Here's some post-Hogwarts, relatively fluffy goodness for ya. This first chapter is an amalgam of a few different ideas I had bouncing around in my head and just had to get out. They were all sort of separately formed and rather distinct, but I wanted to put them all somewhere and they ended up here, so you'll have to excuse me if this beginning is a little long-winded and random. I'll try and be less sporadic in the future. I swear. Oh and I don't know/understand the British currency system, wizarding or muggle, so if the bit in the middle is wrong/doesn't make sense, drop me an e-mail and I'll fix it. I tried with the Brit speak, so as to avoid being Brit-picked (which is oddly fun), but I'm sure I messed that up too. My brain goes to the bathroom, not the loo, I can only override it when I catch it. :o)
-- jamie (with a shiny new livejournal courtesy of my brother's code - http://www.livejournal.com/users/jamieabsent. Something else to play with! Wooohooo!)
disclaimer. . .nope, it's not me. They're not mine.
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Golf is for wankers.
Seriously, this is the stupidest activity I've ever had the displeasure of participating in. And from what I can glean, this isn't even actual "golf," this is practice.
"Oi! Can we go now? This is a bloody awful way to spend an afternoon."
I hear Hermione swing and connect solidly in the next stall over and turn to glare at her, she seems to be enjoying herself as much as Ron. Righting herself after her swing, she rests her forearm on the top of her club and rolls her eyes at me, "You're only in such a foul mood because you're no good at it."
"That's not true. I'm in a foul mood because -"
"Wicked!" Ron shouts, interrupting me, cupping his hand over the top of his eyebrows as he tries to follow his ball's progress.
"Did you guys see that? That was with my 7 steel!"
"Your 7 IRON, Ron. Iron." Hermione corrects him, grinning, and turns to put her own club back in her bag. "Other than confusing the terminology, you're doing fantastic! You'll be ready for this meeting before you know it!"
Ah, yes, the meeting. The reason I'm in this veritable hell.
Ron, acting on behalf of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, has been sent to buy land from a muggle. The muggle, an older man with thick gray hair, had inherited a prime piece of property in the middle of wizard London from his great aunt Edna. Why a witch would leave magical land to a distant muggle relative is beyond me. The Weasley's have decided they want to put their newest shop on that exact piece of real estate and Ron was sent to do business with him.
The man insisted they hold their meeting on a golf course, explaining that his Thursday afternoons were ALWAYS spent on the golf course and if Ron wanted to see him, well, then, he'd have to be on the golf course, too.
Blasted muggles.
Ron was frantic, having no idea what golf was. But Hermione, the daughter of muggle dentists and apparently avid golfers, had patiently said that she had played as a child and would be happy to teach him enough so as not to embarrass himself and potentially spoil the deal.
And that brings us here. To the "driving range."
Yes, to the drive-you-absolutely-bonkers-with-its-dullness range.
Hermione and Ron seem to be having a good enough time.
I am not.
So far I've "whiffed" (Hermione and her tutorials, how in god's name could Ron possibly forget anything to do with golf-speak after the grueling lesson we had over breakfast? Eagles and birdies are for procuring quills from, they are NOT relevant as scores under 'par') about 37 times. The club has slipped out of my hands no less than 8 times, actually going farther than the ball 6 times. The only thing I've legitimately hit is a bug that was flying around and all that got me was a remark from Hermione about hurting "innocent creatures."
This game can sod the hell off.
"I'm going to find something to drink, either of you want anything?"
"Whatever you're having is fine," Ron said, sending another ball whizzing through the air.
"I'll have a pop, if you don't mind." Hermione answered and I nodded, heading toward the building we'd purchased the balls from.
Going round the front, I saw three young boys sitting at a table with a sign on it that said "Lemonade - 5 sickles," sickles had been hastily crossed out and replaced with "shillings."
I eyed them for a minute, did a quick check for muggles, and walked up to the table, "Are you still taking sickles as well?"
The littlest boy's eyes got very wide, while the older two started whispering hurriedly to each other, those two looked to be about 11, and the younger one about 6. The one on the end, with the blonde hair, pulled back from the other boy, looked at me and said rather anxiously, "We, uh, we don't know what you're talking about."
I grinned at them, pulling a galleon from my pocket and casually tossing it up and down in the air. The little boy with the wide eyes made a muffled squeak and the blonde followed the galleon with his head for a bit before speaking again, "Well, er, that coin, uh, whatever it is, because it's not anything I've ever seen before, um, EVER, looks pretty valuable, and since we're saving up, er, we could, um, probably take it."
This was fun, much better than that monstrosity of a sport being played not too far away, these poor kids looked really nervous.
"Oh, you're saving up? For what?"
The other of the older boys blurted out, "He's saving up for a broomstick!" and then promptly clamped his hands over his mouth, looking horrified. The blonde elbowed him hard and sputtered, "Yeah, a broomstick, I, uh, I like cleaning a lot."
"It's for cleaning? You're sure it's not for flying?"
The littlest boy seemed to be appraising me, he looked me up and down, and nodded his head as if he'd decided something. "Of course it's for flying. Billy's gonna play quidditch."
'Billy' went pale, and hissed "Shut it."
But the little one was on a roll, "No, YOU shut it, Billy. Look at his shirt, that's a Puddlemere whaddyacallit, er, logo."
I smiled, proud of the little guy.
Billy and the middle boy perked up, "Hi, uh, sir, I'm Billy, this is Louis, and that runt down there is Derek." Derek stuck his tongue out.
I laughed at being called 'sir,' "Nice to meet you. So, quidditch huh? Are you at Hogwarts?"
"Not yet, we'll be first years in September," Louis answered.
"First years? Pretty hard to make your house team as a first year."
Billy sat up straighter in his chair, "Sure, hard, but not impossible. Harry Potter did it and I'm a MUCH better flyer than Harry Potter."
I casually brought my hand up to my forehead and brushed hair down over my scar, hiding it, "You are, are you?"
"Sure am, my dad said I was born to ride a broom, 'sides, Harry Potter played seeker, I'm gonna be a chaser. Much harder to handle the quaffle the whole game, than just circle around above it, looking for the snitch."
Trying not to smile, I said, "Doesn't Potter play for Puddlemere now?"
"Yeah, he does, he's no where near as good as their last seeker though. The Cannons could probably beat them now."
Well, that smarted a little. The Cannons most certainly could NOT beat us.
"You think so? I don't know, I reckon Potter's holding his own."
"No way," Billy was really getting into it now, "he's too wild. My dad says he's 'raw.' He never catches the snitch easily, it's always a battle."
"Well, catching the snitch isn't easy," I said defensively.
"Eh, I don't know. Seems a lot easier than getting the quaffle through the hoop. There's no keeper protecting the snitch."
"But it's wicked fast and damn near impossible to catch," my Wood impression lost on the kids.
"I guess. Look mister, we've got to be home before sundown and we're out of lemonade, so I guess we should get going. It was nice talking to you."
I suddenly very much wanted to contribute to this kid's broom fund, any 11 year old that would openly critique the 'youngest seeker in a century' at least deserved a go at making the house team.
"Well, how about I buy those paper cups from you? That way we'd each get something and you'd be closer to your broom."
"The cups? What do you want with those?"
I sighed, slightly exasperated, "I don't know. Er, uh, I used the last of the cups at my house this morning and my flatmates get mad if I don't replace them."
Louis piped up, "Is it your girlfriend that gets mad? My brother's girlfriend always yells at him for not putting things back where they belong."
I thought of all the times Hermione had yelled at me for leaving dishes in the sink or not refilling the napkin dispenser. And she was a girl. And a friend. I was already deceiving the kids about who I was, why not add a little wishful thinking in? Besides, it was close to being the truth.
"Yeah, my girlfriend."
"What's her name?"
"Hermione."
"Is she-"
Billy butted in, "All right, we'll sell you the cups." He looked around shiftily and then at the pocket I had put the galleon away in, "Those are more than 5 sickles though. And we don't have change."
I laughed, unable to comprehend that an 11 year old was capable of such devious thinking, "Well, a galleon should cover it, right?"
Billy tried, failingly, for casual, "Er, yeah, that should."
I pulled the galleon out of my pocket and flipped it to them, grabbing my cups off the table.
I almost turned to go, but decided to mess with them just one more time, bending down, ostensibly to re-tie my shoe, my forehead was at their eye level and I brought a hand up like I was swatting at a bug that had landed in my hair. A few more swats at the 'bug' and my hair was standing on end, leaving my scar in plain sight.
I heard Derek suck in a breath and looked up to see Billy turning a delightful shade of red, I bid them good evening and walked back to the range, hearing murmurs of "Do you know who that was?" and "I can't believe you called him a bad player!" at my back.
-_-_-_-_-
"Harry! Where have you been? I was getting worried."
"And I was getting thirsty," Ron said.
"Er, sorry guys, I forgot to get drinks, I can go now if you'd like."
"No, that's fine, we're just finishing up anyhow. What are those cups in your hand? Are those the cups from the little boys out front? Harry, what did you do to those boys?"
"Why do you assume I did anything to those boys? Besides, the blonde one was disparaging my life's work."
"He was disparaging killing Voldemort? Was he a death eater?" I loved Ron like a brother, but sometimes he was a little out there.
"He was 11."
"So?"
"No, he wasn't disparaging the victory over Voldemort, he was making fun of my quidditch skills."
"And that gives you the right to steal his cups?"
"I didn't steal his cups. I bought them. Thank you very much for your faith in my integrity, Hermione."
"Why did you buy cups?"
"Because they were out of lemonade," realizing how inane that sounded, I threw in, "and besides, look at the size of them, they're perfect for Floo Shots."
"Good call, mate! Angie loves those!"
Ah, yes, Angie. Undoubtedly Ron's better half. I really thought he started dating her just to break up with her. Wait, that didn't make much sense, I'll explain. Hermione and I had vowed, upon our all moving in together, that we would educate Ron in the fantastic music muggles had to offer. He was resistant at first, insisting that anything muggles did, wizards could do ten times better, but we persisted and finally broke him. He was really getting into the Rolling Stones when he met Angie and I swore up and down that he started dating her just so he could sing that song and break up with her. I was wrong, they've been together for 10 months now, but he does sing the song, twisting the words to fit his whims, and belting out "Aaaangie" in the shower at all hours of the morning.
"Yes, we know, Ron." Hermione said, obviously recalling the last time Angie had been around Floo Shots and the stumbling, drunk duet of the aforementioned song that followed. And the stumbling, drunk moans that came from Ron's room shortly thereafter.
I always blush at that memory, though from the look of Hermione right now, she doesn't remember what else went on that night.
We almost kissed.
This close. Seriously.
Quick back story - at the end of seventh year I sat her down in the common room and told her I loved her. Do you know what her response was to that? 'Ok.' She fucking said 'ok.' She then proceeded to explain how we were now taking the first step toward her gift to me. I thought she'd gone mad, she was alluding and being vague like crazy, but here's what it comes down to: Hermione wanted to give me normal. She thought I hadn't had enough 'normal' in my life and she was going to have our relationship be 'normal.' We were going to let it happen naturally. As if seven years of friendship turning into a romantic relationship wasn't natural. We weren't going to actively pursue it, we were just going to let it happen. Naturally.
'Naturally' has taken an entire fucking year.
We weren't going anywhere, until that night two weeks ago. Ron and Angie had finally quieted down and Hermione and I were cleaning up the flat after the havoc the two of them had wreaked on it. She bent for the same cup I did and we turned to speak and our lips were so close and I could feel her breath on my face and I was thinking, "If this isn't 'natural,' I don't what is," and she moved in and I tilted my head and then there was huge THUD. We sprang apart, the moment lost.
Ron had fallen out of bed.
At least it was progress. And now I had the whole off-season to build on it, without road trips and rowdy beaters and horny bi-sexual chasers to deal with.
All right, I'm going to detour a bit here and explain the workings of a quidditch team, or at least, the workings of Puddlemere United, off the field. You are expected to socialize with your team. You are expected to accompany them to whatever pub the town you're in this week has to offer. You are expected to be as lewd and crass as the rest of the lot. You are expected to shag like crazy.
These expectations are not exactly fitting for one in love with their best friend.
So, here's how to get around it, or rather, how *I* got around it.
My first game with Puddlemere was a road game. I didn't know a single person on the whole team or in the town, including the roommate I was assigned for the week. Roommate, whose name I found out was Pete, sauntered out of the shower at 7:30 in the evening, scrubbing his hair with a towel and told me I "better hurry up if I wanted to be ready on time." Stupidly, I asked what I was to be ready for, practice was long over and the game wasn't actually for two days. "Ready for the real world of professional quidditch, of course. Beer and broads." Not wanting to alienate myself from my team so early on, I did as told and got ready, figuring I could have a couple of beers, get to know my teammates a bit and go home.
Didn't quite work out like that.
Turns out, when I'm nervous and in a pub, I drink. A lot.
I ended up more drunk than I'd ever been in my entire life (which wasn't saying much, considering I'd only been good and truly drunk twice - graduation and after Voldemort's fall). I found myself on the makeshift dance floor dancing with a witch whose name I didn't even know, but who smelled good. I remember seeing Pete out of the corner of my eye give me a thumbs-up and go back to dancing with the plump girl whose father owned the pub. I think she kissed me after that. Or I kissed her. I remember flashes after that- her sucking on my neck, me kissing hers, which was damp with sweat. I remember Pete calling out loudly, "That's my roommate! That's our seeker!" and hooting. I have no idea how long this groping and pawing and kissing went on for, but at some point she pulled back and said, "I think that's enough."
And we sort of just left each other.
Pete came up and clapped me on the back, "Ready to go back to the room, champ?" I must've agreed and though I only remember the beginning of the walk back to the hotel, I have to assume I stayed mobile throughout it. Next thing I know, I'm waking up earlier than Merlin and rushing to toss my biscuits. After alternately staring at the ceiling, trying to settle my stomach and praying at the loo for a few hours, Pete woke up and congratulated me on my night. "Way to go with Kelly, mate!"
I didn't go out for the rest of the week, but I had established myself on the team- I knew how to have a good time.
That was it. That was all I had to do. From then on, I'd go out with them once a trip and even though I didn't repeat that first night in any shape, I was still a "dog" like the rest of them, at least in their eyes. I realized a couple months later that I was going to have to do a little better than that and made a point to at least talk to some of the girls I encountered. The team assumed that if I was leaving with a girl, I was going to shag her. Really we were going outside to apparate back to our own SEPARATE homes or to have a cigarette. What the team didn't know couldn't hurt them and I've maintained the respect of the team while simultaneously pining away for Hermione.
And now I'm away from all that and near Hermione.
And we're still at the bloody driving range.
"You done now, Ron?"
"Yes, yes, I'm done. No need to get your knickers in a bunch just because you're not the best at something for a change."
He's grinning at me.
Why does everyone assume I hate this because I suck at it? I hate it because IT sucks.
. . . And maybe a little because I don't do it well. No need to let them know that though.
"Oh yes, Ron, you've mastered golf and wizard's chess, you're the king of cool now."
"Sod off." He gave me a look that told me I'd be paying for that remark.
Hermione cleared her throat, "All right, let's go," and she started hoisting the bag of clubs up on her shoulder.
'Naturally' I take it from her and we head off.
Ron and Hermione are chatting about putting when we come upon the boys from earlier packing up their table, I hear them murmuring, "Is that her? Is that who he was talking about?" Derek shouts out, "Hermione!" and when she turns to look, he's already back talking to Billy and Louis, "Yep, she looked! That's Harry Potter's girlfriend!"
I speed up, hoping Hermione didn't hear that and we reach the apparation point before you can say "bogie."
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Well, that's the end of the first chapter. Congratulations if you made it this far! Feel free to review or e-mail me.
-- jamie