Of Heartburn and Yellow Canaries

Author's Note: Hi. First of all, I must thank Ben (bentheslayer) for putting up with me and helping me. I don't know what I would do without him, honestly.

Second, erm, this story is my attempt at being funny. Read with caution.

Disclaimer: It's not mine. It's hers. Had it been mine… well, let's just say it would be very different.

Of Heartburn and Yellow Canaries

What the hell?

Harry stared at the book incredulously.

What. The. Hell?

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, and looked around at the other occupants of the coffee shop's patio furniture. Nearly everyone he saw was reading the same book as him (making him thank Godric he had disguised himself with hazel eyes and brown hair), but no one looked as confused as he felt.

Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He scowled at the book and took a deep drag. He didn't necessarily enjoy smoking, nor did he do it often, but it was much better than what he really wanted to do, which was throwing the damn book into the bloody street. He needed to save the energy, as he would have to bludgeon a certain Squib with it.

What the hell had happened? How did she come up with something so incredibly ridiculous? That's not how it happened at all! Okay, so the plot was pretty accurate… but… what the hell had happened to him? To Hermione?

He snorted in disgust, still glaring at the volume. Hermione had never hexed anyone but Death Eaters, for one thing, and what the fuck happened to S.P.E.W.? He clearly remembered the time when he told Hermione about being Kreacher's master, and he presently shuddered at the memory. That hadn't been pretty.

And the thought of McLaggen made his blood boil. Hermione hadn't kissed him. He had kissed her. Yes, there was a difference. Damn right there was.

“Piece of shit,” he muttered, resisting the urge to hurl it at someone.

And he, Harry, had never had a monster in his bloody chest, especially not for Ginny Weasley, of all people. She was his surrogate sister, for Merlin's sake!

He shuddered again at the very thought. She was his surrogate sister who looked a bit like his mum, for crying out loud. No thank you.

“Circe's blackened toenails, James, will you put that cigarette out?” snapped a very familiar voice as a black-haired woman sat at his table with a deep frown.

Harry sighed and did as he was told. “Yes, Jane, anything you say,” he said irritably. “What, no hello-kiss?”

“No. You've had cancerous smoke in your mouth.”

“Oh. Where's Bill?”

“You know how he is on Potter days,” sighed Hermione-in-disguise. “He's busy trying to find his old school uniform.”

“Great,” said Harry blandly. “Just what we need, that git bringing us more attention.”

“I don't think he's disguising himself at all, to be honest,” said Hermione, shaking her head. “He likes the attention. We may have to Floo Luna, as she's the only one that can control him.”

“Is he mad? Seriously. I think he's lost it. We agreed, years ago, when we sold the rights to that - that -”

“Yes, speaking of her,” Hermione interrupted eagerly. “Have you finished it?”

“Yeah,” Harry growled, reaching for another cigarette. He stopped when she pursed her lips disapprovingly.

“Well?” she asked. “What do you think?”

“I think it's a piece of shit,” he answered promptly. “What do - ?”

He was unable to finish his question, as he was knocked flat with an enormous hug. He, Hermione, the chair, and his cigarettes went flying. Those not entranced by Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince stared at them as if they were insane.

“Holy Morgana, Her- Jane, what the hell?”

Hermione fought to stand up properly, her cheeks pink, a happy smile on her face. “I'm sorry, James,” she said. “I'm just so happy you think that… though, you could have been less vulgar about it.”

Rolling his eyes, he got to his feet, picking up his cigarettes and his chair. “So you agree with me? It's rubbish?”

“Obviously,” she said as they returned to their seats. “Bill may have millions of fangirls, but when did I become one of them?”

Harry laughed, relieved. He watched as an amused smile curved her lips.

“And I'm really sorry about that monster in your chest,” she continued, careful to keep her voice low. “Have you gotten rid of it, or should I brew a potion for you?”

His laughter died as he looked over her shoulder to see their best friend… oh dear, sweet Circe… Ron Weasley was strutting along the sidewalk, making his way toward them in his too-small Hogwarts robes, sunglasses, and a grin.

Hermione followed Harry's gaze in time to see Ron lift his sunglasses to wink and point at a pretty young girl with a shirt that said, “I (heart) Ron Weasley.” Hermione was promptly overcome by a fit of giggles. Harry simply stared in horror.

Ron arrived at their table, looking to smug for his own good, and bummed a cigarette off Harry, who was still gazing, openmouthed. Hermione came up from her gigglefit for breath and to tell Ron to put the fag out.

Ron ignored her.

“What's up?” he asked, looking at Harry with a grin.

“You've lost it,” Harry managed. “You've fucking lost it. I'm calling Luna and Mungo's straight-away.”

“What've I lost? I'm just havin' fun,” said Ron with the same, stupid grin. “Look around!” He gestured at the people occupying the other tables surrounding them. Most of them were wearing something Harry Potter-related. “I'm not the only one! See, there's a - ewww! A Slytherin! Look, it's a stinking Slytherin!”

The Slytherin girl passed them, drawing her plastic wand, and hissed, “You must be a Weasley! Crucio!”

Both Harry and Hermione reached instinctively for their wands, but the girl was laughing at Ron, who had fallen over with fright.

“Where's your Gryffindor bravery, Weasley?” the girl shrieked as her mother tried to pull her away.

Ron stood, his hand reaching to cup his bravery, but Harry hastily prevented him. “She's just a Muggle kid, Bill.”

Ron snorted. “Stinking Slytherin.”

“Anyway,” Hermione said as the boys returned to their seats. “What are we going to do about this, James?”

“I was planning on bludgeoning the wench with the piece of shit,” he replied. “Sound good?”

Hermione pursed her lips again, but Ron spoke before she could. “Who're we bludgeoning?” he asked excitedly, crossing his fingers. “Let it be Malfoy. Please let it be Malfoy!”

“Shut up!” hissed Hermione. “Have you no sense of subtlety or tact?”

Ron ignored her.

“We aren't bludgeoning anyone,” she continued. “While that may get the point across faster, there are more diplomatic ways of approaching this matter.”

“Wait. Who're we not bludgeoning?” asked Ron.

“The Squib,” said Harry quietly.

“What squib? Filch?”

“The bloody Squib, you wanker.”

“Ohhhh,” said Ron with an expression of dawning comprehension. “That Squib.” He paused, a confused frown appearing between his ginger brows. “I thought we liked that Squib.”

“Well, not anymore,” said Hermione briskly.

“Why not?”

“Haven't you read it?” she asked impatiently.

“The book? Why would I? Why would you? Fuck, look who I'm talking to,” Ron said with a roll of his blue eyes. “Anyway, there's no point, is there? We know what happens.”

Harry ran a hand through his temporarily brown hair. He was becoming impatient, too. “Jane, I assume you have a plan?”

“Of course I do,” said Hermione easily.

“Why the fuck don't we like the bloody Squib?”

Hermione sighed heavily, leaning closer to Ron as she spoke. “She put a monster in his chest and she made me fancy you,” she whispered so passersby wouldn't hear.

“Damn, a monster in your chest, mate?” he asked Harry. “That has to suck.”

Hermione blinked at him. “Didn't you hear me?”

“What?” he asked.

“She made me fancy you!” she exclaimed in a whisper.

A smug smirk appeared on Ron's face and Harry wondered whether he should duck under the table. Every time Ron smirked like that, Hermione would eventually go mad.

“Don't lie, baby,” said Ron, winking at her. “You know she didn't make you do anything.”

Hermione looked at him as if he was a very vulgar flobberworm covered in bubotuber pus. She made an irritated noise in her throat and turned back to Harry, who was suppressing a chuckle.

“Er, your plan,” he prompted when she paused.

“Right. My plan. Of course,” she said, taking a calming breath. “I think we should go to her house and tell her what we think.”

Both Harry and Ron stared at her blankly. She looked very pleased with her plan but the frown returned when the latter of the boys practically shouted, “Where's the adventure in that? Bloody Merlin on a pogo-stick, woman!”

Hermione closed her eyes, clearly exasperated. After a moment, she looked at Harry, seemingly determined to ignore Ron. “What do you think, James?”

“Well, Ron has a point,” he began, but stopped as she narrowed her eyes. “But! That might throw her off, so! Full steam ahead, I say! I mean, you know, with your plan.”

She smiled, apparently satisfied. “Good. Let's go, then.”

Harry blinked.

Ron wasn't paying them any more attention. He had caught the eye of another, rather pretty girl with an “I (heart) Harry” shirt on. “I'll catch you guys later,” he said, waving without even looking at them.

Harry and Hermione watched Ron walk away. He was pointing at the blonde girl's shirt and saying, “I'm better in bed than he is, sweetheart!”

“Yes,” said Harry. “Let's go before the Muggle police are called.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, grinning as they stood and made their way along the sidewalk. After a few minutes they came upon a conveniently vacant alleyway where they Disapparated, appearing seconds later at the Squib's front door in Scotland.

Almost as soon as they arrived, two people emerged from the house, cackling maniacally and going on about delusions, or something. Harry and Hermione blinked at them, but the Muggles failed to notice them, continuing on their merry, possibly insane way.

Stepping forward, Hermione rang the doorbell and a graying old man with bags under his eyes answered just a couple of moments later.

“May I help you, Miss?” he asked, articulating every syllable like any good, stereotypical English butler would.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “We're here to see the lady of the house,”

“And who, exactly, is calling?”

“James and Jane Evans,” Harry answered, taking Hermione's hand.

“One moment please,” said the butler and he closed the door.

Harry turned to look at Hermione; she was smiling fondly at him. He returned the smile, squeezing her hand. She returned the squeeze and let go to pull out her wand.

“We should probably remove our disguises,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Harry, removing his wand and waving it over himself. He looked at Hermione, who was back to normal, with raised brows.

She shook her head. “Your scar. And your glasses.”

Sighing, he waved his wand over his forehead and put his glasses on. He looked at her again.

“Good,” she said with a nod of approval.

Footsteps could be heard from inside the house. The door was pulled open yet again to reveal a woman with dirty blonde hair and a puzzled expression on her face. A smile soon replaced the confusion.

“Harry! Hermione!” she said, opening the door fully. “How are you? Where are Ron and Ginny?”

“May we come in?” Hermione asked, managing to sound polite even though she completely ignored the Squib's questions.

“Of course, of course,” said the Squib, and she beckoned them inside the entrance hall of her very nicely decorated home. “Why don't we go into my study, and you can tell me exactly how much you liked the book.”

Harry and Hermione glanced at each other and rolled their eyes before following the oblivious Squib down the hallway to her study, which, unlike the rest of the house, was anything but nicely decorated. It was quite cluttered. Her desk had papers, pens, folders, a computer, old newspapers, a calendar, and empty teacups all over it.

“Do sit down,” said the Squib, gesturing to the two chairs in front of her desk as she sat down behind it. They could barely see her for the clutter. Still, she was beaming at them eagerly.

“So?” she prompted.

“Erm,” said Hermione.

“The, er, plot was… accurate,” said Harry, trying to ease into the conversation.

“The plot? Oh. Yes, that,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “But what about -”

“The romance?” Hermione interrupted. “If you could call it that.”

“Yes! Wasn't it fascinating how I wrote it?”

Harry and Hermione blinked at her.

“Actually, no,” Hermione said. “It wasn't realistic at all, making it less than fascinating.”

The Squib's smile was fading. “I beg your pardon?”

“Ron and I… Harry and Ginny…” Hermione was saying, her nose wrinkled unpleasantly. “Honestly, woman, what were you thinking?”

“What do you mean?” The Squib asked. “I wrote it exactly as Harry told me.”

Hermione looked at him sharply, but he was gaping at the woman in disbelief. “Rubbish! I never spoke about a bloody monster in my chest! Particularly for Ginny! The only accurate thing besides the plot was Ron's snogfest with Lavender, and how the fuck was that important to the plot?”

“Well,” said the Squib with wide eyes, apparently quite surprised at their behaviour. “Clearly, it showed Hermione's jealousy, proving where her feelings truly lie. I figured the hate mail from Harry's fan club should stop already. You're welcome, dear.” She tried to reach over the clutter to pat Hermione's hand but found it quite impossible.

Hermione was the one gaping at her now. “My… my feelings lie with RON? Are you MAD?”

“Er, no, though it has been suggested, I'm quite sane,” she said with a smile. “It's obvious you love Ron. Are you still in denial? You poor thing!”

“I am not in denial!” Hermione snapped, holding up her left hand where a gold band could be seen on her ring finger. “Does this look like denial to you?”

“Oh my goodness! You and Ron are married? Congratu—”

“No!” Harry suddenly exclaimed. “Hermione and I are married!”

The colour, as well as the excitement, vanished from the woman's face. “What?”

“You heard him! We've been married for two months! Engaged since just after the war! Now what were you saying about Ron and me?” said Hermione.

The Squib merely stared at their indignant faces for a minute or two. Finally, she spoke. “But you were angry about Ron's fling with Lavender Brown.”

“I was angry because he has so sense of decency!”

“Oh, dear, you must be mistaken.”

Hermione stared at the woman. “I beg your pardon? I am mistaken? You weren't there! You wouldn't know!”

Harry placed a hand on Hermione's, whose knuckles were white on the arm of her chair, hoping to calm her and comfort her.

“My, my,” said the Squib, staring at Hermione and shaking her head. “You are rather militant (that's my word of the day, by the way), and potentially violent. I'm so happy you're not ending up with Harry.”

“Er, hello?” said Harry, showing her his wedding band.

The Squib sighed exasperatedly. “Yes, yes, I know. You and Hermione are married. Why you didn't invite me, I have no idea -”

“We did invite you!” Hermione snarled.

“Well, I didn't read anything with Harry and Hermione on the envelope. Long, frightening story about your fans.” She gave a dramatic shudder. “Back to the point! I've decided to expand on your feelings for Ron and Ginny, respectively. It's much more plausible if you end up as one great big happy Weasley family… because, well, who wants to read about real life?”

Harry and Hermione continued to stare, both looking rather revolted.

“The tension is with Ron and Hermione. They're perfect, exactly what most readers (who aren't delusional, militant, or potentially violent at all) want. Opposites attract, you know.”

Hermione gagged.

The Squib continued. “And Harry and Ginny are like the reincarnation of James and Lily. That monster in your chest said it all, Harry.”

“That - That was heartburn!” he exclaimed.

“Ahh, heartburn or heartache?” said the Squib with a sly smile.

Hermione stood abruptly, stomping her foot. “Heartburn, heartburn, heartburn!” she shouted.

The Squib gazed at her with wide, startled eyes for a moment, before grabbing a pen and a random piece of paper. She muttered as she wrote. “More on Hermione Jane Granger's violence. Possibly toward her future husband, Ronald Bilius Weasley. Good angst, good angst.”

Harry coaxed Hermione back into her seat, kissing her cheek and whispering words of comfort, as the woman took her notes.

“You smell like tobacco,” Hermione reminded him, wrinkling her freckle-kissed nose.

Before Harry could respond, the Squib spoke cheerfully, “Impossible! I quit smoking that years ago…”

They looked up at her with raised brows.

“I've begun refining my notes for book seven, and you two have given me so much more to work with today, so -”

“So you're going to stop this one big happy sodding Weasley family, then?” asked Harry hopefully.

The Squib blinked. “No, heavens, no. It's all the rage! Here, read some of my letters from my - our fans.” She stood and started shifting through the mess on her desk. “Aha!” she said, finding a rather tattered, green envelope and opening it. “Oh. No. Evil Malfoy lover… Erm, I know it's here somewhere…”

“Wait a minute,” said Harry, leaning forward in his chair. “Someone is reading my story and sympathizing with Malfoy?”

“Yes,” said the Squib absently, tossing the letter aside and continuing her search. “Many people simply adore him. Who can blame them, really? He's pretty.”

Hermione gagged again.

“He's evil!” Harry shouted.

“Here it is!” the Squib announced, ignoring Harry's outburst. “Dear - wait - oh, the poor thing didn't spell my name right. Anyway…okay, here we go.” She paused to clear her throat. “Please make Ron and Hermione together, ca- cuz, because Harry gets everything and Ron deserves his bitch. And Harry needs Ron's sister cu- because she looks like his mum and is already like his sister.” The Squib looked up at them, beaming. “How clever is that?”

Harry gagged this time.

“It's not clever at all!” exclaimed Hermione. “It's- It's—”

“Disgusting. Almost incestuous,” croaked Harry.

“Oh, you and Ginny aren't related, dear, so it isn't incestuous,” said the Squib, still smiling.

“And you get nothing about Harry and me?” asked Hermione.

The Squib sighed. “Well, yes, a bit… it isn't much, since they represent such a small portion of the fandom -”

“Can we see them?”

Pursing her lips, the Squib rolled her eyes and pointed at a rather large, untidy pile of letters next to the over-flowing rubbish bin.

Hermione turned back to her, gaping. “A small portion of the fandom? Those are just some of the fans' letters… what about those who don't write in? That cannot be a small portion!”

“Hermione, what does it matter?” snapped the Squib, suddenly impatient. “Why do you want a bunch of delusional, militant, and potentially violent know-it-alls to get their way?”

Hermione stood again, glaring at the woman dangerously. “Why are they delusional? Because they believe in Harry and me? Because they believe that true love is based on friendship and bravery, loyalty and respect, trust and admiration? If that's delusional, then so am I! And I already am a militant know-it-all, potentially violent when confronted by Death Eaters or authors who've lost their minds!”

“Wow, Hermione…” said the Squib, staring at her, awed. “That's exactly something Ginny would say!”

Hermione's hand twitched and Harry sensed danger. Standing quickly, he wrapped an arm around his wife and tried steering her away from the woman.

“Come on, Hermione, it's time to go…” he said as she continued to glare at the Squib.

“She assassinated my character and made Ginny my clone… a new and improved version of me… and she gave her to you… I'll show her yellow canaries….” Hermione muttered through gritted teeth.

Sighing wearily, Harry Disapparated both himself and Hermione, who was still seething, to their house in Godric's Hollow.

“Why didn't we do more?” she demanded almost as soon as they arrived.

“Hermione, I sold the story to her… she can do with it what she pleases.” He paused, sighing again. “It's only fictional now.”

“I could get her back, like with Rita Skeeter,” said Hermione eagerly.

“No, let's just forget about it, okay? It's just a book, but this,” he said, taking her hands into his, “this is real life, this is us, and that's all that matters.”

A loving smile appeared on her pretty face. “I love you, Harry Potter.”

“I love you, too, Hermione Granger-Potter,” he replied with a grin, leaning in to kiss her on the mouth, but she backed away.

“Go brush your teeth before you feel the wrath of my canaries.”

“Yes, dear.”

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