slid around on the sofa upholstery each time she bent forward or twisted her upper body in her efforts to get my massaging just right. As she gave a particularly strong wiggle of her backside, her right hip came in firm contact with the inside of my right pants leg. To be precise, it made contact with the now substantial trouser bulge under which was lurking a no longer so little "Little Harry."

She froze and ceased her moaning for a VERY long couple of seconds, and I followed suit and stopped my massage. She reached down and back with her right hand, and gingerly, she ran her fingers along "Little Harry’s" entire length.

Only with the greatest self-control did I manage to stifle a moan of my own, that would have been of King Kong proportions.

"OH . . . MY . . . GOODNESS!" she said.

"I . . . I’m sorry, Hermione," I managed to stammer, as I attempted to spread my legs wider, but she did something completely unexpected.

She withdrew her hand, placed it atop my right hand on her shoulder, turned her head, and smiled at me. "Don’t worry about it, Harry, I understand. Please don’t stop with those wonderful hands of yours."

I continued to work on her shoulders and neck muscles, and to my further surprise, she stopped her moaning and wriggling and started to make sounds almost like the purrs of a cat. Finally, she leaned back and collapsed against my chest.

"Feel better?" I asked weakly, as I dropped my hands and gently squeezed her upper arms.

"Oh, my, yes!" she exclaimed and turned her face up to look at mine. "That was more than wonderful, Harry. Thanks, thanks, thanks!"

Then, noticing her expression of contentment and her slightly parted lips, I did the bravest thing that I’ve ever done in my life. I kissed her smack on her mouth!

Now, I did NOT plant a full-throttle "tonsil tickler" on her. Nevertheless, I braced myself for a possible "HARRY JAMES POTTER," accompanied by an instant replay of her earlier classic "Granger Slap" to the side of my face. Instead, Hermione simply asked a question in a soft voice.

"Why did you kiss me, Harry?"

"Ah . . . two different reasons," I mumbled. "First, I saw a beautiful young woman who was in pain and who’s hopefully feeling much better now . . . it seemed a good idea," I finished lamely.

"You . . . you think I’m beautiful?" she asked, seemingly shocked.

"No," I said. "I don’t THINK any such thing; you ARE beautiful, period."

"Harry, I’m not - " Hermione began.

"Hermione, you ARE," I interrupted.

"What was the other reason?" she asked, her lower lip quivering a bit.

I took a very deep breath. ‘Well, here goes,’ I thought.

"The beautiful young woman who was in pain happens to be the same one with whom I am hopelessly in love," I blurted.

"You . . . ME?" Hermione stammered.

"Put a big ‘L-O-V-E’ between those two words, and yes, you’re right," I said. "I love you, Hermione. I have loved you almost as long as I’ve known you."

"Harry, you’re the greatest wizard of your generation, and you could have any witch you wanted."

"Well, assuming that’s true, then what’s wrong with me loving and wanting the witch who’s the smartest and kindest, the most caring and beautiful, and the sexiest, especially when all of them conveniently are the same person, namely one Hermione Granger?"

"But, Harry, I’m not - " she said.

"But, Hermione, you ARE - at least to me - and maybe we should stop repeating ourselves," I said.

"Well, if what you say is true, then why don’t you prove it . . . in the second way, I mean," Hermione said.

"Second way?" I asked, puzzled.

"Well," she said, blushing furiously, "I believe that I did sort of . . . feel . . . an awfully long and hard expression of it earlier!"

"I . . . I can’t tell you how sorry . . . " I stammered.

"Drop it, Harry. I really do understand about boys and their . . . and a certain part of their bodies. I . . .I . . . I am a little amazed that your merely touching someone as plain and ordinary as me could cause it."

"Hermione, ‘plain and ordinary’ you most certainly are NOT!" I replied.

"Well, neither was that erection of yours, Harry!" she answered, with a giggle, and then she continued, "besides, I was referring to something else."

"What?" I asked, blushing as deeply as she had.

"For starters, how about another kiss? That first one wasn’t all that great, you know, and I think that you really could do bet - " Hermione began, but she was interrupted by my mouth.

This time, we REALLY kissed. Actually, to be strictly truthful, what I started, Hermione preempted and continued. Somehow, I ended up flat on my back, pinned down by an extraordinarily passionate young woman, who seemed to be doing her best to tickle MY tonsils!

"Oh, gods, Harry," she exclaimed, "how I wish it was a week earlier or later . . . then we could - "

Then, just as quickly as she had pinned me down, Hermione pushed herself up. Her face contorted, and she started sobbing, obviously in pain.

"Shit, shit, SHIT!" she cried, as she sat down beside me, and doubled over with her hands buried between her legs.

I sat up and grabbed her in a firm hug, which she tried to shrug off, but I held on tightly.

"Hermione, what’s wrong? Please let me help," I said.

"Goddamned CRAMPS!" she blurted out. "They HURT, and they come always at the worst times!"

"Lie down," I said to her. She glared at me with tear-stained eyes, and she started to retort. "LIE DOWN!" I said again, in a far more commanding tone.

She whimpered, but after I stood up and knelt beside the couch, she complied.

"Now, straighten out your legs," I continued. I looked directly into her eyes. "Hermione, I may be able to help you, but you’ve got to trust me. Okay?"

She remained silent, but she did nod her head.

"Please, Hermione, please trust me," I said, as I reached down and unfastened the front of her jeans. Her eyes widened, and she was about to speak, when I interrupted. "Please believe that I’m NOT just some randy teenager who’s trying to feel you up! I do know what I’m doing. Put your right hand over mine."

She did so, and slowly, I placed our hands over her knickers, with my thumb at her navel. I spread my fingers slightly, and I began massaging her lower abdomen in a firm circular motion. Then, I switched to an up-and-down movement of my hand, and after several more seconds, I switched again to a side-to-side one.

"Which of those worked best, if any?" I asked her.

"The first . . . the circular one," she answered, with a look of genuine surprise.

"Great," I said, and I returned to it, but with a bit more firmness in my motions.

I gave her a quick kiss on her still surprised mouth, and I asked, "Is this too hard, or is it about right?"

"It’s . . . good," she said, and her own hand atop mine finally began to take charge of the massage. After only a minute or so, she actually smiled at me. She pulled my hand away, sat upright, and gave me an even bigger smile.

"You’re feeling better now?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, Harry!" she responded. Then, she got a devilish expression and said, "I wonder just which one of those three sluts on the Quidditch team taught you THAT particular trick so well."

"I . . . uh . . . " I tried to say something, but she put a finger to my lips to quiet me.

"I know very well what went on in the Gryffindor locker room after practices and matches," she said.

"But . . . but, we swore oaths of secrecy . . . " I started to say.

"Harry, you’re a dear, sweet, naïve, and not so innocent young man," she began. "Do you think that for a moment, Alicia, Angelina, or Katie possibly could have remained silent either about being one of the ‘firsts’ of ‘The Boy Who Lived,’ or," and she blushed and lowered her gaze, "about the, uh, size of his ‘equipment’ and his skill with it?"

"Hermione," I began, blushing myself, "I’m sure they were grossly exaggerating - "

But, she looked back into my eyes and interrupted me. "I don’t think so, judging from what I felt earlier!"

"I . . . I’m sorry that happened," I said.

"Harry, I told you that I understand," she said, "but, I was quite angry with you for a while back during our fourth year, and I was jealous of those girls at the same time. I mean . . . I know that I’ll never be the sort of centerfold beauty about whom guys fantasize - "

"Hermione," I began, but she continued.

"But, no longer was I an undeveloped and essentially sexless twelve-year-old, either, and I was supposed to be one of your best friends . . . oh, fuck it! Really and truly I both wanted you . . . physically . . . and was scared to death at the prospect . . . oh, shit!"

She started to cry, and quickly, I embraced her in a hug, and I kissed her again. She returned it, and we simply held each other. Finally, we broke apart, and I spoke.

"Hermione," I said, "I’m sorry for any pain or problem that I’ve ever caused you."

"Harry," she began, but I cut in.

"Let me finish," I said. "On your worst day, Hermione, you are still more beautiful, more kind, and just plain more wonderful than is anyone else I’ve ever known. I . . . I . . . hope this isn’t too embarrassing for you, but, with every other girl I’ve ever . . . done anything with . . . every single time, it was your face that I was imagining." ‘There, I had said it,’ I thought. "If you want to slap the crap out of me again, go ahead . . . I probably deserve it many times over."

I flinched as she reached up with one hand, but instead of slapping me, she placed it gently on the side of my face. She said one word.

"When?"

"Pardon?" I said.

"When did you decide that you . . . you liked me?" she asked, with a blush returning to her face.

"To be honest, I was attracted to you at first sight, on my first train ride to school," I said. "But, I KNEW that I loved you only two months later."

"Wh . . . wh . . . what do you mean?" she asked

"It was what you did on Halloween, the night of the troll," I said.

"The troll . . . what I did?" she said, puzzled.

"Let me tell you a story," I said, and I pulled her into my lap and hugged her.

"Once upon a time, there was a wonderful young girl who came to Hogwarts. Solely because she did what she was supposed to do, be the best possible student that she could, her classmates treated her very unfairly. Maybe some of this was due to simple jealousy, and maybe some of it was because of her non-magical family background."

"Anyway, after two months of loneliness, coupled with her own insecurities and possibly a bit of homesickness, she was hurt badly by an insensitive remark by a classmate. Adding insult to injury, she was accidentally locked in a room with a mountain troll that almost killed her, and then, she was ‘rescued’ by the very same pair of young dolts who had hurt her and put in that peril."

"In spite of this, she did the single bravest thing that I have ever witnessed. She had the remarkable courage to offer to that very pair of undeserving refugees from a Muggle slapstick comedy her unconditional loving friendship."

She buried her face in my chest and began crying. I rubbed her back and her hair for a while, and then I reached under her chin and lifted it up.

"Hermione, I’ve treasured your friendship far more than I’ve ever had the guts to tell you. I want . . . I so much wish that I could share much more than just friendship with you. I wish that I could dare to want to become your husband and lover, to father children with you, and to spend the rest of my life with you."

"Harry?" she looked up me.

"But, I can’t," I said.

"I know," said Hermione.

"At least, not yet," I continued.

"I know, Harry," Hermione repeated.

"I wish . . . you . . . you know?" I said, finally comprehending her words.

"Of course, I do," she said. "Like it or not, I do know you as well as does anyone else. You’re too nice and decent a person to allow anyone for whom you have strong feelings to become especially endangered."

"Hermione," I began, but she cut in.

"Let me finish, Harry," she demanded, "it doesn’t matter whether it’s me or Ginny or anyone else who becomes your first REAL girlfriend, because all too soon, you’ll get ‘noble’ and break off the relationship . . . purely for her own wellbeing and safety, of course."

"Hermione," I tried again, but she was on a roll.

"Harry, I love you so much that . . . that I couldn’t take finally having you, and . . . and then losing you so quickly. I’d . . . I’d rather not start at all," she finished, trying to give me a defiant stare, but failing at it.

What could I say to that? I simply leaned forward and planted a brief and chaste kiss on her forehead, and said, "you’re right, as usual. So, I guess, it will be Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley, for however briefly. And, I suppose that when Ron comes to whatever sense he has and tires of ‘Lav Lav,’ which he will very soon, if I’m not mistaken, it will be you and him?"

She refused to meet my eyes, but she nodded her head in assent.

"Well," I said, "when the time comes, I will be as kind and gentle as possible with Ginny."

"She . . . she’s a wonderful and sweet girl, Harry, but in matters of the heart, I’m sure that she will be much tougher and more forgiving than I ever could be," said Hermione.

"I’m sure of it," I said, "besides, once we break up, she’ll have the as yet unexplored entire male population of Hogsmeade to console her."

"That was not the nicest thing in the world to say about her," Hermione chided.

"I couldn’t help it," I said, and laughed. Then, I got serious, and continued, "Hermione, I have something for you . . . to remember me . . . just in case."

She stared at me, as I reached into my pocket and withdrew a small velvet bag. From it, I pulled a fine gold necklace on which was suspended a thin golden disk. On the disk was engraved a poetic couplet.

She took it in her hands and read the inscription:

"But True Love is a durable fire

in the mind ever burning -

Never sick, never old, never dead,

from itself never turning."

- Sir Walter Ralegh, "Walsinghame"

With an utterly dumbfounded expression, Hermione looked first at me and then back at the necklace charm. "Harry! How on earth did you know - "

"That you admired that poem, or at least its ending?" I finished her question. "I had Parvati borrow that huge English Lit. anthology of yours. The book opens naturally at the page with this poem, and this last stanza conveniently was marked with a Muggle yellow highlighter pen," I said.

"I think that they’re the most beautiful lines ever written," said Hermione, "which is saying quite a lot, since they came from a person who only was a part-time poet, and who lived and wrote during the same period that produced the greatest of all English writers; Spenser, Shakespeare, Marlowe, Bacon, Donne, Jonson, and Milton."

"Thanks for the lesson, Professor Granger," I said, with a chuckle, as I took the necklace, unclasped it, and reattached it around Hermione’s neck. "There, one has to admire the undeniable symmetry; a beautiful necklace, engraved with beautiful poetry, and worn by the most beautiful young woman I’ve ever been lucky enough to know." I couldn’t help but to sniffle, and I felt my eyes becoming moist.

"Thank . . . thank you, Harry. I’ll . . . I’ll never take it off," said Hermione, and she sobbed loudly and threw herself into my arms.

Shortly, I was crying as forcefully as she was. We simply held each other and cried together until we could no longer do so.

"What a bizarre situation this has become," I said, breaking the silence. "I came here to try to help you to feel better, and instead, both of us have been bawling like babies."

"But, you did help me, Harry," said Hermione, brightening a bit, "I don’t think . . . I KNOW that I’ll never forget what’s happened today. I . . . I want you to make me one promise."

"Of course, Hermione, you know that I’d do anything for you," I said

"Promise me that if . . . if both of us survive V-Voldemort and his band of monsters, no matter how long it may take to defeat him, then . . . then . . . we will make love at least one time," Hermione asked.

"Yes, of course," I said, "if he can’t stop me, I promise you that no one and nothing else will. I . . . thank YOU, Hermione, for giving me the most wonderful reason to win! If . . . no, WHEN I succeed, neither crow bars, nor a block and tackle, nor even dynamite will be able to separate us."

We kissed one last time, and this one was neither brief nor chaste.

"Well," said Hermione, as she climbed off of my lap and stood, "it is getting a bit late, and maybe we should head back to Gryffindor Tower and get ready for dinner."

I arose quickly and joined her.

"As always, you’re correct," I said, and then a bit wistfully, I added, "I suppose that we’re heading back to our romantic fates, as well."

We walked through the mostly empty halls, and when we approached the portrait hole entrance to the Gryffindor common room, she stopped and looked up at me. She gave me a sly grin, and spoke.

"Do you think that in the interest of getting on with our unsatisfactory but inevitable short term fates, we should kick-start the process?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean, let’s give our housemates a bit of a show, and see how a certain pair of redheads will react."

"Huh?" I said.

"Just follow my lead," Hermione replied, with a wide smile.

We entered the common room, and the conversations among the two dozen or so students present ceased instantly. Everyone in the room stared at Hermione, with apprehension etched on their faces. I walked with her to the dormitory staircase, at which point, she stopped and faced me.

"Harry, you were wonderful! You’re the nicest, kindest, sweetest, gentlest, and most amazing man I’ve ever known! Thanks so much for EVERYTHING!" she blurted out loudly.

She reached up to my face with both hands and pulled me into a passionate and VERY long kiss. The hoots, whistles, catcalls, and "helpful" suggestions, such as "let him/her breathe" or "get a room!" that always greeted such a sight were absent. Clearly, either everyone still was in "Watch Out - it’s ‘M-day’ for Granger" mode, or they were simply in shock.

However, some gasps were heard when she dropped both of her arms, reached around me, and squeezed my bum!

"I’m going to get ready for dinner," Hermione finally spoke, as she broke off the kiss, gave me a small wink, and withdrew her hands. "I will see you later, and we’ll have to . . . TALK . . . a LOT more!"

With that, she smiled again, and literally skipped up the stairs, leaving me to face what appeared to be nothing so much as an oil painting of my fellow students, with every one of them sporting bulging eyes and open mouths.

After at least five seconds of silence, the room erupted into a cacophony of noise. Before I could recover my wits and beat a hasty retreat to my dorm, I was assailed by three females, two giggling uncontrollably and one frowning, who proceeded - pardon the expression - "to manhandle" me to the big sofa by the fireplace. Ginny knelt at my feet, having elbowed Ron slightly away from his chess set on the floor, and Lavender and Parvati sat on either side of me. Then, they began to pepper me with questions.

Finally, Ron emerged from his shock, and his loud voice blared out.

"Bloody-FUCKING-hell, Harry! Please tell me that you didn’t . . . SHAG her!" he said.

"RONALD WEASLEY!" exclaimed Ginny, "how dare you ask such a crude and vulgar question! Shut your fucking mouth!" Then, with a frown, she turned to me. "You . . . you didn’t, did you, Harry? Please tell me that you didn’t!"

"What was it like?" gushed Lavender, earning her a sympathetic sigh from Parvati, and dirty looks from both Ginny and Ron.

"I . . . uh . . . we . . . I gave her a back massage," I managed to squeak out.

"And what else?" Lavender asked.

"Well . . . er . . . I rubbed her tummy," I said.

Both Lavender and Parvati "oohed" and "ahhed."

"You FINGERED Hermione? You fingered HERMIONE?" Ron interjected, and then he yelled, "OUCH!" as Ginny, without turning her head, casually but accurately backhanded the side of his face.

"And what else?" Parvati inquired.

"We . . . ah . . . talked some," I admitted.

"Come on, Harry," said Ginny. "What else happened? What did you talk about?"

"Nothing! I swear . . . if you want all of the details, ask Hermione," I said.

"You SHAGGED Hermione! I know it!" exclaimed a very red-faced Ron, who had recovered sufficiently from the fish-out-of-water expression caused by Ginny’s slap to be able to speak again.

"I . . . it’s none of your business!" I exploded. "I gave her a back, neck, and shoulder massage, and I helped rub away the . . . the cramps in her lower abdomen."

"So you . . . you . . . you DID feel her up?" asked Ron.

"Shut up NOW!" Ginny burst out, addressing Ron. Then she looked up at me. "What did you talk about, Harry . . . you can tell us," she said with an obviously artificially sweet smile.

"NO! What we said or did is private. Go away, all of you. I repeat, ask her if you want a replay," I finished.

Lavender and Parvati looked at one another, and the same thought occurred to each of them simultaneously. They jumped up and began a race to the dorm staircase.

Meanwhile, Ginny and Ron had huddled together and began what seemed to be quite a serious conversation.

I just smiled. Then I smiled some more, as I thought of how Hermione would have reacted, had she seen Ginny and Ron plotting away.

I left the common room, and I headed to my dorm.

* * * * *

While we’re on the subject of smiles, now you readers know something of which my clueless biographer, J. K. Rowling, remains utterly unaware, the REAL reason why, a few days later, Hermione Granger was "beaming," after I kissed Ginny for the first time.

She was the only person, aside from me, who knew that the sooner I started to date Ginny, the sooner I would break up with her.

* * * * *

I end this story with mixed emotions. A week later, Hermione and I met one last time in her secret room, and it was only with the most profound self-control on both our parts, that we refrained from ripping off our clothing and doing our damnedest to shag each other senseless.

After comparing notes, and acknowledging that things were proceeding pretty much as we regretfully had thought that they must, we agreed mutually that we did not dare to meet again privately, lest we lose our heads entirely.

We kissed quickly in what had become, all too briefly, OUR special, private room, and we left it together for the last time.

Later that night, we found ourselves sitting on a sofa in the Gryffindor common room, which we had all to ourselves. This time, however, a frustrated Crookshanks unwillingly was serving as a chaperone, lying on the sofa between us. For a while, he put up with our obviously demented human shenanigans of snatching him off whoever’s comfortable lap he had just crawled into and putting him between our bodies.

Then, he hissed at each of us in turn, and with supreme feline dignity, he jumped off the sofa, and he stalked back and forth in front of us a half dozen times. He raised his tail sufficiently high, so that we could see plainly and in no uncertain terms exactly what he thought of our antics. Finally, he left the room and scampered up the dorm staircase.

Hermione stood and said, "we’d better get off to bed, too."

I arose and looked at her. I started to speak, but couldn’t quite find the right phrasing for what I wanted to say.

"What is it, Harry? You know that you can ask me anything, don’t you," Hermione said, with a concerned expression.

"This is a little embarrassing, but I’ve got to ask," I said. "Back during the discussion of Ginny’s Draco incident, the . . . uh . . . the subject of a certain special product sold by the Weasley Twins came up."

"Yes, and . . . " Hermione said, with a smile beginning to form on her face. Clearly, she had no intention of helping me out.

"Well, the other three girls all seemed to know about . . . about IT," but you said nothing. BUT, you DID happen to have the catalog . . . "

"Yes, I did, but so what?" said Hermione, her smile growing wider.

"Well, er, what I’m trying to say is that I have a special business relationship with Fred and George, and, er, if there’s anything . . . SPECIAL . . . from their catalog that you’d like, I . . . I can get it for you, even if it’s temporarily in short supply," I managed to choke out. I suspect that by now, my face had assumed the same general coloration as Ron’s hair.

"No, Harry, you don’t have to - " Hermione began, but I interrupted her.

"Yes, I do, Hermione, and . . . uh, if you’d prefer to write down what you want and seal it in an envelope, then I’ll be happy to - " I said, still struggling, but she interrupted me.

"Harry, if what you’re attempting to say is that you could get me a supposedly very highly desirable ‘Model HP’ then don’t bother," she said.

"Oh," was all I say at first. Then, I added, "I’m truly sorry, Hermione. Please forgive me. I just didn’t understand."

Hermione started laughing. ‘What the fuck?’ I thought, ‘why is she laughing, when I’ve just insulted her?’

"Harry," Hermione said, between laughs, "you REALLY, REALLY don’t understand at all! I don’t 'not want' a ‘Model HP’ for the reason you seem to think." She took a couple of steps up the stairs, and turned around to face me again. "I happen to have not only the very first one that Fred and George sold, but I already own a second one, as well!" She walked up a couple more steps and stopped yet again. "Well, I’m off to bed, but I doubt that I’ll get much sleep tonight!" she said, with a wink, and she started to laugh again. "You have a good night, too, Harry."

To say that I was in a state of shock would be the understatement of the century.

"Oh, Harry?" came Hermione’s voice.

"Uh . . . uh . . . yes?" I answered, looking up to see her grinning face further up, near the curve in the staircase.

"Perhaps, you could get another ‘Model HP’ for me, after all. I suppose that I could find some use for a third one!" she said, and then she started to laugh again.

I didn’t faint dead away, but I believe that both of my eyeballs did 180 degree vertical rotations and took a long, hard look inside my head, before returning to their normal orientation.

I listened until her laughter ceased to echo down the stairs, and I heard her dorm room door open and close. Then, I waited a little longer.

‘WOW!’ I thought, ‘no, make that a genuine BLOODY HELL! WHAT A WOMAN!’

The End

A/N: There are several different versions of the final stanza of Ralegh’s (or Raleigh’s, to use more modern spelling) poem, and even different titles for the entire poem. Some omit "true" from the first line, which then doesn’t scan quite correctly. Some change the word order in the third line, and some substitute "cold" for "old." I chose the version that I liked best.