I know that most of the fanatic H/Hr shippers will hate this chapter - or at least the end of it, in which Harry crashes and burns.
Wherein Harry learns Hermione's parents' nickname for her, gets a tour, plays pool, visits Hermione's room, learns Hermione can play the violin, they both miss each other's cues, Harry gets a Howler and is forced to explain himself, the Grangers get sterling signs in their eyes, a huge row develops, and Harry has enough and runs away.
Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes "fair use" as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.
Chapter 18 - Good Intentions
Harry was at a loss how to answer Hermione's father's question. What was Armani…?
Salvation came with a clicking sound that grew rapidly louder. She appeared at the top of the stairs, radiant in a long, deep blue dress split up the side. What the dress added at the bottom, it subtracted at the top. Her shoulders were breathtakingly bared, and there was a hint of cleavage that was sure to distract him all evening. She was obviously wearing heels.
The question forgotten, Harry looked up with a smile. Hermione took one look back at him, and all the tension she had been carrying throughout the day dissolved. She started tittering and could not stop.
She continued in this fashion as she made her way down the stairs, leaning heavily on the marble banister. Trying hard to compose a coherent sentence she asked, "Harry, what on Earth happened to you?"
Before he could answer, her Mum asked Hermione, "Hermy, dear, I'm confused. If I remember the pictures at all correctly, wasn't Ronald the one with the…."
"What did you do to your hair?" Hermione interrupted as she tried to regain her composure. The question was directed to Harry.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, a growing sense of embarrassment making his face feel warm.
"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed as she stopped in her tracks and one hand went to her mouth. This was serious. The affinity was positively radiating with Harry's discomfort. This was not just his unique way of breaking the ice. "I'm sorry for laughing, Harry. You really don't know, do you?"
"What don't I know?" he asked with increasing embarrassment. He felt as though everybody else was enjoying a big laugh at his expense, and he was the only one who did not get the joke.
"You'd best check yourself in the mirror, Harry," Hermione quickly advised as she pointed to a full-length mirror on the wall by the front door.
Looking at his reflection, Harry realised for the first time that his hair had been coloured Weasleyish red. "Oh, bloody He…! Sorry. It's just that Bill Weasley had better say his prayers.…"
Harry bolted for the nearest door, which led only to a coat closet. That would have to do. Hiding himself behind the door he pronounced, "Finite," and ended the spell. Trying to look as nonchalant as possible under the circumstances, the now properly black-haired Harry rejoined the others in the middle of the room.
"I'm so glad you could make it early," Hermione gushed as if nothing had happened. She gave him an enthusiastic hug. Harry felt himself going somewhat weak in the knees as he returned the embrace. Hermione felt it too.
Hermione's father, on the other hand, tensed at this innocent but unmistakably physical display of affection. His face became a mask, and his knuckles went white from clenching his fists.
When Harry and Hermione broke apart, she saw her parents looking at each other with questioning expressions on their faces. She had her own questions, no doubt the same as theirs - albeit focussed in diametrically the opposite direction.
Knowing her father, and wishing to preserve the peace, she took a different tack. "What's that, Harry?" Hermione asked quickly, with a gesture towards the large turquoise package on the floor.
"I was told that it's customary in these situations to get a gift for you as well," replied Harry, shuffling his feet. "That means … umm … it's for you."
Hermione gave the large object an evaluative look. "Harry, we've been over this. You know I don't want you giving me extrav … er … any presents…. But let me see what it is!" she added as her curiosity got the better of her. She quickly closed the gap to the rectangular shape, bent over it, and began ripping off the paper.
Harry could not help but watch. The view he had of Hermione's partially recumbent form - so attractively packaged by her azure gownlike dress - reminded him rather forcefully that she had developed rather more of a figure than her usual clothing revealed. Just as he was stepping forward with a warning to be careful, there was a loud squawking sound. One rather startled tawny owl had once again encountered outside light.
"Oh, Harry, you shouldn't have. She's beautiful!" Hermione turned kissed Harry on the cheek.
At that, Harry snapped to attention, and she got a jolt through their affinity. She could not help that this had happened. That revealing link was always open. Hermione eyed him questioningly. She looked like she wanted to say (or Legilimence) something, but she refrained.
"Isn't it wonderful, Mummy?" gushed Hermione. "I've wanted a magical owl for ages, and now I have one!"
Her mother responded with some bromide, but Hermione was not really listening. Rather she was peppering Harry with questions.
"What is her name?"
"Is she trained?"
"What species is she? Tawny, right?"
"How will I feed her?"
Harry replied to her questions as best he could, but it was difficult for him to give accurate, coherent answers. Her father's previous mandate to keep magical chat to a minimum was only part of it. Hermione soon sensed Harry's nervousness, and took a guess at its source. "Daddy, can I show Harry around the house?"
"All right, Hermy," her father answered. "But I know where you'll end up. Remember what we discussed - the door stays open at all times, and both feet stay on the floor."
Hermione scowled at that tactless reminder. She asked the housekeeper to please take Athena to her room, which the servant did gingerly. Then she caught hold of Harry's hand and practically dragged him out of her parents' presence.
She kept up a running commentary that described the rooms they were passing through, but Harry was not really paying attention. Instead, it was his turn to struggle to keep from laughing out loud. By the time they had reached the library, he lost that struggle.
"Hermy? Hermy!" Harry choked out Hermione's parents' pet name for her between guffaws. "Your folks and Grawp - now there's a combination."
Hermione's eyes narrowed dangerously at being taunted, even in jest. "Harry Potter, if you breathe so much as a word about this to anyone at Hogwarts, you'll find out what it feels like to have a Boiling Charm performed on your tongue."
"Actually, your dad does remind me a bit of Grawp…. Not as friendly, though," Harry voice dropped to a grumble.
"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry." apologised Hermione. "I can't help the way he is. I wish I could, but I can't. From what Daddy did in Hong Kong, you must know that he doesn't care for you very much, but he's not a bad person. It's just that he knows so little about you. What he does know he doesn't really like. First, he thinks that my being friends with you almost got me killed. Second, he believes that you're a penniless orphan who couldn't give his little girl anything except a reputation."
"He's not exactly wrong about the getting killed bit, you know," Harry responded glumly. "When I saw you get hit with that spell, my life passed before my eyes. I felt worse at that moment than when Voldemort took me in Fourth Year. Cedric was more of an accident - you, I let come. It was the worst feeling in my life - for about fifteen minutes anyway…."
Hermione could tell that Harry was starting to think about Sirius again, and through their link she could sense him rapidly becoming morose. That was not how she wanted him tonight. She gave him another quick kiss on the cheek.
"That's sweet, Harry," she said. "Sad, but sweet. I'm honoured for you to think of me in the same sentence as Sirius."
Harry looked at her with a dreamy, almost unfocused look on his face. For a brief, thrilling instant, she thought he might be going to kiss her back - and not on the cheek. But nothing happened. She wanted so much just to grab him by that tie….
Her shoulders slumped imperceptibly. "Harry, I'm supposed to be giving you a tour, remember? What do you think so far?" She noted that he had voiced no objection to her not having told her parents anything about his newfound wealth.
Since he had primarily been contemplating the humour in Hermione's parents' pet name for her, Harry had not paid particular attention to the tour. "I think this place is so big, I'd need a Marauders' Map not to get lost in it; that's what I think."
"Well, now that the Aurors have taught us something about how it works, maybe I can create one for you - if you can stand Daddy, that is," Hermione commented jokingly.
"I think it's more like whether he can stand me," Harry observed accurately. "At least a map would let me avoid him."
`This isn't going to be easy,' Hermione thought nervously as she changed the subject. "So what do you think of the library?" she asked. "I practically grew up in this room."
Harry looked around the large, well-proportioned reading room. Three of the four walls were entirely taken up with mahogany bookcases rising all the way to an intricately painted coffered ceiling. Two additional rows of identically crafted, double-sided bookcases stood in the centre of the room. Only doorways broke the walls of books, and even over the doorways there were books.
A rolling ladder was attached to a horizontal brass bar that ran along all three walls and passed just above the doors. The fourth wall was bare except for a couple of paintings - and two large windows covered with gauzy white curtains. Next to the windows, taking advantage of the extra light, were two red-brown leather reclining chairs. Between the chairs was a floor-mounted globe of the world fully a metre in diameter. Off to one side was a small standing desk for writing.
"I think it's huge," replied Harry. "Although I have to say Advanced Gingivitis Treatment with Illustrations isn't exactly what I'm dying to read right now - or ever. But I can see where you got to be such a … er … so into books." Harry caught himself before he had called Hermione a bookworm (which she was), but was still rewarded with something of a glare. It did not take a genius to figure out what he had almost said.
"Anyway, let's continue with the tour," Hermione sighed.
They walked through what Harry thought must have been all of the rooms on the ground floor, and then went downstairs to the basement. They passed a woodworking room, a bowling alley (Harry had no idea what it was) and a studio (Harry wondered why the walls seemed to be covered with egg boxes painted grey) before arriving at what Hermione called the game room.
"Er," Harry stumbled. "This is really … different." The room was wood paneled, with several stuffed heads of large game animals mounted on the walls. A glass cabinet containing several hunting rifles was mounted on one wall. On another were more of the omnipresent bookshelves - this time containing about twenty years of Nature magazine. A wide screen television dominated one end of the room, along with equipment for playing video games, and a wet bar, complete with four bar stools.
At the other end of the room were a full-sized pinball machine and a large green-covered felt table. Harry had never seen such a thing, except fleetingly on television, and asked Hermione what it was.
"That's a pool table," Harry. "Don't tell me you've never played before," said Hermione in what Harry thought of (strictly to himself) as her "I-know-something-you-don't know" tone of voice.
"All right, so I won't tell you, then," groused Harry, who was beginning to get rather annoyed. "Let's go somewhere else."
"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it, that way," said Hermione, begging the question of how she had meant it. "I didn't know you had really never seen a pool table."
"Hermione, sometimes I think you could write a book about all the things you don't know about me," replied Harry grumpily. "Especially the things you don't know that I don't know."
Hermione looked abashed - but had an idea. Her face brightened again. It was somewhat the reverse of the "normal" clichéd situation, but who had ever accused Harry (or herself, for that matter) of being normal. Harry was tense, and frankly she did not feel that she had done much to help relieve it. She thought further, `bar billiards or snooker would be too difficult … the table's a bit large, but he might have a prayer at pool.'
"Pool is a fun game to play. Will you let me show you how to do it?" she asked. "Please?"
"Umm…. Okay." He had heard Dudley mention playing pool once or twice over the last few years, but Harry had no idea what the game was about.
"Go to the other end of the table then. You'll find the balls and a big wooden triangle - that's a rack. Put the rack on the table and put the fifteen numbered balls inside of it; leave the little ones," Hermione instructed. "I'll get our cues chalked up."
Whilst Harry was plopping various coloured ivory billiard balls in the rack, Hermione went to a cabinet on the wall and removed two cues. She slipped off her infernal high-heeled shoes. Better to play barefoot than in those.
"Hermione, there's one too many balls," Harry complained peevishly. "There's sixteen rather…. Whoa, and are those wands? I didn't know pool was a magical game."
"Oh, Harry, it's not," Hermione said with a laugh. "These are cue sticks, not wands. We use them to hit the balls. The white ball's the cue ball - it doesn't belong in the rack. Roll it up here to the other end of the table. The other fifteen balls go in the rack. Here, let me show you the arrangement…."
Hermione showed Harry how to rack the balls in proper order, and where they went on the table. She showed him how to chalk his stick. Then came the "fun part" (and why Hermione had made her offer once she found out he knew nothing about the game) - showing Harry how to hold the cue and shoot with it.
Harry was several inches taller than Hermione and had longer arms, which is why she had chosen her father's 58-inch Fury RP for him to use. She had her favorite 52-inch model - the one her father had personally turned for her as a present for her fourteenth birthday. The actual instruction involved a good deal of touching and close body contact, as Hermione tried to maintain both of his hands in the proper grip simultaneously.
Contact and touching were good.
Even if she had wanted to, Hermione could not have avoided paying attention to Harry's emotional state during such moments. At least now, their affinity was telling her something that her other senses could confirm. He was responding favorably to her touch. She could feel him relax into her as much of his previous tension vanished. All she had to figure out now was how to steer the conversation to find out where she stood. She did not want her father to turn this dinner into a disaster.
"Now we'll play a simple game," she told Harry. "Eight ball - solids and stripes. I'll break. You watch how I do it, and where I shoot from. If I knock anything in on the break, then I shoot whatever I put in, and you get the other. From then on, however, we have to pocket our balls in numerical order, lowest to highest. So you can get a sense of the strategy, I'll call my shots, but you don't have to."
SMACK…! Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, thunk, clack, click, click, click, click … thunk.
Hermione grinned, "Power house break." She kept up a running commentary throughout the game - which, being his first, was quite one-sided.
"Combination on the three, left corner pocket."
Clack … clack, clack … thunk.
He tried hard, but not altogether successfully, to process the steady stream of information she imparted about English, bank shots, cushion shots, combinations and how to avoid "scratching" (pocketing the cue ball). He was most impressed - and not just at her skill - when on one particularly awkward shot, Hermione had opted to use the cue stick behind her back.
"Four, corner pocket, opposite side, down and back."
Clack … clack … clunk … thunk.
Harry nearly dropped his cue at the way her blue gown stretched over her … well … bosom as she arched her back to take that shot.
Some five minutes later: "Harry, what I'm going to do this time is to try for the eight ball - that's the black one - in the corner pocket at your end. I may end up pocketing your eleven in the other corner, but that's all right because I'm doing it to avoid scratching. If that were to happen when I'm shooting the eight ball, I would lose the game." Then Hermione did exactly what she said she was going to do.
Clack … clack … thunk … click … thunk.
"Great," Harry said. "Now you've knocked in all of your balls. Does that mean I get to shoot now?"
"Well … actually, no," Hermione replied, a little embarrassed that she had let her competitive instincts take over. "That means I've won. I did what is called `running the table' - pocketing all my balls in a row with no misses. But we can play again, and just take turns."
"I think that would be best," Harry agreed. "You're incredibly good, Hermione."
"I try to excel at everything I do," she responded honestly. "Of course, it helps that I've grown up with a table in the house … and lots of time to practice when I was younger. It's not exactly something most girls end up learning, but my parents didn't object so long as I did the girly things they expected - before I got my Hogwarts letter, of course."
"You're not using magic, are you? That time that you hopped the white one over the orange stripy one looked really hard."
"It was hard, Harry, but I am quite good at this," she reminded him. "I assure you I never use magic when I shoot pool. It wouldn't be sporting."
Hermione racked the balls again and they took turns shooting at anything they wanted. Harry was hardly terrible - he made some shots - but hitting balls with a cue stick required his arm muscles to work in ways he had never used them before. She was constantly adjusting his arm and hand position and trying to get him accustomed to making the straight back and forward motion necessary for the tip of the cue to go where he wanted it to go. She enjoyed every adjustment.
"I was wondering," Hermione asked tentatively late in their second round of taking turns, "about the affinity caused by the purple-flame spell. Are you still comfortable with maintaining the link? Things have been…." Hermione searched for a sufficiently neutral word. "…Well, rather unpredictable this summer, and if you consider it an invasion of your privacy, I could…."
Harry cut Hermione off. "I don't have anything to hide from you, Hermione. You don't have to change anything on my account."
After a little more small talk, Hermione took the opening Harry had given her. "Does she make you happy, Harry? This woman you're seeing - I don't even know her name. What I feel from you when you're with her suggests that she does, at least most of the time…."
Clack-riiiiiip … CRASH.
It was not exactly the most opportune moment to bring up that subject. Harry missed his shot badly, his cue leaving a six-inch tear in the baize and causing the cue ball to fly off the table and land with a glass-shattering crash on top of the pinball machine. Hermione flicked her wand out of her wrist holder and repaired the damage with a couple of simple spells.
"Gentle Harry - gentle," she cautioned. "Remember, no harder than necessary to get the job done…."
Harry stood there feeling intensely stupid.
"I'm just trying to understand how it is," she said. "We can go to Dumbledore to sever the affinity any time you like."
"No need," he replied. "You're good, Hermione. You're spot on in your description. Most of the time she makes me feel … happy things that I've hardly ever felt in my life…." He caught himself. He really should not be discussing with Hermione the exception implied by "hardly ever," since that exception involved her.
But for fame and fortune….
"She, she just lets me be myself - no demands - and she's showed me to so many fun and interesting things that I'd never known existed. The cinema…. Indian food…. Beethoven…."
It was all Hermione could do not to scream out. "She…? She introduced you to classical music, Harry?" Hermione missed her shot as well.
Clack … clack … clunk-clunk, click. The balls rolled to a halt.
"Yes, before I met her, those composers, Beethoven, Bach, Tchaikovsky…. They were just names to me. My relatives never played them. I didn't know they had written such beautiful music…." He got a far-away look in his eye as he thought about the music Eliza had played for him.
Hermione wanted to cry.
"Oh, really," she responded, gritting her teeth. She paused, and said, "What instrument does she play?"
"Oh, she doesn't play anything; she chooses music and lets me listen to it," replied Harry. He pocketed the four ball without scratching.
Clack … click, thunk.
"Can you at least tell me her name?" she asked.
"I … I'd like to - I really would, Hermione, but she doesn't want me to tell anybody," Harry said in a less enraptured, more leaden tone.
"That's passing strange," she responded. Trying to sound as disinterested as possible, she asked him, "Why is that?" Hermione sunk the nine ball, drawing it off the opposite cushion and back to the corner pocket on her side.
Clack … clack, clunk … thunk.
"Well…," Harry paused. He had never discussed this problem with anyone. He had wanted to, but did not know anyone close to him that he trusted. Even Bill had his biases, as he was a Weasley. Harry needed to get it off his chest, so in a trice, he decided to tell his best friend. He tried to put in the six ball, but missed.
Clack … clack, clunk.
"Well, like I said…." Harry haltingly started. "She almost always makes me so happy. But there's this problem…."
Hermione had to remind herself to breathe. She had NOT wanted to be in the position of giving Harry sexual advice about a rival of hers for his affections. She stood there, not taking her shot, staring at him.
"She's…. She's like you in a way. She has big problems with all bloody money and all the bloody fame," Harry growled out these last few words as if they were a curse. "She won't be seen in public with me…. Not wizarding public, anyway. Everything is wonderful as long as we stay in the Muggle world, but she doesn't want to be associated with me in anything having to do with … with magic. She says I'm like a bird in a gilded cage - ruddy well treated, but trapped - watched every minute of every day for my own safety. She's afraid that would happen to her if she's publicly seen with me, and she says she wouldn't be able to live that way. She's not wrong … about any of it … so I don't know what is going to happen…."
At that moment Hermione was exceedingly grateful that the emotional link between them worked in only one direction. She would not have wanted Harry to know how she was really feeling. That information put her over the moon. Her heart was doing backflips of joy, as she instantly understood the implications of what Harry had said.
He was simply having a summer romance - something that could not possibly last, given Harry's position in the wizarding world.
She did not have to do anything. Any affirmative step would be intrusive and foolish. All Hermione need do was to stay Harry's best friend, not mess anything up worse, and be there for him when the inevitable happened. She had not felt so happy since she had learned she was going to be allowed to return to Hogwarts. Come to think of it, he would probably say the same thing. Her happiness and his were already intertwined, she thought.
Clack … clunk … clunk-clack, thunk.
Hermione calmed herself by lining up a two-cushion shot on the fifteen, which she made smartly. What she said, of course, was completely different from what she thought. "That's terrible Harry…. You're not thinking about going Muggle on everyone, are you? With your goblin manifesto, you've become my indispensable man, you know."
As if that had not already been true for the better part of three years - maybe longer.
Harry sighed. "I've thought about it, but I know I can't. I've got too many damn responsibilities here to just chuck it all and forget about magic." At some point, Harry knew, he would have to tell Hermione about the prophecy, but this was hardly a proper time. He took aim at the one ball, trying for the side pocket.
Clack, click, thunk.
"Well, since I've never really had a boyfriend - Viktor being … just too … different - I can hardly give you profound advice," Hermione advised. "Just enjoy yourselves and see where it goes. But be careful. I wouldn't want you to do anything that would hurt her, and even less would I want her to do anything that would hurt you."
They shot pool for a few more minutes, until Hermione told him that she wanted to show him her room before dinner started. She led Harry across the house and up the stairs. She was not particularly agile in high heels (the reason she ideologically considered such attire to be the Western equivalent of foot-binding), so she made a virtue of necessity. She concentrated on walking in the most feminine way she could - head up, chin level, and glide with straight-line steps. Harry was, of course, right behind her, and there would not be much besides her for him to look at.
It was not the most opportune time for Hermione to encounter her mum, but that was exactly what happened in the upstairs hallway. Hermione's mum eyed her daughter knowingly, but said nothing. As a woman, she understood very well what that walk in those high heels was for.
"I want to show Harry my room," pleaded Hermione. "I've been at Hogwarts for over five years, and nobody from school has ever seen it."
"All right dear," allowed her mum. "But you know the rules, daughter of mine, and I expect you to obey them. Door open. Both feet on the floor."
As a teenager, Hermione understood very well that her parents existed to embarrass her. "Yes, mother," she huffed. More than a little sulkily, she led Harry out of her mum's presence. However, as she reached the doorway to her room, she began to giggle.
"Don't tell me my hair's gone all Weasley again."
"No, silly." She flicked out her wand.
She whispered to him, "Same drill as at your place, then." Her wandtip glowed yellow.
"You are a wicked witch," gasped Harry as it dawned upon him what she was planning to do. "You'd use a Muggle-Repelling Charm on your own parents?"
"Ten points for Gryffindor, Mister Potter," Hermione replied, and cast the spell.
Her room looked lived in, but not messy. It was dominated by a lavender coloured four-posted bed that took up about one-third of the space. The gauzy hangings were open, and Harry could see a poster with the Gryffindor coat of arms on the wall between the posts. The bed was neatly made, with a pile of stuffed animals at the foot and some papers scattered about. There were hideaway baskets under the bed.
The opposite wall had a roll-top desk with a Tiffany lamp on one side and a well-used canterbury on the other. The desk was open and Harry could see numerous drawers and cubbyholes, one of which contained her prefect badge. On the wall above the desk was another poster, this one with the Hogwarts crest. Next to that were several framed pictures, presumably courtesy of Colin - the Trio together, the four Triwizard contestants, her and Harry, Harry alone.
Outside light came through a dormer window, in and around which were clustered a variety of plants in flower boxes and hanging baskets. Hermione had a large walk-in closet, in which Harry could see both robes and a number of Muggle outfits hanging. A second door - no doubt to the infamous shared bathroom - was on the left-hand side of her bed.
Two walls of her room were themselves devoted to floor-to-ceiling bookshelves - something Harry entirely expected. In between them was a large, somewhat out of place, portrait of Artemisia Lufkin, former Headmistress of Hogwarts and, later, the first female Minister of Magic. When he asked Hermione about that, she replied, "You're not the only one whom Dumbledore wants to keep an eye on."
What bare wall space there was was painted light lavender, harmonising with the bedclothes. The ceiling was coffered like the rest of the house. It was painted a darker purple and emblazoned with yellow stars that Hermione explained glowed in the dark, obviating the need for any night lamp.
A wide variety of objects occupied Hermione's room: a stereo with an assortment of newer CDs and a few older vinyl records, Crookshanks' cat bed, an exercise bicycle, a music stand, a vivarium housing a frog and a chameleon, and a computer table with a new-looking computer upon which a coral reef screen saver programme was playing. She had swivel chairs in front of both her desk and her computer. There were a number of framed documents on the walls, from Hermione's signature collection. Harry saw documents signed by John Lennon, Jimmy Carter, and David Lloyd George. There were several others.
Resting on the purple shag carpet, just inside the door was the large owl cage with Harry's unopened card lying on top. Athena was inside, with her feathers puffed out. The owl was hooting regularly and quite obviously agitated.
The reason for her agitation was readily apparent. Crookshanks had parked herself on the carpet about a metre away, his bottle brush tail swishing. He was eyeing Athena intently with a "dinnertime" look in his yellow eyes. Hermione immediately shooed Crookshanks from the room.
"Oh you poor dear," Hermione cooed to Athena. "Cooped up for all this time. It's time you were let out. Hermione removed a large hanging bacopa ("I'm learning to grow some of my own herbs") and placed it on her desk. She transfigured Athena's large square cage into an elegant stainless steel dometop, and Harry helped her hang it from the chain that formerly held the bacopa. Hermione let Athena out. The tawny owl promptly landed on her outstretched arm.
Hermione winced as she learnt the hard way that it was not a good idea to allow owls to perch on bare skin, but she stroked Athena lovingly nonetheless. After chatting with Athena for a bit, she decided that she wanted to send a letter to someone. She first thought of Ron and Ginny, but Harry reminded her that they were across the sea in Denmark. Hermione agreed that a long over-water delivery was a bit much for an inaugural flight.
Instead she decided to send a note to Neville, which she hastily drafted and would not let Harry read. "Gentlemen don't read each other's mail," Hermione admonished. After affixing the letter, Hermione threw open the sash. With a joyous squawk, Athena took flight. She had been caged for a long time.
Harry picked his card off the floor. With a nervous half smile he handed it to her. She could sense that his hesitation was real. She took it from him and opened it. Inside was a card with Athena's picture on it, and an inscription (in blinking rainbow colours) that read, "To Hermione, who makes my sad songs better."
"Oh, Harry, that's so sweet!" She kissed him on the cheek, drew back and waited for his response. She felt a swirl of conflicted emotions through the affinity.
"Umm … there's a picture in there too."
Hermione took out the picture. "Oh my, aren't you something to look at.… A true knight in shining armour." She eyed the picture more closely.
"Harry, you weren't…? What are you going to do with the bonnet ornament in your hand?"
It did not occur to Harry that the question might have been rhetorical - or even that a little white lie might have been appropriate.
"Er … It's already gone…," he confessed. "I gave it to my … girlfriend."
That certainly broke the mood. Back to square one. Regroup. Try again.
"Harry, you remember when I sent you the letter through the Royal Mail?" Hermione asked.
"I'll never forget that as long as I live," Harry responded. "I stayed up all night learning about Hong Kong."
"Well, I fooled my folks, by using stamps from this book," Hermione said, gesturing to a large green volume embossed with "United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland."
"My grandfather was a philatelist, and I got this when he died. I'd never had any use for it until that night. My parents didn't know that I had any postage. I snuck the letter into a pillar box at the airport."
"I wondered how you did that," Harry said, suppressing a smile. "You upset my relatives, since the postman inquired after the stamps."
"Speaking of Hong Kong, would you like to see the photographs from my trip?" Hermione asked. Harry readily agreed. His hasty research had left him somewhat curious about the place.
Hermione pulled a large white-paged Muggle photo album from one of her shelves. She pushed the papers on the bed to one side and for the next few minutes she reminisced about what she had seen and done on what had to have been the worst holiday she had ever experienced. There were lots of pictures of abrupt hillsides, breathtakingly tall buildings (Harry always thought that place looked like the New York City pictures in his old primary school geography books), and gaudy Chinese objects. Some photos from a tram ride were so mind-bendingly steep that the buildings looked as if they were almost lying on the ground - and these were non-magical pictures.
Hermione continued, "The one thing I regret most about the trip is that, because of my parents' attitude, I had no chance to learn anything about the magic of the place. On every other trip since I've been at Hogwarts, I was able to learn about magical customs as well. I feel like there's a lacuna in my experience…."
"A what?" Harry asked.
"A lacuna - a hole, a gap, an empty spot. Anyway, I took only one picture that had anything to with magic, and I wasn't even sure about that at the time." Hermione paused, thinking about that hole she felt in her heart.
"Which one is that?" asked Harry.
Hermione flipped several pages. "This one," she said. "Can you tell who that is?"
"Why that's Percy the perfect prefect coming out of some building," laughed Harry. "How did you get that shot?"
"Well, he wasn't easy to miss," Hermione explained. "Especially with almost everyone being Chinese, he stood out. I was so lonesome for anything magical, that I took his picture without even being absolutely sure it was he. It was him, though. Dumbledore drafted him to speak to my parents, and if I do say so, he did a marvelous job of negotiating. It was all coincidence - he just happened to be in the colony on some Quidditch tour with Ludo Bagman."
"Hermione," Harry began, "I'm getting some Occlumency and meditation training from a Chinese wizard who knows loads about Hong Kong. I could arrange for you to see him if you'd like. I mentioned you to him … er … when I thought I might have to come for you. I'm sure he'd see you. At least you could show him your photos, or something…. Maybe there's more to them than meets the eye? He might even tell you about Hong Kong magic."
"Oh, could you?" Hermione bounced on the bed with her hands clasped together. "I would like that very much."
"Sure," said Harry. "By the way Miss Granger, your feet aren't on the floor."
"Mention that again," replied Hermione, making a show of drawing her wand, "and something else will be on the floor."
They both laughed. Harry continued, "It's not the greatest neighbourhood though. He works in the same Muggle gym my cousin attends - he's a member of the Order and is there to watch over Dudley … security, you know."
She started to put the photo album down on the scraps of parchment that were on her bed. "Oh, yes, that reminds me," she said. "These are the drafts that Colin and Dennis prepared of form responses to your fan mail. They sorted the mail into eight categories: generally favorable; letters with concrete business or personal proposals of one sort or another; umm … marriage proposals … which require a rather different response; offers to adopt you, which are surprisingly numerous; autograph or picture requests; generally unfavorable; hate mail, and dangerous mail. We see no reason to respond to the latter two categories. But we have prepared generic, noncommittal letters to address the remainder. I helped Dennis charm an autopen to sign your name, he's very clever in that way, and Colin already has some suitable photographs of you for those requesting them."
"Just what I need - to be the second coming of Gilderoy Lockhart," Harry muttered.
"Well you could do worse," Hermione sniffed. She thought of the precious spare time she had spent supervising the Creeveys when Harry had not gotten around to it himself.
"You're still crushing on him, aren't you," he teased.
"I most certainly am not! I've moved on!" Hermione protested. Harry decided it would not be wise to pursue this conversation any further.
Hermione was left waiting for the follow-up question that never came - the one that might have allowed for a life-changing "inadvertent" admission.
Harry started to read the letters, but she told him to take them with him and read them at home. He could mark them up if he wanted and send them back directly to the Creeveys with Hedwig.
Hermione was rooting around in one of the hideaway baskets under the bed, looking for something. While watching what he could see of her form-fitting dress, Harry brought up the purple-themed décor of Hermione's room.
"Oh, purple has always been my favorite colour, for ever since I can remember," Hermione replied. "Daddy always encouraged it…. Said purple was the colour of royalty."
"Well, that's one thing anyone can always fantasise over," Harry said absent mindedly, still observing Hermione as she bent over whatever it was she was looking in. Through the affinity, she could sense Harry paying her the same sort of attention as he had when they walked to her room. She was in no mood to hurry.
"I never can tell with Daddy, though," Hermione replied. "He's so very ambitious. For all I know he could be serious…," her voice trailed off. "You can gain the world but lose your soul…. There … found it."
"Found what?" Harry asked.
"This," said Hermione enigmatically. Then she turned around and Harry saw she was holding a violin and a bow.
"You…? You play violin?" Harry asked, his mouth wide open in undisguised surprise.
"Why yes, Harry," Hermione replied with a half smile. Harry watched as she sat on the bed, rubbed something on the bow, and fitted a shoulder rest to the instrument. "You see, the things you don't know about me - you too could fill a book with them. My parents had me do all the usual girly things when I was young: ballet, gymnastics, choir, violin. I was hideous at most of them, but this one stuck. I've been taking lessons since I was four, and I might have gone into music if I hadn't received my letter. Tibor was very disappointed…."
"Tibor who?"
"Tibor Varga." Noting Harry's blank look, she added, "He's a Muggle violin instructor, quite famous, and a prodigy in his own right."
Without saying anything further, Hermione put the violin under her chin, and her bow flashed across the strings. Hermione adjusted a couple of the pegs, making sure the instrument was in tune. "Would you like to hear me play?" she asked, although Harry could tell this was hardly a request.
"Sure," he said, "just pick anything pretty."
"Don't worry," Hermione shot back. "Remember, I said that everything I do, I try to excel. This is no exception." Unblushingly, Hermione shook her head to banish furious thoughts of that other woman introducing Harry to this. She took a couple of deep breaths and began to play….
Harry was almost instantaneously transported by the beautiful music that Hermione coaxed out of the violin. It was classical music of some sort, but Harry knew he had never heard anything like it before. Eliza had preferred orchestral music, not soloists.
Hermione rocked back and forth, playing intently. She knew Twelfth Night, so she played on and on. She poured her heart and soul into the music, hoping that it could speak to Harry in ways that her words, halting and self-conscious, had not. Her teacher had impressed upon her that music was a language that expressed what no other language could.
In her concentration, Hermione did not know it, but she was slowly walking around the room as she played. After what seemed at once to be a very long and a very short time, she finished with furious bow work. It was as if she had suddenly returned from a higher plane to mere mortal consciousness.
"How did you like it, Harry?" she asked.
He likewise jerked out of the trance he had been in. "Hermione, that was amazing…, beautiful…. I don't know enough words to describe how wonderful that was…. What was it?"
"It doesn't really have a name," Hermione replied with a far-away smile. "It's by Tchaikovsky, but it's simply called `Violin Concerto in D.' It's one of my favorite pieces. I could play you some more - Brahms and Beethoven wrote concertos in the same key that are almost as beautiful.… Or any of the other composers that you named … or Bartók, or even Shostakovich - although my favorite Bach would need a second violin."
She was getting enthusiastic now, and Harry's head was spinning.
"I could even record some music if you want…."
"Hermione! This is the five minute warning for dinner!" her insufferably nosy mum called up the stairs. She stayed downstairs, though. Even Tchaikovsky could not overcome Hermione's most effective Muggle-Repelling Charm.
"You don't have to give me anything more, Hermione," Harry said. "That was wonderful enough…."
"Oh, that reminds me," Harry continued, "I have something for you that I didn't want to give you in front of your parents." He fished out one of the Twins' Portable Holes from his pockets.
"What on Earth is this?" questioned Hermione, eyeing the featureless flat black object suspiciously.
"It's Fred and George's latest," Harry replied chortling. "Just put it on anything and you've made a hole in it. I reckon it would be handy for opening locked doors, or for looking through walls, or for any number of things. Look - you can stretch it and make it bigger."
Harry stood up and produced another one. "Watch this," he said. He put the hole in his main pocket, and the contents spilled onto the floor. "I've got a hole in me pocket," he joked.
"Oh, Harry, that's just like the scene in Yellow Submarine," Hermione responded.
"What?" asked Harry dumbly. "The only Yellow Submarine I know about is a Beatles album - one that has my favorite song on it, actually."
"It's a Beatles movie, as well…," then what Harry had said registered. "Oh, really Harry - mine too! Let me get it out…."
But this was not to be. The booming voice of Hermione's father sounded up the stairs. "All right you two! It's dinner time - NOW!"
"I'll play it for you some time," Harry told Hermione as they scrambled out the door.
The table in the Grangers' formal dining room could easily have seated twenty. The one room was almost as large as the Dursleys' entire ground floor.
This night only four people - two magicals, two Muggles, all of them uncomfortable - sat down to dine on salad, buttered asparagus tips, spinach soufflé, filet mignon, and for dessert, raspberry panna cotta with powdered sugar and chocolate syrup. All of this was to be washed down with liberal amounts of Harry's charmed Château Blackwalls champagne.
The underbutler who served the first champagne set the mood. He had an injured hand, and glared at Harry whilst serving him. Harry suspected that dropping the champagne bottle as many times as he had had something to do with that. After the first time, Bill had warned that it might make for a rather explosive opening….
Hermione's father asked her to perform a charm to Confund the staff so they would not hear any conversation about magic. After that, Harry and Hermione kept the conversation deliberately light. He discussed how he had gotten much better marks than he had expected on his O.W.L.s and described some of the tamer portions of the training he and Hermione had been receiving. He explained how the Omnioculars he had gotten them as a gift worked and the kinds of events for which they were useful.
The Grangers were interested in the Omnioculars, and asked a number of questions. They also talked some about dentistry, but mostly about their daughter when she was younger. Hermione said as little as possible - speaking up only when her parents' descriptions of her childhood became too embarrassing or embellished.
About halfway through the soufflé, just when Harry thought that things were going on well enough, he caught sight of an owl streaking towards him - one that he could not identify. Any unexpected magical carrying-ons could not be good. The owl had something in its beak. As it came nearer, he could tell that the something was red. That was even worse.
Harry's eyes grew huge when the owl deposited its message directly in front of him. Someone - someone who knew how to get through the security that the Order had placed on his o-mail - had chosen this precise moment to send him a Howler. Harry looked helplessly at Hermione. He received the same helpless look in return.
The red letter was smoking slightly. Harry knew that if left unopened, it would explode, and the results would be even worse. Tentatively he reached for it. As he did, Hermione desperately tried to explain to her parents what a Howler was.
Closing his eyes, Harry ripped it open…
The magically amplified voice of Molly Weasley echoed throughout the room and beyond. "HARRY JAMES POTTER, I'M SHOCKED AND APPALLED THAT YOU COULD BE SO SELFISH. NOT ONLY DID YOU LET RONNIE GO THROUGH WITH RESIGNING AS GRYFFINDOR PREFECT, BUT YOU AGREED WITH HIM TO SWAP HIS PREFECT POSITION FOR THE QUIDDITCH CAPTAINCY. YOU KNOW FULL WELL THAT YOU CAN'T CARRY THROUGH YOUR PART OF THAT DEAL, AND NOW RONNIE HAS NOTHING. DON'T YOU HAVE ENOUGH IN LIFE, WITH TWO INHERITANCES? WHY DID YOU HAVE TO TAKE FOR YOURSELF THE ONLY HONOUR RONNIE HAS EVER WON?"
Its message sent; the howler burned to ashes with a fizzing noise.
Everyone, even Hermione, stared dumbfounded at Harry, as he struggled to explain himself. He told them how Ron had decided to quit as prefect before he had ever spoken with him about it. Harry protested that he, Harry, had tried to dissuade Ron, and that the business about the Quidditch captaincy (here, he had to explain about Quidditch), had all been Ron's idea. Harry said he had warned his friend that he had no control over who was chosen captain, since the head of house, Professor McGonagall, kept her own counsel in making that decision.
The Grangers at least knew who Professor McGonagall was. Harry thought Hermione believed him, but her parents were unreadable. The elder Grangers were silently exchanging significant glances at one another across the table.
Just as silently Harry cursed Ron. He was fairly sure that, when an angry Molly had confronted him about what he had done, Ron had tried to divert her wrath from himself by making it appear that the whole thing had been at least as much Harry's doing as his own.
Dinner was even more strained after the Howler incident. Harry tried to talk about safe subjects - such as Quidditch. At least in Quidditch, Harry was only endangering his own safety, and nobody else's. Hermione's father discussed his work on the NHS formulary board. He described how he chaired a group that decided what equipment had to be in the office of every dentist in England. Hermione mouthed platitudes, and concentrated on nervously (if covertly) monitoring Harry's mental state. Fortunately, his dominant emotion was confusion.
They were imbibing a great deal of Harry's charmed champagne, which led Dr. Granger to ask Harry to explain how he had acquired the bottle, since Harry was still under age. Dr. Granger reminded Harry that even Hermione, who was some ten months older than he, was not legally permitted to purchase anything alcoholic. Harry was forced to admit that Bill had done the deed, which detracted from the suave image he had hoped to project.
Harry's mental state indicated an uptick in embarrassment.
It took until dessert - after even more of Harry's charmed champagne had been consumed - for Hermione's father to get around to the topic that he had intended this dinner to address from its inception. Hermione, knowing her father, had been dreading this moment.
Addressing Harry formally, he asked, "Tell me, Mister Potter, what are your intentions towards my daughter, Hermione?"
Harry could feel all eyes upon him, but he did not quite understand that the phrasing of the question had meaning beyond its words. Hermione sensed confusion, nervousness, and, interestingly, honesty. She held her breath.
"Well, sir, that's hard to explain - I assure you that my intentions are good," Harry said, struggling for the right words to answer what sounded like a rather metaphysical inquiry. "I reckon that my primary intention, above all else, is to make sure that she is safe.… That what happened to her in the Ministry never happens again. When…. When she…. When she went down, I felt like I was dying too. I had never felt as bad in all my life as I did at that moment…. If something worse ever happened, I don't think I could go on…. I hope you believe that."
Hermione allowed herself to exhale. In her eyes, Harry was never cuter than when he was trying to be earnest around adults. Even though it was not the answer that her father had expected to his question, she felt that it was an excellent response nonetheless. In his own sweet and unpretentious way, Harry had answered the question.
Her father did not share her opinion and let Harry know. "That's all well and good, Mister Potter," he said with exasperation evident in his voice, "but what I need to know - what I have to know before you leave tonight - is what are your romantic intentions towards my daughter?"
With almost all eyes still on Harry, the death glare that Hermione shot her father went unseen.
Instantly, Harry's confusion level plummeted. THAT was a VERY clear question. Confusion was replaced by fear, nervousness, angst, embarrassment, entrapment, a suppressed desire to prevaricate - and underneath it all a steady current of … could it be … some sort of love?
"Oh," said Harry, responding almost as if he had been slapped in the face. "I - I - I guess I don't have any of those, at least I don't think so.… Probably once, but not any more. Hermione…."
Entrapment and sorrow zoomed to the top of Harry's emotional chart, followed by a healthy dollop of wistfulness. Hermione wanted to Apparate somewhere - anywhere - but her sense of obligation to Harry for placing him in this horrid situation kept her riveted to her chair.
He looked at her with pleading in his eyes, silently begging her to understand. "She…. She told me that she wasn't interested in anyone as rich or as famous as I am, or … er … as I am quite likely to be. I already have a girlfriend … if that's what you mean."
That was not at all the answer Hermione's father had expected to hear, in a number of ways. But one aspect of its unexpectedness outweighed all others… From everything his daughter had told him about Harry Potter (which of course was hardly anything) Dr. Granger had always thought that Harry was as poor as a church mouse - an orphan barely tolerated by his relatives.
But he was wearing a rather finely tailored suit…. And that … that Howler thing had mentioned inheritances….
"Well, Mister Potter, I suppose that's a relief to hear," Dr. Granger said. "I had understood you to be famous among magical people, and Hermione here has given me a good idea why that is so. But I did not understand you to be wealthy - in fact, I understood quite the opposite." He looked accusingly, and increasingly angrily, at Hermione, who was turning very red in the face.
For a shocked moment, Harry thought Dr. Granger might be going to hit Hermione right there at the dinner table. Harry wordlessly slipped his wand into his hand under the table. He would not allow that, even if all of his special exemptions would be revoked…. Even if it meant Azkaban….
Hermione felt a surge in Harry's anger, as well as the calm of a seasoned dueller preparing for possible action.
Harry Legilimenced to a shocked Hermione to be ready to duck if her father made any aggressive move. Simultaneously, he tried one last stab at civility - even servility - if it would prevent a blow up.
Hermione sensed determination, extreme nervousness, and honesty.
"Sir … please…?" Harry choked out. "It's not her fault. I'm sure she told you what she believed was true - what I believed was true - until a few weeks ago. I've no doubt she didn't tell you otherwise because it involves the deaths of several people who were very close to me, closer than almost anyone in the world…. You did hear correctly, though.… As it turns out I am inheriting, or am likely to inherit, a great deal of money."
Harry exhaled as Dr. Granger turned his attention back to him, "And just how much is that, young man?" the man asked.
Hermione sensed Harry's resignation. She Legilimenced Harry to `be careful,' but it simply did not occur to him to lie about money to Dr. Granger's face.
"I'm not exactly sure, sir," he said with an even voice, "but I've been told, by people I trust in such matters, that it's on the order of a billion pounds, maybe more."
Hermione's father's jaw dropped. He sat there mute, staring at Harry, for fully fifteen seconds. His lips seemed to be silently forming the letter B. Shaking himself out of his transient stupor, he said to his family, "Eva, Hermione, I need to speak to you both - alone - and immediately. Come with me."
With that rude command, Dr. Granger got up and smartly left the room. Hermione's mother at first simply stared after her husband, then she abruptly stood and followed, almost knocking over her chair in her haste. Hermione's face was drained of all colour, and for a moment Harry thought she was going to faint. She rose, fighting for composure, and walked towards the door through which her parents had both disappeared.
Harry stood up as well. Hermione motioned sharply at him to stay where he was. His predominate emotions were shock and sorrow.
Before exiting, she turned to Harry and tearfully said, "Oh Harry, I'm so very sorry about this, I really am - you have no idea how sorry." Then, unsure what to expect, she too exited the room, leaving Harry alone with his half-eaten dessert, two rather startled footmen, and some very unsettled thoughts.
For several minutes, Harry simply remained in his seat, picking distractedly at his dessert. As he was sitting there waiting for the finish of whatever Granger family conference had just been called concerning him, he became acutely aware of the amount of champagne he had drunk with dinner. The call of nature was urgent, and would not wait for anything or anyone.
He asked one of the lurking servants where the loo was, and the man (who seemed almost as distracted by recent events as Harry) gave him directions rather than escorting him, as would have been the normal practice.
Harry was confused almost at once by the directions, but he ended up finding a loo soon enough - although he was not at all sure that it was the one to which he had been directed. Emerging a few moments later, he soon realised that he was both tipsy and quite lost. As he tried to find his way back to the dining room, Harry heard muffled shouting from down a hallway.
It was readily apparent to anyone within earshot that Hermione and her parents were having quite a row. Harry was conflicted. Half of him wished that he had never stumbled upon the scene, particularly since he knew he was the primary bone of contention. The other half of him wished that he had a set of Extendable Ears. Harry reflexively put his hand in his pocket - and felt nothing. Rather, he felt the spare Portable Hole he had brought along with him.
All the shouting made Harry's mind up for him. If her father Granger were to hurt Hermione, Harry would… Well, he was not sure what he would do - but he was absolutely sure that he would think of something that would make it worth any punishment that he might receive for performing underage magic in front of, or on, Muggles.
Harry kneaded the Portable Hole until it was down to about five centimetres in diameter. After casting Hermione's Muggle-Repelling Charm at the opposite end of the hallway, he placed the Portable Hole on the wall.
Harry was lucky - at least in the sense that he achieved his immediate objective. The hole did not end up behind a cupboard or a wardrobe, nor was it in a place where anyone in the room would be likely to see it. He could just see Hermione, her hair now bushy and wild, facing away from him. She was surely looking at her parents, whom he could not see. All concerned were shouting at the top of their respective lungs.
"…JUST ASKING YOU TO BE REASONABLE, HERMIONE. AFTER ALL, YOU SAID YOURSELF THAT YOU HADN'T MEANT IT IN THAT FASHION!" Mr. Granger yelled. "CAN'T YOU KEEP AN OPEN MIND…?"
Hermione's loud and shrill voice cut him off. "OPEN MIND? WHAT YOU'RE ASKING FOR IS MORE LIKE `OPEN LEGS!' I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU DADDY! TWENTY MINUTES AGO YOU COULD BARELY STAND TO BE IN THE SAME ROOM WITH HIM AND STAY CIVIL! NOW YOU WANT ME TO THROW MYSELF AT HIM? HE'S MY BEST FRIEND. I WON'T DO THAT. MONEY DOESN'T CHANGE EVERYTHING FOR ME!!"
"WELL IT SHOULD!!" bellowed Dr. Granger. "THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH MARRYING THAT KIND OF MONEY!"
"THEN YOU MARRY HIM, IF YOU WANT IT SO BLOODY MUCH!!" Hermione spat.
Then it was her mum's turn. "HERMIONE JANE GRANGER, STOP TALKING LIKE THAT TO YOUR FATHER! YOU SAID YOURSELF HE MISINTERPRETED! HOW DO YOU KNOW HOW HE REALLY FEELS…?"
Hermione practically screamed. "SO I MESSED UP - OKAY? HE'S NOT VIKTOR, WE ALL KNOW THAT, BUT IT'S TOO BLOODY LATE!! HE'S FOUND SOMEONE ELSE! I KNOW HOW HE FEELS BETTER THAN YOU THINK! WE WERE BOTH HIT WITH THE SAME NASTY SPELL! AS A RESULT, WE'RE EMOTIONALLY LINKED. I CAN FEEL HIS EMOTIONS! I KNOW HE LOVES HER…! OH MY STARS…!"
"YOU WHAT?" Dr. Granger howled.
Through the red haze of her own anger, Hermione had just sensed Harry's emotions, and she knew that he knew exactly what was being discussed. Her anger began trickling away, replaced by a surfeit of despair and regret.
Harry knew what had happened too - but he was past caring. He had had enough. He fully understood what Hermione's parents were pressuring her to do, and he knew her well enough to know that she would never, ever, give into them. It was now painfully obvious to him that there was no longer any realistic chance for the two of them. The scales fell from his eyes as he had been listening.
This was not the kind of situation that any amount of Gryffindor courage could alter. Heroics were useless.
Everything was useless.
Harry felt that he was useless. He felt a million other emotions as well, all bad and all stumbling over one another in a chaotic, discordant muddle.
He had to get out of this place. There was nothing here for him except pain and more pain. He ripped down the portable hole and sprinted along the hallway. But he was still lost. He was almost ready to blast out a window with his wand and jump through it when he finally came upon a piece of overblown sculpture that he recognised. His patent leather shoes skidding on the highly polished wood floor, Harry made a right turn and ran full tilt down a hall that led to the main entrance.
Not knowing whether the front doors were locked, Harry tried to flick out his wand. Unfortunately the wand caught in his fluttering coat sleeve. Before noticing, he had shouted "Alohomora!," and the doors flung themselves open. Oblivious to the wandless magic he had just performed, he screamed into the darkness to his unseen guardians that he was Apparating at once to his usual spot behind Mrs. Figg's house. With a loud pop, he was gone.
Hermione tried to follow, but the slinky blue gown now betrayed her. Even knowing all the shortcuts, she could not reach him. She heard Harry's pop just as she reached the threshold. No longer having any reason to do anything else, she broke into bitter tears.
Had she the presence of mind to scrutinise their emotional affinity at that moment, she would have discovered that for once they were matching perfectly - Harry was doing the same.
* * * *
Author notes: The line about nothing but a reputation comes from "Only the Good Die Young"
Gingivitis is a rather disgusting gum disease
The studio is a recording studio
The billiard scene is as accurate as I can make it. I've never seen a Harry plays pool scene in any fic that I've read so I took a shot at one
The Fury is a top of the line cue
When you've got no friends, you can play a lot of pool
Hermione's desire to excel at everything she does will come through when they finally get together
"Clack" is a hard hit, "click" a soft one, "clunk" is a ball hitting a cushion, and "thunk" is a ball going into the pocket. This is a pool table with rails, not basket pockets
A behind the back pool shot arches the body in a way that tends to display female assets, particularly if the shooter is wearing the type of dress Hermione was
I played a fair amount of pool in my teenage years, so I can at least visualize making all the shots I describe as Hermione's
Foot-binding was a Chinese practice of crippling women by deforming their feet so they could hardly walk
Head up, chin level, and glide comes from the movie "Miss Congeniality"
And what might Hermione be writing to Neville about that she doesn't want to tell Harry about?
The "gentlemen don't read each other's mail" is a paraphrase of a quotation attributed to Henry Stimson concerning espionage
The inscription in the card Harry gave Hermione should give one of the Beatles songs away
The stamps that Hermione used to mail that letter are real, as is the description of the album they are in. I'm a philatelist myself
Hong Kong is a very vertical city; I thank Olaffr for the descriptions of the tram up Mt. Victoria, as I haven't been there in almost 30 years
The Percy photo will be important later
Gain the world/lose your soul comes from "Within You Without You" by the Beatles
Hermione's musical training with the violin is how she learned to use her hands independently of one another
Tibor Varga was a real person, who did exactly what is described
The Twelfth Night (Shakespeare) reference: "If music be the food of love, play on"
The Tchaikovsky, Brahms, and Beethoven reference to violin concertos in D are accurate. These are some of the most famous violin pieces that exist
The "I'll play it for you sometime" is heavy duty foreshadowing
O-mail is short for owl mail
This is an accurate description of the function of a formulary board
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions
- 41 -
C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch18 good intentions.doc 02/06/05
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