Naturally

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

Well, this chapter isn’t as long as the first, I didn’t have as much randomness to scatter throughout it. I can’t believe how many reviews I got! I really thought I was going to catch flak for jumping around.

-- jamie

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Back in the flat and blessedly away from muggles with metal sticks, I watch Ron glance at the clock and make a noise that sounds suspiciously like, “eeek!”

“I’m supposed to meet Angie for dinner in 10 minutes!” He runs into his room and is back with his cloak before Hermione or I can even say a word.

“You two gonna be all right on your own? I know it was my night to cook.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a handful of coins, throwing them at us, “There, that should cover some take-away or something. I’m off, have fun, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” and with a smirk in my direction and a soft *pop*, he’s gone.

Ron and that damnable smirk.

I know exactly what it means. It means, ‘Well, here’s another shot alone with Hermione, it’s not like anything is going to happen though, because you’re both absolutely crazy, in addition to being crazy for each other, and you idiot, I’m going to come home tonight good and snogged and you’re going to be sitting on the couch watching muggle satellite football, in Spanish no less, eating the frozen yogurt Hermione insists on stocking instead of ice cream, having still not pushed your ‘naturally progressing’ relationship any further and why don’t you just sit down and talk to her already?!”

Well, er, maybe it doesn’t mean exactly that, but close enough.

I guess it could also mean that he’s thought of some ridiculous way to avenge my golf/chess comment.

If that’s the case, I best start hiding everything I own, lest he tamper with it. A few months ago at dinner, Hermione and I made the mistake of telling Angie about the time in 5^th year that he accidentally drank veritaserum and confessed to a slight attraction to McGonagall in a “you know, matronly, wonder-what-she-was-like-when-she-was-young sort of way.” Needless to say he couldn’t come up with anything more embarrassing about either of us to announce to the restaurant and he vowed revenge.

He got it.

In the most innocuous of places.

Our shaving foam.

Due, doubtless, to the influence his brothers were having on his sense of humor, he put a spell on Hermione’s to actually grow hair instead of helping to get rid of it. She told me with every swipe of the razor, her legs got harrier and harrier. She couldn’t wear a skirt for a week.

He put some sort of make-up potion in mine. I started lathering up and felt my skin tingling and watched as the foam slithered higher up my face, eventually covering it. When I wiped it off, my entire face was coated in make up- eye shadow, lipstick, some shimmery crap, the whole bit, I spent the day looking like Ziggy fucking Stardust. When it wore off, I refused to shave for an entire two weeks, fearful of a repeat performance. I had a pretty thick beard going until Hermione dragged me to the shop on the corner, purchased brand-new (and therefore, untouched by Ron) shaving foam and perched on the sink, watching me, until I’d shaved the whole “hideously wretched” thing off. Some Prophet reporter had taken a picture of me with it and I guess Remus saw it in the paper, because a few days after Hermione’s attack on my beard, I received an owl carrying a razor, foam, and a piece of parchment that simply said, “I will not have you looking like your godfather. . . Merlin knows his facial hair is unsightly enough for the both of you.”

Anyway, regardless of what Ron meant with that infuriating look, it probably wasn’t good for me.

I look over to see Hermione collecting the coins Ron had hastily provided us, she picks up the last one and offers the handful to me, “So what’ll it be? The Szechwan place down the street? Pizza?”

“Pizza’s fine. Can we get pepperoni this time? After that disaster of a pizza that was the ‘Granger Special,’ I don’t think you should be allowed to choose the toppings ever again.”

“How was I supposed to know you wouldn’t like olives with pineapple? Lots of other people like it. You thought you’d like it!”

“Yeah, well, be that as it may, I’m ordering JUST pepperoni this time. I know I like that.”

“Oooo, is someone still a bit upset over their failure at golf this afternoon?”

“I was not a failure. In order to fail you have to at least try, I wasn’t trying. I was just out there lending moral support to Ron.”

Liar, liar, liar.

“Ok, Harry, sure.” She’s smirking at me too now. I hope everyone’s faces just freeze like that, that’d teach ‘em.

I’m contemplating getting my wand and making it freeze when she breaks the silence with, “So I’m your girlfriend now, am I?”

Oh shit.

“Er, uh, hang on, all right? I’m going to go order the pizza first and we’ll talk about this. Why don’t you wait on the couch or something?” and I hightail it to the kitchen.

Shit shit shit shit.

Ok, Potter, order the pizza and then you can deal with this.

Well, that took all of 45 seconds and now Hermione’s on the couch waiting for an explanation as to why three young wizards are laboring under the notion that she’s my girlfriend, despite our agreement otherwise.

Options. Think of your options.

I could lie. Yeah, lie! Tell her she must’ve missed the latest Rita Skeeter article, the one proclaiming her as my significant other.

I could tell her the pizza place refuses to deliver after the last time we ordered, when Ron answered the door in a towel, and that I have to go pick it up. Maybe she’ll forget about this by the time I get back. Which could be a long time from now, especially if I just happen to get lost on the way there. And on the way back.

I could also just tell the goddamn truth.

Hmmm, the truth. . .

You know what? That sounds fine to me. And I wouldn’t have to remember it later. If anything that’s my downfall, I’ll convince myself that the truth will only cause trouble, tell some spectacularly believable lie and then forget it. Someone’ll ask me about it later and I won’t remember having said that and I just shoot myself in the foot.

So, yeah. . .the truth. . .much easier to remember. At the very least it’d prove Ron’s smirk wrong, our relationship would’ve been pushed. Maybe in the wrong direction, but pushed nonetheless.

I steel myself and head back out to the living room.

She’s sitting on the far end, looking expectant.

I sit down on the other side and open my mouth to speak, only I can’t figure out how to start.

Quiet. It’s too quiet in the flat. We need some background noise. I grab the TV remote and flip it on and would you look at that, a football game is on. And the announcer is rapidly speaking Spanish.

“Why do you watch the games like this, Harry? You know we get this same channel in English.”

“Because it’s more fun this way, I have no idea what the announcers are saying so I pay attention to the game and not their commentary. Besides, I love it when they yell “GOOOAAAL!”

We both stare at the players running around for a moment and I get an idea.

“Look, Hermione, it’s like this, I did tell those boys you were my girlfriend, because by all rights, you should be.” She looks about to speak, but I put a hand up to stop her.

“I know you think we should let this, this us, this relationship, just happen, normally, naturally. And I appreciate the gesture, really I do, but I think we need to help it along. A year’s gone by and we’ve only had one aborted attempt at a kiss. Here, look at the TV, once a player kicks the ball, it just ‘naturally’ sails through the air. In whatever direction he aimed it. But the thing is, he needs to KICK IT first. That ball’s not going to move on its own. It’s not going to go anywhere.”

. . . And there sure as hell isn’t going to be any scoring.

“I guess what I’m saying is we need to kick our ball. We need to set it in motion before anything can happen ‘naturally.’”

She looks thoughtful and I am ON FIRE, who knew I had this in me? I could write a sports AND advice column for the Prophet, they could call me ‘The Love Seeker.’

Best not voice that thought.

“That having been said, I think we should go on a date. That’s normal, right? A perfectly normal, natural ‘kick.’ Tomorrow’s Ron’s meeting and kind of a busy day in general as I have to start my summer training and I think I heard you mention some sort of cross-referencing assignment for the Ministry you need to get done, but Friday, we’re both free Friday. And I think we would do well to have a night on the town. Together. As a potential couple.”

Wow. If I didn’t already think this was a brilliant idea, that speech would’ve convinced me. She can’t argue with that, I’m playing her game, clever use of English and metaphors even! Her eyes turn from the screen to look at me and she smiles slowly.

“Ok.”

To think, the same word that doomed me a year ago is now causing fits of happiness all over my body.

“All right then, Friday it is.”

We both turn back to the television and a drop ball and 2 corner kicks later, a knock on the door signals the arrival of our pizza.

We eat in relative silence, me alternately congratulating myself and watching Hermione pensively chew her pizza, and Hermione, well, pensively chewing her pizza.

After the mess is cleaned up (and by mess, I mean the one I made on my shirt that caused Hermione to shake her head at my eating habits), she kicks off the funny-looking shoes she wore to the driving range and props up her feet next to mine on the coffee table in front of us, nudging my right foot with her left, she asks,

“So, summer training? What does that entail?”

“I guess there’s not really one set thing I’m supposed to be doing, I’m just supposed to be keeping in shape. And I’m not allowed to touch a broom for this whole month. Coach says if the muscles aren’t there off the broom, they’re not going to be there on it. I think I’m going to apparate to the Burrow and do some running around the edges and maybe de-gnome the garden. Might as well be productive if I have to work out my upper body anyway. Not like it’ll matter, Wood used to have us on absolutely scary training programs and my bicep was never any bigger for it.”

“Well, I like lanky, er, slender, boys, besides, seekers are supposed to be built like you.”

“Krum wasn’t,” that slipped out, sounding almost petulant, before I could stop it.

“Viktor wasn’t a lot of things. Namely, he wasn’t you.”

Oh.

I don’t know why I act like such a prat sometimes.

I smile at her, in a way that I hope is sheepish and warm at the same time, and turn her question back on her, “So, cross-referencing? What does that entail?”

“I’m looking into instances of intentional wizard/muggle interaction as they relate to death eater activity.”

“Sounds like a blast.”

“Fun like you wouldn’t believe. At least I have something to look forward to on Friday now,” and she looks at me slyly out of the corner of her eye, making me grin goofily at her.

We watch the game for a bit longer and just as the team in red is setting up for a penalty kick, she stands and yawns, announcing that she’s tired and going to bed now.

I almost make a remark about how “strenuous” golf is, but I refrain and offer a “g’night” instead.

An hour and a half later finds me on the couch, a different game, though still one in Spanish, is on, I have a bowl of chocolate vanilla swirl frozen yogurt on my lap and I hear the sound of Ron apparating home. He ends up right in front of the set and takes in my appearance for a minute before speaking, not without offering a smirk either, “So, how was your night?”

I just smirk back at him and say the only thing that comes to mind,

“GOOOOAAAAL!”

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Watching soccer (er, football) in Spanish is always a good time. Not sure how long this is going to be yet, I have an idea or two for Thursday before we get to the date on Friday. Can I just say, I’m totally having a good time writing this. In case anyone was wondering, the Harry in make-up/Ziggy Stardust thing came from my random skimming/surfing/t00bing around LJs and stumbling upon an alteration of the trio pic in Vanity Fair wherein Daniel Radcliffe was made up to fit right into the movie ‘Velvet Goldmine.’ If anyone knows whose journal I stumbled on, feel free to let me know.

-- jamie

Well, this chapter didn’t come out like I wanted it to, it’s not as smooth, and I’m not as satisfied with it as I am the other two. But, really, how can anyone be expected to concentrate when OotP comes out in a week? That’s only SEVEN DAYS. Wooooooohoooooo! Oh, and there’s a lot of music in here, I think it helps if you’re familiar with the songs, so I apologize if you’re not and it’s annoying to read.

Thanks for all the reviews, guys!

-- jamie

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He is an evil genius.

I’m afraid. I’m really afraid. Who knew he was capable of this?

He’s charmed the entire flat.

To mock me.

Using *MY* CD collection.

And not just me. The flat mocks everyone.

I bet he’s been planning this for ages, there’s no way he could’ve have come up with all this since just yesterday. I’m sure I haven’t even witnessed half of the damage he’s done.

It’s madness.

I stepped out of the shower this morning and looked in the mirror. Harmless enough, right?

Not when Ron’s your flatmate.

The entire room was overcome with sound and The Undertones belted out “I wanna wanna be a male model! I wanna wanna be a male model!”

I’ve never run faster than I did out of that room.

There was silence as I sat at the breakfast table, that is until Hermione sat down, then the kitchen inexplicably turned into a Clash concert and “1-2, I’ve got a crush on you!” could be heard over even my cursing Ron.

After Joe Strummer (and the blush painting my face) died down, Hermione asked conversationally if I’d heard from Sirius lately. She clearly didn’t think much of Ron’s antics and was choosing not to acknowledge them. The antics, however, were acknowledging her. Specifically her use of the word ‘Sirius,’ which set off Iggy Pop.

“Now I wanna be your dog…now I wanna be your dog.”

Trying to get into the spirit of things, thinking if I acted unfazed it would go away, I said ‘Lupin.’

“Oow-ooo, werewolves of London!”

Not so bad, I guess. Hermione and I spent the rest of the meal shouting out names and things, most notably Malfoy, who set off “Puff, the Magic Dragon.” It was a good time.

Until we sat down on the couch to listen to watch the muggle weather report.

Hermione perched herself on an arm and as soon, we’re talking tenths of a second here, as my ass hit the cushions, the Rolling Stones blared, louder than any song thus far.

“Let’s spend the night together, now I need you more than I ever. . .”

And where the other songs had only played clips, choruses and what not, the entire song played.

I mean, have you listened to the lyrics of that song?

“I’ll satisfy your every need, and now I know you will satisfy me. . .”

I’m going to kill him.

I really am.

This thing with Hermione is precarious enough as is, I don’t need Ron or Mick Jagger’s help to fuck it up.

I just have to find him. I know for a fact his tee time isn’t until 11:30 and it’s only 9:15.

Although, if I’d made the entire flat into a funhouse designed to embarrass my two best friends, I wouldn’t stick around either.

Looking at Hermione, she seems to be handling this with respectable aplomb, no blush, no fidgeting, nothing.

I, on the other hand, am the very definition of jumpy.

I reckon it’s because Hermione knows our future. She knows what’s going to happen with us, as I’m basically going to do whatever the hell she tells me to (‘Harry?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Jump.’ ‘How high?’). But me, I have no clue what’s going on in her head. She could be plotting to run away with her male personal assistant (ahem, secretary, ahem) over at the Ministry for all I know.

She breaks my musings with, “Well, at least we’ve got him listening to muggle music.”

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the reason I love her. She takes a situation that I’m just on the edge of despairing about and flips it on its ear.

“Yes, there is that. And he was pretty creative.”

“Indeed. Well, I’m off to work,” (Ron strikes again, “ I don’t wanna work, I just wanna bang on the drum all day!”), do I need to pick up any sort of new clothing for tomorrow? Something fancy or quidditch pads or something?”

Er. . .hadn’t really thought about that. I hadn’t really thought about much beyond the part where I have Hermione with me.

“Well, first dates aren’t usually too fancy, are they? I think the stuff in your closet will be more than appropriate. And if you need quidditch pads, you can always borrow mine from 3rd year, you’re about that tall right?”

She grabs a pillow and smacks me upside the head, “I was taller than you in 3rd year.”

“If you say so.”

She laughs, “I don’t need you to believe me, there are pictures to prove it. Look there at that one on the mantle.”

Sure enough, 3^rd year picture Harry is on tip-toe, trying to get the hair on his head to stand taller than Hermione’s, while she stands and looks at him with amusement.

Damn. There’s only one thing to do about that.

“Yeah? Well I’m taller NOW.” And I grab her from the end of the couch, growl and drag her down until I’m lying prone on top of her, effectively trapping her for the tickling I’m about to start in on.

“See? We’re face to face and your feet only reach my shins.”

Oh.

We’re face to face.

I have got to start thinking things through.

She smirks and shifts her hips, and I gasp, startled, a reaction she takes advantage of, rolling me off her and the couch, onto the floor.

“Give it one more day, Potter.”

She *pops* away and I’m left sprawled awkwardly on the floor.

Shaking my head quickly, I stand and make my way over to the fireplace, grabbing a handful of floo powder, I yell “The Burrow,” and just before I’m jolted away, I can hear Madness singing, “Our house, in the middle of our street. . .”

As I stumble out of the fireplace, I’m greeted by the sight of Mrs. Weasley drinking a cup of tea and reading today’s Prophet.

“Oh, hello Harry! I wasn’t sure what time you’d be dropping by. I was happy to receive your owl, you know you’re always welcome here, especially if you’re volunteering for de-gnoming duty.”

I grin at her, “Well, thank you. How have you been? I haven’t seen you since Ginny’s graduation and that was what, almost two weeks ago?”

“To the day. She’s upstairs now working on her application to the Ministry with Draco.”

Mm-hmm, sure they’re working on her application. And Percy’s joined the circus.

“I’ll have to make sure to say hello to them.”

“And how is my youngest son, up to no good I suppose?”

I recall the past hour with frightening vividness and decide Mrs. Weasley doesn’t need to be hearing about all that. “Er, he’s doing all right, he wouldn’t be Ron without a little mischief now and then. He’s actually playing golf this afternoon with a muggle businessman.”

“Oh yes, trying to get the property for the new store right? Golf, did you say? I didn’t know Ron could golf.”

“Well, he can’t, or rather, he couldn’t, Hermione taught him the other day so that he’d be prepared.”

“Bless her heart. And how is she?”

Before I can stop myself, I rush out, “She’s great, we’re having a date tomorrow night.”

“You are?” Mrs. Weasley has a pleased look on her face.

I can stop myself from fidgeting, “Uh, yes, I thought it was about time.”

“That’s just lovely. You make sure to be a gentleman.”

Yes, I’ll be a gentleman, just like Draco’s being upstairs right now.

“Of course. Well, I best get out and start my training before it gets too hot. Thank you for having me.”

“It’s no problem at all, Harry. Do come find me when you’re done and I’ll fix you a pumpkin juice.”

“Sure thing.”

I’m about to head out the back door when I hear two sets of feet rushing down the stairs, “Harry! We thought we’d missed you, we wanted to say hello before you got all sweaty.”

Would you look at the two of them?

Ginny’s shirt is all askew and buttoned wrong and Draco’s got lipstick on his face.

I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth, trying to signal to him to wipe it off before Mrs. Weasley notices. He catches on and rubs furiously at his lips. Not much I can do about Ginny’s shirt, but then, maybe Mrs. Weasley won’t notice.

“Erm, yes, Pott-, Harry, wouldn’t want to be trying to talk to you with you stinking like a pig.”

Some things never change.

“So how’ve you been, Gin?”

“I’m well, Draco’s here helping me with my application to the Ministry, giving me tips and whatnot, since he had to do it last year. How are things with you?”

“They’re just fine, I’m glad the season’s over, I was pretty tired there during playoffs. Speaking of which, I should start my run now, it was nice seeing you again.” I nod my head, “Draco,” and practically sprint outside.

Ten more seconds in that house and I would’ve burst out laughing. Not only was Ginny’s shirt improperly buttoned, her bra was sticking to the back of her skirt. Either Mrs. Weasley has really lost her edge or she just doesn’t care anymore.

After two laps around the Burrow’s perimeter, it’s apparent that it’s much too hot for the dark gray t-shirt I have on and shuck it off and fling it in the direction of the garden I’ll soon be working in.

Eight laps later and I’ve figured out that it is possible to trip over your own two feet and that I have no idea where I’m supposed to take Hermione tomorrow night.

First dates in the real world are much different than first dates at Hogwarts, there your options are Hogsmeade, a ball, or, well, Hogsmeade again.

What’s that muggle expression, “Dinner and a movie?” I guess we could do dinner and a show. I reckon I should try and stick to the normal as much as possible to be true to my speech yesterday.

I guess we could go to the new restaurant down the street. Walking distance, casual dress, a BIG bar. What’s not to like? And plus, we’re close to the flat, if this thing blows up in my face, I won’t have to go too far to find a familiar wall to bang my head against.

I guess that’ll be the tentative plan, if Hermione has any better ideas, I’m sure she won’t hesitate to speak up.

I start in on the garden and finish within the hour. I wander back into the house, hoping I don’t smell like Malfoy said. I nod at Mrs. Weasley and she gasps and whispers to me, “Harry, dear, I can see your underwear!”

I look down and realize I forgot to grab my t-shirt and that the dark blue shorts I wore to run have fallen low, revealing the top of the green and white plaid of my other shorts. I tug the blue ones back up, laughing to myself. That woman raised five boys and has actually washed my boxer shorts more times than I can count and she almost looks embarrassed.

Maybe she just doesn’t want me scandalizing Ginny. Not that Malfoy’s not making quick work of that.

“Sorry about that, Mrs. Weasley.” I’m tempted to tell her that we walk around not wearing any shorts at all back at our flat, at Ron’s insistence, just to see what she’d do, but decide against it, I’ll think of a better way to get back at that boy.

“Will you be staying for dinner?”

Sure, let me stick around here for another five hours, with Ginny and Malfoy upstairs probably making your first grandchild. That’ll totally work out well.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly, I have to get home and shower and it’s my night to cook. Ron and Hermione would kill me if I ate your delicious food and left them with nothing. Thanks very much for the offer though.”

“All right then, remember though, Harry, you’re welcome anytime.”

Yes, provided you can’t see my underwear.

I smile at her, wave, and floo myself home.

-_-_-_-_-

Well, Ron did terribly at golf, but was able to come to a deal on the property.

Or at least that’s what the note tacked to the fridge says. He’s still in hiding. Hermione came home for lunch and announced she’d be at the Ministry until late tonight and not to wait up.

Damn it, I could’ve eaten at the Weasley’s and no one would’ve cared.

And I spent the evening eating leftover pizza and trying to disarm all of Ron’s charms. It seems like they only work once, because looking in the mirror didn’t set off anything and I actually spoke to Sirius via floo and Iggy Pop was no where to be heard. I’m still a little afraid though, that one on the couch only worked when both Hermione and I were on it, I reckon there’s some more like that around.

It really is quite boring here without the two of them around, keeping me entertained.

Guess there’s nothing to do now but wait for tomorrow to come and, in my experience, the best way to wait is to sleep. Off to bed I go.

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Ok, well, I obviously don’t own any of the music in here. It belongs, in order, to The Undertones, The Clash, Iggy Pop (and the Stooges), Warren Zevon, Peter, Paul, and Mary, The Rolling Stones, Todd Rundgren, and Madness. I think I got them all.