Portrait of a Wizard as a Young Man by canoncansodoff

Rating: R
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 27/05/2006
Last Updated: 28/07/2006
Status: Completed

Harry gets more than he bargains for when he reluctantly agrees to pose for the great Master
Rondino. So does Hermione. FINALLY, THE LAST ACT.




1. Act I
--------



**A/N:** `Bout time I write a story that actually includes Ron. A two-parter…promise.

**Disclaimer:** Not my characters. Not my pockets being filled.

**Act I**

“Sorry to interrupt, but McGonagall sent d-mail asking you to meet with her at Hogwarts.”

Harry Potter frowned as he looked down at Hermione's image.

“Is he still there?” he asked.

“Hang on,” Hermione replied. Her face was soon replaced by one whose eyes were a bit more out of
proportion with the rest of his face.

“Dobby is sorry, Mr. Harry Potter sir, Dobby would have delivered message to you direct but the
Headmistress told Dobby to keep Mr. Harry Potter's location secret, sir.”

“No worries, Dobby,” Harry said. “She was right to have you deliver the message to the secured
location. Did she say when she wanted to meet?”

“Yes, Mr. Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby replied. “She asked to see you right away.”

“Okay, Dobby,” said Harry, “would you put Hermione back on, please?”

“Oh yes, Dobby can do that. Dobby can't wait to see Mr. Harry Potter again, sir.”

The image blurred, and then sharpened back around Hermione's face.

“Hermione, you and Ron should go as well. I'll need five more minutes or so to wrap up my
meeting with Griphook - I'll meet you there.”

“Understood. Watch the rotation this time.”

The image faded to black.

Harry sighed. He knew that the chance of any communication being traced or monitored increased
with message length, but still was getting used to the economy of Hermione's comments. He
pocketed the silver mirror, and reentered one of Gringott's private meeting rooms.

++++++++++

“So what did you think of that landing, Jim?”

“Well, that over-rotation produced a much bigger splash then you'd expect to see at this
level of competition, and I'm sure that will be reflected in the scores.”

“And here come the scores…5.7…5.4…5.6…oh!…a 3.1 from Phineas, that's going to bring his
average way-y-y down.”

“Very funny,” said Harry, as he gathered himself up off the floor and shook the cinders out of
his hair. He looked towards Ron and Hermione, who had just “announced” his arrival with
transfigured microphones. “Don't quit your day jobs.”

That comment brought a few catcalls from the office walls. Harry glanced up at the portraits,
most of whom were still holding the white placards that displayed in numeric form their thoughts on
Harry's floo landing.

“That goes for you lot as well.”

The hoots and catcalls grew louder with Harry's admonishment.

“Please forgive us,” Dumbledore's echo asked, with gleam in his eyes, “for seizing upon the
opportunity to amuse ourselves. It happens so rarely in these dark days.”

“Pay no attention, Mr. Harry Potter, sir,” said Dobby, as he stepped in and began to mend the
burn marks in Harry's robes. “You did much better than last week, sir.”

“Thank you, Dobby,” Harry said with a smile. He turned back to Ron “So what's the tally
now?”

Ron walked over to a small piece of parchment attached to one of the office walls and added
another mark beneath his name.

“That would be thirteen-nil,” said Ron. “Better luck next time, mate,”

“Just warming up,” said Harry, “Just warming up.”

“I'm not surprised, given the number of hot cinders you carried in with you,” teased
Hermione.

That retort brought another round of guffaws from the former Headmasters of Hogwarts. Harry let
it drop, and allowed Dobby to lead them out of the Headmistress's office.

He could have pointed out that Ron had an eleven-year head-start when it came to floo transport.
But Dumbledore's portrait was right; they all needed more laughter in their lives, and if it
helped boost Ron's ego a bit that he could do something better than Harry, well, that was fine
with him.

The friendly competition was only two months old. Harry wouldn't have predicted that
they'd have thirteen different visits to Hogwarts under their belts over that time. The only
positive leads that they'd gotten in their horcrux hunt, however, had come from the ghosts that
haunted Hogwarts's halls and the elves that worked in Hogwarts's kitchens. They had been
surprisingly good sources of information; most remembered Tom Riddle's days as a student, and
had been able to fill in some of the gaps within Dumbledore's timeline.

Harry was guessing that McGonagall had uncovered a new lead from her own inquiries into Tom
Riddle's exploits; they'd been able to ask for her help on that topic without having to
disclose the reason why. She usually was waiting in her office when they used its secured floo
connection. Harry's curiosity was therefore piqued when Dobby led them down to the ground-level
classroom that had been converted for Firenze's use as the Divination Instructor.

They entered the forested classroom to find the Headmistress alone and sitting at a table set
for lunch. Two things immediately struck Harry's eye. First, the Headmistress was unusually
underdressed; the robe she was wearing was more appropriate for a bath than for a classroom.
Secondly, a small potions laboratory had been set up behind the table, with five different
cauldrons simmering over small blue flames. A large easel was set up next to the pots, holding a
canvas that faced away from them.

The Headmistress looked up from her plate. “Guessing that Mr. Weasley would be joining you, I
took the liberty of adding a few plates to the table. Care to join me?”

“Certainly, Professor,” came the reply from Ron, who bolted towards the table and took no time
to dive into a Shepherd's Pie.

“Oh honestly, Ron,” exclaimed Hermione, “you would think that you never eat at home.”

“Home, yes,” replied Ron, in between bites. “Your kitchen, no.”

Hermione scowled at Ron as she and Harry joined him at the table.

“So what brings us here, today, Headmistress,” asked Harry, as he began to fill his plate.
“Finally corner The Baron and get him to talk?”

“Erm, no,” replied McGonagall. “Something came up unexpectedly, and I thought you might want to
exploit the opportunity.”

Something clicked in Hermione's head as her gaze strayed from McGonagall's face towards
the bubbling cauldrons and stretched canvas.

“Oh my,” she said, “do you mean to say that the Master is really here?”

“Yes, indeed, Miss Granger,” the Headmistress replied, with a bemused expression. “There was an
unexpected opening in his schedule.”

“Exactly who are we talking about,” asked Ron warily. He'd been silently trying to find a
link between the potions laboratory and McGonagall's bathrobe that didn't involve naughty
bits and Snape.

“Master Leonardo Rondino,” replied McGonagall.

“Master Who?”

“Oh, Ron,” admonished Hermione, “if you ever bothered to read *Hogwarts, A History*,
you'd know. Master Rondino is the greatest wizard artist alive, and has been the official
portrait artist of Hogwarts for more than a hundred years.”

“That's it…,” chimed in Harry, “I knew I saw that name somewhere. He painted
Dumbledore's portrait, didn't he?”

“He did indeed,” McGonagall said, “and as Headmistress it is now my turn to sit for him.”

“I can't believe it,” Hermione said, “I've read all about him, and saw a retrospective
of his work at the Tate two years ago. It was simply smashing.”

“At the Tate Gallery?” asked Harry. “I think I've heard of that…isn't that a muggle art
museum?”

“Of course,” Hermione said. “Don't you know that over the centuries a good many of the
greatest artists were wizards as well? I mean, there's DaVinci, of course, and Picasso, and
Kandinksy…”

“What about some of the crazy ones, like Van Gogh?” Harry asked.

“Wizard,” Hermione replied simply. “He was, in fact, the prototypical wizard art master…lived on
the edge of muggle society, always broke, a bit touched…the muggles thought he was mad and locked
him up in an insane asylum. They thought he was hearing voices, when most of the time he was just
talking to his familiar. Field mouse, if I recall correctly.”

“I've never heard of any of those blokes,” said Ron. “or seen any of their wizard art…Why is
that? Why would a wizard artist paint for muggles?”

“Two main reasons,” Hermione replied. “First, because that's where the money is. Sure there
are always going to be a few wizard patrons to win commissions from, but there are far more wealthy
muggles than wealthy wizards. Second reason is, well, how should I put this delicately…wizards in
general, and pureblooded wizards in particular, are boring, and not much fun to paint.”

“What do you mean, boring?” Ron asked, with a bit of indignation.

“Boring maybe isn't the right word,” said Hermione. “Erm…static might be more appropriate.
You see, Ron, artists are inspired by conflict, by struggle. Pain and suffering, and the human
condition. Through their art they try to comment on the excesses or the needs that exist within
societies. There always is going to be ample material in the muggle world, but wizards? Well, you
tell me, Ron…how many starving wizards do you know…how much pain and misery exists within the
wizarding world? Now, of course, I'm not saying there isn't any, it's just….well, great
art is borne out of change, and the wizard ways have been much more set over the centuries.”

“So all of the famous artists were wizards?” asked Harry. “What about that soup can painter
guy?”

“Um, no Harry,” she replied, “Not all of them. Andy Warhol was 100% muggle.”

“A splendid primer, Miss Granger,” the Headmistress interjected. “Of course, I'd have
expected nothing less from you…Ah, here we are, Master Rondino, you've returned,” the
Headmistress said. “Any luck finding the fresh limpwort?”

“*Si,* it was exactly where you told us to look, Donna McGonagall.”

Harry, Ron and Hermione turned around in their chairs to see two men enter the room with
dirt-covered tubers in their hands. The Headmistress had obviously been addressing the smaller of
the two; a wiry older man whose silver beard was as long as Dumbledore's had been. His
companion, in contrast, was clean shaven, tall, and curly locked. He also didn't appear that
much older than they were.

“Master Rondino, may I introduce to you three of Hogwarts's finest students: Harry Potter,
Hermione Granger, and Ronald Weaver.”

“It's a thrill and an honor to meet you, Master Rondino,” Hermione said.

“Thank you, I am very pleased to meet you all,” the old man said, as he shook the Trio's
hands. “This is my apprentice, Romeo.”

The Master's apprentice gave firm handshakes to Harry and Ron. Hermione's hand, in
contrast, was lifted up gracefully to Romeo's lips.

“*Che bella fioritura…ti voglio eseguire bene*.”

Hermione lifted her hand back as her face turned beet red.

“Oy, what'd you just say to her,” asked Ron, with a tinge of menace.

“Erm, it was nothing, Ron,” replied Hermione hastily. “He just told me that he…he likes to play
music.”

“*Si**…* *Eseguire per la prima volta, no*?”

Hermione blush deepened.

Harry reached back and took hold of the wand in his back pocket. “Well tell Romeo to mind his
manners, before somebody hexes his musical instrument.”

“Harry, be quiet!”

The assistant turned towards Harry. “A translation isn't necessary, Mr. Potter. As for your
request,,,”

“Come, Romeo,” the Master interrupted, “we need to finish preparing the paints.”

The assistant turned towards Hermione and stole back her gaze. “Si, Master Rondino.”

The two men walked over to the potions laboratory, where Romeo began to wash and slice the
limpwort root.

After Harry's eyes escorted the handsome assistant away from the table he addressed
Headmistress McGonagall. “Professor, may I ask why you wanted to meet with me today?”

“Well, Mr. Potter,” she replied, “this morning's session gave me the unfettered opportunity
to mull over our present situation.” She paused to take a sip from her glass of iced pumpkin juice.
“You know that I've tried to respect your decision not to share what you were doing with Albus
on the night he died…I haven't asked since that night.”

“Yes, ma'am, and I appreciate that, and your confidence in me to make those kinds of
decisions.”

“Not a problem, Harry,” the Headmistress replied. “But as I sat over there posing for a slice of
immortality, I began to concern over what would happen if the information that you've withheld
were to be somehow, well, lost.”

“You mean if Harry was killed by Voldemort, more like,” Ron muttered.

“Frankly, yes,” she replied. “Now I suspect that Harry has kept you and Hermione informed, but
it's true that the three of you often travel together, isn't it?”

“And it's also true that we'll be there when he faces Voldemort again,” said Hermione.
“I believe I know where this conversation is heading.”

“Well I wish you'd tell me,” exclaimed Ron, “because I don't see the least thing
connecting our… `research' with Romeo.”

Hermione turned towards McGonagall. “You want Harry's portrait taken as a sort of insurance
policy, don't you?”

Harry's face had turned pale. “You don't think I can beat him, do you?”

“To Hermione yes, and to you, Harry, a resounding no. While I have the utmost confidence in your
ability to prevail over Voldemort, having your portrait available to answer questions should the
worst happen would indeed be a kind of insurance.”

“I don't know,” mulled Harry, “to even be thinking about what would happen if I fail…”

“I think you should do it,” Hermione chimed in.

“You do?” Harry asked. “Why?”

“Look at it this way, Harry,” Hermione said. “Do you think that your parents were planning on
dying when they made their will? No, of course not. They made sure they had a will though, just in
case…because it would have been irresponsible not to have one given the circumstances.”

“But how would it work…what would keep the portrait from falling into the wrong hands, what
would keep my portrait from blabbing out everything?”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighed. “The echo of you preserved in the portrait couldn't do
anything that the real you wouldn't do under similar circumstances. Unless, of course, specific
instructions are spelled into the canvas, right Headmistress?”

“Yes, Hermione, you are right. For example, Harry, all of the portraits in my office are pledged
to provide their full support to the Headmaster or Headmistress, however reluctantly they may have
been willing to do so if they were there in the flesh. That pledge is bound within the painting as
a type of wizard's oath.”

“You mean to say that if the Board of Governors elected Voldemort to be Headmaster that
Dumbledore's portrait would have to do his bidding?”

“Yes,” McGonagall replied simply. “as would mine, once my portrait becomes fully animated.”

“Well how does that process work,” Harry asked. “What happens while the person in the portrait
is still alive?”

Hermione answered for the Headmistress. “Usually, when a person sits for a magical portrait, the
echo that is captured has only the knowledge held by the subject at that time. Master Rondino,
however, is one of the few artists in the world whose portrait echoes remain dynamically linked
with the subject.”

“You mean the portrait always knows what I know, even if I learn something after the painting is
completed?”

“Exactly,” the Headmistress replied.

“Well, not that I don't trust you, Professor McGonagall, but what would keep you or anyone
else from pumping my portrait for information while I was still alive? Where would it be kept?”

“That would be up to you,” the Headmistress replied. “The house elves will keep my portrait
secured down in the dungeons, until such time as it needs to be…well….hung. You could have the
elves do the same, or keep it someplace you think might be just as secure, yet accessible if need
be.”

“Well, I guess it would be okay…it's just that…”

Harry was interrupted by the Master's voice. “Donna McGonagall, I think we are ready for
you.”

“Excellent,” was the Headmistress's reply. “But first, as we discussed, you will see if it
is possible for you to work with Mr. Potter?”

“Yes, of course, Donna McGonagall,” he replied. “One moment, please.”

“Professor,” asked Ron, “Why wouldn't it be possible for him to paint Harry's
portrait?”

“Well,” the Headmistress replied, “in order for the Master to capture a fully animated echo
within the portrait, he needs to see a fully-formed and stable magical aura about his subject.
It's rarely a problem for his more…mature…subjects,” she said, “but a fairly common problem in
younger wizards.”

“How old do you have to be before your magical aura is stable?” asked Ron.

“That depends on the individual,” she replied. “When I discussed the possibility with the
Master, he thought that given Harry's advanced training and wizard skills he might be ready
now.”

“How can he tell?” Harry asked.

“With the help of particularly complex potion, Don Potter,” replied the Master, who held an
empty bottle in one hand. He walked over to the table and looked intently at Harry.

“Yes, Donna McGonagall, his aura is quite strong and well formed. He will work
nicely…except….”

The wiry old man walked behind Harry's seat, paused for a few seconds, then returned to face
Harry.

“Don Potter, if you please, would you walk over towards the easel? Thank you.”

Harry stood up and walked over to the easel. As he turned back to face the group he caught a
glimpse of the Master's work out of the corner of his eye. His jaw dropped.

“Yes, and now please, Don Potter, walk back and stand next to your beautiful young friend
here.”

Harry did as he was asked with a bit of shock lingering on his face.

“Harry, what's wrong?” Hermione asked.

“Erm…nothing,” he croaked.

“It is most unusual, Donna McGonagall, but I think it will work. But she will have to pose as
well.”

“What?” asked Ron.

“His aura, it is…how you say in English….it needs Miss Granger's help.”

“Are you certain, Master Rondino?” McGonagall asked.

“It is the only way.”

“Wow,” said Hermione. “How interesting…how exciting…what do you think Harry?”

“I don't think that's a very good idea.”

“Oh c'mon, Harry it's not going to hurt, will it? I mean…it'll be fun to pose
together.”

“No, Hermione,” Harry said, “I really don't think it's a good idea.”

“Pish posh, Harry Potter,” Hermione stated firmly. “We'll do this together. We'll do it
for Hogwarts…we'll do it for posterity…we'll…”

**“****We****'ll do it in the nude!****”**

You could hear crickets chirping in the forest, just before the other lion roared.

“WHAT?” demanded Ron.

He pushed back from the table and ran over to the easel.

“Oh. My. Sweet. Merlin.”

He turned back to the others. “Will someone obliviate me… please?”

A striken-faced Hermione looked at Master Rondino, who simply nodded. She looked at the
Headmistress, who nodded as she clutched the lapels of her robe more closely together. She looked
at Romeo, who eyes suggested he wanted to clutch something else at that very moment.

She finally looked at Harry, whom she'd never seen more afraid.

“Gryffindor courage?” she asked in a small voice.

“No, Hermione,” Harry replied. “Ogden's. And lots of it.”

-->



2. Act II
---------

**A/N:** So there I was, minding my own business, when the muse decides to mow the lawn with
me. And all of a sudden, my two-act ribald comedy is morphing into a five-act masala, with angst
and drama, and the potential for a multi-chapter volde-hunt dancing in my head. Out of my control,
really. I’m just along for the ride, watching as my fingers type.

**Disclaimer:** Not my characters, no money being made, etc., etc.

**Act II**

"I can’t believe that you’re going to go through with this," Ron scowled.

Hermione let out a deep sigh, and shook her head as they strode down the main hallway and out
the main gate for one of their patented rantfests. With feet on autopilot, they headed down towards
the lake. Hermione gave Ron the squinty-eyed glare that she reserved for those times when she was
really truly hacked off at one (or both) of her boys.

"Ronald Weasley, go take your teaspoon’s worth of maturity and sort through your wizard
card collection."

"Think I will. At least they’ll all have their bits covered."

"Is that what this is really about? The fact that I’ll have my bits on display for the sake
of art and the defeat of Voldemort?"

"You make it sound almost patriotic. Hey I know, let’s all go salute Harry’s
flag."

"Oh, so that’s it," Hermione shot back, "you don’t want my bits on display for
Harry…or his bits on display for me. Why don’t you just admit it?"

"Fine, I will," Ron said, as he stopped and turned to face Hermione. "I’m not at
all happy about you being naked in front of Harry, and I certainly don’t trust that Romeo
character."

Hermione brushed passed him without breaking stride. "Ronald Weasley, just what are you
implying?" Hermione demanded. "That you have the right to decide what I do with my body?
Or that you’d go even more mental than you already are at the thought of Harry possibly seeing more
of me than you ever have?"

"Oh, you are just about at rope’s end with that one Hermione," Ron replied, as he ran
to catch up with her. "Maybe it’s finally time to stop dancing around and decide where you and
I stand."

"Fine," retorted Hermione. Having reached water’s edge she stopped and turned towards
Ron. "Where exactly do you think you stand – by my side, or out in front with a club on your
shoulder dragging me along by my hair?"

"What? I don’t even own a club."

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed. She paused for just a beat. "Here’s where we stand,
Ronald. You and I…we are…friends, just friends. Nothing more and nothing less. Just like Harry and
I are just friends. Understand?"

Ron’s face reddened and his mouth opened and closed wordlessly, like a fish out of water. The
intensity of his hue and the frequency of his jaw dropping increased dramatically when Hermione
unbuttoned her jeans and pulled down the zipper. She silently but resolutely slid the waistband
down towards her ankles, exposing a triangle of periwinkle lace above cream-colored thighs.

"What do you think you’re doing!" Ron exclaimed.

"Giving you what you want, Ron. You do want to see me starkers, don’t you? Not that you’ve
ever displayed any interest before."

She kicked her flip-flops off her feet, allowing her to slide her jeans completely off. She then
matter-of-factly lifted her shirt over her head, exposing a lace bra that matched the color of her
knickers.

"What do you mean?" Ron demanded.

Hermione spread her feet to shoulder-width distance and crossed her arms over her chest in a
defiant pose.

"I mean that you’ve appeared to have fancied me on and off for the past three years, but
have never displayed the bollocks to do anything about it. Never shown any passion or
possessiveness…until now. So the only reason I can see you being upset about me being naked in
front of Harry is your fear that he’ll have one more thing that you don’t have. So here’s your
chance, Ronald, to preemptively even the score. Make sure you see enough to soothe your pig-headed
pride."

Hermione ripped open the front clasp of her bra, freeing her breasts from their support. She
then violently jammed a thumb into the waistband of her knickers and tugged them down to her
ankles. Once her right foot cleared the elastic, Hermione once again challenged Ron to gawk with
her hands on her (now bare) hips. With her knickers bunched around her left ankle and her bra
hanging loose on her shoulders she looked much more naked than nude.

Ron, who’d been examining his trainers during the last part of Hermione’s rant, looked up just
long enough to establish that she’d actually done what he thought she was doing. He then quickly
dropped his gaze back down to the ground. After a full ten seconds of determining that his loss of
words wasn’t temporary, and that Hermione had nothing more to say or do, Ron turned away from her
and began to walk back towards the castle.

Hermione watched him walk away with a tear in her eye. It was only after she was certain that
Ron wouldn’t turn back that she stepped back into her clothes, sat down on the ground facing the
lake, and began to sob.

++++++++++

Harry’s desire to seek Dumbledore’s counsel was quelled when he realized that their discussion
would have a rather large audience. Having heard enough catcalls for a day, he walked right past
the Headmistress’s office without a glance. After ten minutes of what seemed to be aimless
shuffling, Harry looked up and suddenly realized that his feet had carried him within the Fat
Lady’s field of view.

"Hey look, it’s Harry Potter in the flesh. Not as much flesh as he’ll be showing soon
enough, but…"

"Word travels that fast amongst the portraits?" Harry asked.

"Only when it involves sex or violence, or both," she replied.

"Great," Harry said, as he conjured a chair and sat down in front of the entrance to
Gryffindor Tower.

"Hey, don’t look so glum," the Fat Lady said. "You’re going to be a Rondino.
Can’t get much more famous in Portraitland than that."

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Harry asked. "You’re not telling me that there’s
social status amongst portraits, are you?"

"Silly boy," she replied. "Of course there is. So do tell me your echo is going
to hang in Hogwarts…my friends will be so jealous of me."

"Well, don’t count your naked wizards before they pose…erm…"

"What’s that dear?"

"I’m sorry, but I have to admit…I’ve been walking by you for the past six years and never
bothered to ask your name."

"Oh, Harry, dear, I’m touched," The Fat Lady replied. "No need to apologize,
though, I’m just a portrait and it really is a lot easier to call me Fat Lady than Lady Wilhelmina
Busterode."

"That’s your real name…I mean, that was the name of the person you echoed?"

"Yes, indeed, my boy…if you want to call me something else, I have been known, at times, as
Lady Bee."

"Well, Lady Bee, it is a pleasure to meet you…formally, that is."

The Fat Lady swung her hand down at Harry. "Oh, no need to be formal, son. After all, we’ll
be seeing a lot more of each other soon. And I do mean ‘a lot more’."

"Yeah, well, like I was saying, I wouldn’t be so sure. Haven’t decided to do it
yet."

"And just why would you want to pass up the opportunity to become a Rondino?"

"Well," Harry replied, "it’s kind of complicated. Not just the fact that I’d have
to pose in the nude, but, as you probably know, I wouldn’t be alone."

"Yes, I heard The Master wants you to pose with Miss Granger…would have been unheard of in
my day and age, but some of the younger echoes have told me they did it…there’s even rumors of some
echoes who were doing more procreating than posing, if you catch my drift."

Harry’s ears turned beet red. "Yeah, I do catch your drift, and that’s just the problem.
I’m terrified of the idea of her and I both being naked…at the same time…in the same
room."

"Oh," Lady Bee said. "I see. Would it be a problem if it were some other woman
posing with you?"

"I’ve been asking that myself," Harry replied, "and I can’t say for sure."

Lady Bee paused for a moment. "And what exactly are you afraid of…that she’ll look at you
and laugh, or that you’d look at her and lust?"

It was Harry’s turn to pause. "I’m not sure…probably both. Well, kind of both…not that I’m
afraid that I’d look at a nude Hermione and lust, but that I’d get an…that I’d display an
embarrassing reaction."

"Well, Miss Granger is the smartest witch in her generation, isn’t she?" Lady Bee
asked. "Wouldn’t she just attribute any…reaction…as the byproduct of teenage, erm,
maleness?"

"But there’s the problem," Harry muttered. "I’ve been thinking about this, and I
don’t think that I could truthfully say that a…noticeable reaction…could just be attributed to
teenage hormones."

"You mean you might have feelings for your friend that go beyond friendship?"

"Yeah," Harry admitted. "I guess so…I think so, at least. I wish I knew for
sure."

"Hmmm," Lady Bee mused. "Tell me, Harry, has there ever been a time when she’s
induced this kind of reaction when she’s been wearing clothes?"

Harry’s expression turned rather sheepish, as memories of the Yule Ball, the kiss at King’s
Cross, and the bear hug at Grimauld Place raced through his mind.

"Yes."

"Well, that says something, doesn’t it?" she asked.

"Yeah, it says that I’m a dead man," Harry replied. "She’ll take one look and
think that our friendship all these years was just a ruse, and that I only see her as a piece of
meat, and that will ruin everything."

"Have a little faith, Harry," Lady Bee replied. "There’s always the chance that
she’s wrestling with those exact same fears right now."

"Yeah, well, a lot easier for her, wouldn’t it be?" Harry asked. "I mean, she
could just chalk her…erm…perkiness…up to a cold draft."

"It sounds to me like you need to sit down with Hermione and sort these things out before
you pose," Lady Bee said.

"But I’m afraid to."

"Think that it’s going to be any easier to talk when both of your heads would be
communicating?"

"Good point," Harry said. "You know, you’re pretty smart, for a
portrait."

"No," she replied, "just observant. Hard not to be when you’ve seen teenage angst
walking past you for the past three hundred years."

"I guess so," Harry said with a chuckle. "Well, guess I should go find my
friends."

"See you later, then, Harry," The Fat Lady replied with grin that slid into a lear.
"See a *lot* of you later."



3. Act III
----------



**Act III - Explanations and Expletives**

**Disclaimer:** Not my characters, and no money being made, etc., etc. The chapter title is
accurate; those with tender reading ears shouldn't read the alphabetized translations provided
at the end.

++++++++++++++++++

After a few hours of alone time by the lake, Hermione went back to the Divination classroom for
some answers to questions that didn't involve Ron or romance. She was disappointed to find the
room empty save for Romeo, who was hard at work behind the easel. Hermione was in no mood to deal
with another idiot with sex on the brain.

“Signorina, what a pleasant surprise,” he said, when he heard her close the door. “We were
afraid that you might not return.”

“I'm not scared off so easily,” Hermione replied, warily. “Where's Master Rondino and
Headmistress McGonagall?”

“Your Headmistress, I know not where she is. Master Rondino is taking a rest…the potion, he is
made tired by it…only for a few hours at a time he can paint.”

“I see,” Hermione said, as she approached the young artist. She was surprised to find Romeo
painting a still life, and even more surprised when she smelled the objects of his attention.

“Bangers and mash?”

“Si, signorina,” he said with a sigh, as he looked at the plate in front of him. “I am painting
what passes for English cuisine. How the British people didn't die from boredom at the dinner
table centuries ago I am at a lost to explain.”

Hermione looked at the canvas to discover that he had already completed magical images of
several plates piled high with food.

“Why, in Merlin's name, are you painting plate after plate of potatoes and sausage?”

“Because, signorina,” Romeo patiently explained, “the taste buds of your English echoes are just
as easily satisfied as those found within the mouths of their originals.”

“You know,” Hermione said, “this is exactly why I'm here right now. I've so many
questions…Why, for example, do portraits need to eat?”

Romeo shifted his gaze from the canvas to Hermione, squinted his eyes, and sighed.

“Signorina Hermione, I am disappointed that your beauty is not matched by your intelligence…not
that we will not enjoy each other's company in bed, but…”

“What?” Hermione exclaimed. She whipped out her wand and pointed it slightly south of
Romeo's belt. Romeo reacted by pointing back with what was in hand, but found himself rather
outmatched with only a paintbrush for his defense.

“To presume,” Hermione seethed, “that I am both dim-witted and eager to be bedded by you is a
rather precarious opinion*…* *Che* *faccia di stronzo**…**Che coglione*!
Shall I demonstrate just how smart I am by transfiguring your *cazzone* into calzone?”

“How charmingly vulgar, signorina,” Romeo replied with a smirk. “I think, however, you will find
that my *cazzone*…he will taste better.”

Hermione fumed. “Oh…*Che* *cacasenno*…to think that I am a *scopate facile*…if
you weren't somehow needed by the Master…tell me Romeo, would you like to be a born-again
*castrato*?”

“So many questions, signorina, perhaps if I answer your first you would put your wand down?”

Hermione thought for a moment then slowly lowered her wand.

“*Grazie*, signorina.” Romeo said. “I must say, your fighting words, they are most
impressive.”

“Well, I've had years of practice,” Hermione replied, thinking back a few hours.

“And your use of Italian slang? You have learned from a native?”

“No,” Hermione said, “I learned because of a native…idiot named Zabini…thought he'd have it
easier insulting me in his native tongue.”

“So you learned the language of love….from a lover, perhaps?”

“No, I learned how to say *`**V**affanculo**!**'* from Google, a
few summers back.”

“Ah…I see,” Romeo replied, with some newfound respect for the English witch in front of him.

“Now you were saying…about portraits and food?”

“Ah, yes, it is quite simple, really. Portraits, they must eat for the same reason you eat.”

“You mean,” Hermione reasoned, “that the portraits need to eat because they are hungry?

“Si.”

“They need magical energy?”

“Si, si.”

“Just as real people need to eat for the energy to walk and talk and breathe?”

“Yes again, but don't, signorina, forget making love…it is also something that requires
energy.”

“No doubt you'd never forget that fact, Romeo,” Hermione sneered. “So you are saying that
the magical energy bound within your paints isn't enough to keep a portrait acting, well,
magical?”

“Oh, signorina, you kill me with words!” Romeo exclaimed with mock sincerity. “But the sad truth
is that what you say is true. Even the magical paints that Master Rondino and I prepare are not
strong enough to animate an echo for more than a few hundred years.”

Hermione thought for a moment.

“Well, that explains why so many magical portraits seem to have the subject sitting at a dinner
table, I guess,” she reasoned. “So while you are here painting the Headmistress's portrait you
are also replenishing the magical energy of the portraits already completed?”

“Si, signorina,” replied Romeo, “except that it is the Master who paints the portraits, while it
is the lowly apprentice who must paint the toads in their holes.”

“Part of the price you pay to learn from the Master, no?” Hermione asked.

“Si,” Romeo said. “It is what I always must do once Master Rondino has finished his work…so not
to waste the paints that we have prepared.”

“Do you need to use that potion Master Rondino swallowed to see magical auras?”

“No, signorina,” he replied, “Certainly not. There is no potion in the world that would detect
anything magical about your bangers and mash.”

“But the images of bangers within you paintings…they are magical because of the potion paints
that you are using?”

“Si.”

“So why,” Hermione asked, “are you painting a separate picture of nothing but food? Why not
simply paint more food on each portrait?”

“Signorina,” Romeo exclaimed, “my canvas…it is a restaurant that does not do home delivery. The
portraits, they can walk to the food, no?”

“Ah,” Hermione said, “so that explains all of the paintings of food down in the kitchens…. does
this also mean that the portraits sleep not to amuse those viewing them, but to conserve their
energy?”

“Si, Signorina Hermione…the echoes…they are more like real people than most anyone
imagines.”

Hermione chewed on that for a moment, while Romeo silently returned to his work.

“Romeo,” Hermione finally said, “your magical paints…they aren't entirely magical
energy…just like the food that you and I eat isn't completely used by our bodies.”

Romeo chuckled. “I'm so sorry, signorina, for underestimating your intelligence….the answer
to your question is yes.”

“But I've never seen a magical painting of a loo.”

“Is that something you would like hanging on your living room wall?” Romeo asked rhetorically.
“Is that something that you would like to see *being used* on your living room wall? They are
there…they are just hidden behind the walls of the rooms that you do see.”

“I do see,” Hermione smiled, in the unique way she always did when she deciphered a difficult
puzzle. “You paint in layers….in three dimensions. Just as you must paint your portraits in three
dimensions…even if the portrait is facing you and you don't see their back, it still has to be
there.

“Si, signorina,” Romeo said, with a grin returning to his face. “We must paint all of an
echo…*dalla* *ciocc**i**e* *alla* *culo*.”

Hermione answered Romeo's coarse chide not with a retort, but with a blushing admission.
“Which brings me, I guess, to the more immediate question I came to find an answer for.”

“Ah, yes,” Romeo said. “Of course. Why do we insist that the subjects of our magical portraits
pose in the nude?”

“Well, yes.”

Romeo turned his attention back towards his canvas before he answered.

“Because, signorina,” he replied with a grin, “Master Rondino is a *vecchio sporcaccione*,
and there is nothing I find more sexually arousing than the sight of a hundred-year-old witch in
all of her naked glory.”

“That's no doubt true,” Hermione said, “but it is also not the correct answer to my
question.”

Romeo nodded his head as he looked at his subject, looked back at the canvas, and dropped his
paintbrush onto the easel's shelf. He then lifted the painting from the easel and propped it up
against one side of the potion laboratory's bench.

“Signorina, my still-life is completed. Would you like to eat the original?”

“Erm, no thanks,” Hermione said, not willing to give Romeo the satisfaction of knowing that her
stomach was growling (and that bangers and mash were always comfort foods for her).

“As you wish,” Romeo stated. He then shouted “*E*lf*a**-di-casa*!”

A house-elf that Hermione recognized from her visits to Hogwarts's kitchens appeared as
Romeo grabbed a scroll from his work desk.

“Yes, Apprentice Romeo?”

Romeo sneered a bit. “Take that plate away from here…there must be a troll somewhere around here
that needs feeding.”

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows in anger, but said nothing as the house-elf snapped her fingers
and the plate disappeared.

“So now I need…let me see.” He sighed as he traced a finger down a list on his unrolled
parchment. “Shepherd's pie and Yorkshire pudding...and try to make it smell a little less
strong then that other *cacca* you gave me.”

The house-elf fidgeted a bit, as if she would have liked to have done nothing more then bathe
Romeo in flaming custard, but did as he ordered her to do. The elf then turned towards
Hermione.

“Harry Potter's `Mione, you's is, aren't you?”

“Erm…yes…I'm sorry, I think we've met before but I don't remember your name.”

“Harry Potter's `Mione wants to know Dumkie's name? Thank you, thank you, thank
you…Harry Potter's Dobby was right about Harry Potter's `Mione…she is nice, and not crazy
like the other house-elves say.”

“Erm…thank you, Dumkie….I guess,” Hermione said with some embarrassment.

“Dumkie saw Harry Potter in the kitchens a little while ago,” the elf said, as she looked
towards Romeo. “Should Dumkie go find Harry Potter to keep Harry Potter's `Mione safe?”

“No, thank you,” Hermione replied politely. “I'm perfectly safe….I'll find him myself in
a little while.”

Dumkie looked at Romeo again, then turned back to Hermione and noted that she was holding her
wand.

“Smart witch, Harry Potter's `Mione is,” she said, before she disappeared.

Romeo, who had been holding his breath for the previous few seconds, broke out into laughter as
soon as the house-elf vanished.

“So you are Harry Potter's `Mione?” he asked. “How charming…and how exciting it is to think
that you are an owned woman.”

“Watch it Romeo,” Hermione said. “And take care to remember that while your wand is flaccidly
hidden away that mine is still just a newt's hair away from issuing a hex.”

“Oh, signorina,” Romeo shot back, “there is nothing flaccid about my wand when you act excited
like that.”

“Well beat that bad boy back down, Romeo,” Hermione threatened, “before I *Reducto* your
*belino*.”

“I am truly impressed, signorina….you know that there are at least 140 more ways to say penis in
Italian, no?” How many more do you know…or better…how many have you *known*?”

“My wand is going to get to know yours just long enough for me to say *Evanesco,* if you
keep talking like that, Romeo...not that anyone would likely notice the difference.”

“Yes, well…” Romeo replied, “you have given me such a charming segueway for telling you why I
shall soon see *all* of the woman behind the wand.”

Hermione wasn't too angry to be embarrassed, just as Romeo had calculated.

“Well, go on,” she stammered out as a reply.

“There are many good reasons,” Romeo began, “But for now I will tell you the two most
important…When the Master paints a portrait, he must see the magical aura, and he must see all of
it.”

“Yes, well that's pretty common knowledge, isn't it….so why would clothes get in the way
of my magical aura?”

“Because, signorina, a witch or wizard's aura…it comes out from the body…from every part of
the body. And the way it comes out of the body…well…it comes out however it can. With each breath,
each bead of sweat, each…how do you say it…each *peta*?”

“Are you suggesting that my farts are magical?”

“I'm sure, signorina,” he replied, “that your *petas* are not only magical, but
musical.”

“That's disgusting.”

“No, that's magic….it is inside us, and it is how we make magic….well, there is a much
better way for you and me to make magic, but….”

“So that's part of the reason,” Hermione said as he simply ignored the latest come-on, “why
muggles can say the incantations without anything happening….the words have to be spoken with
magical breath?”

“Si, signorina, but as you no doubt know, magical breath is not enough…there must be intent as
well.”

“And intent is just…just another way of saying that a witch is focusing her aura on a
subject.”

“Exactly, signorina…it is why wandless magic is so difficult…one must have a very strong and
focussed aura not to need the magic that comes out when you exhale.”

“So…back to the clothes…you might think with your pants, but I don't breathe with my
knickers.”

“Ah…signorina, you may not breathe through them…though I certainly would like to…but tell me
this. Will your knickers be just as dry when I slip them off you at night as when you put them on
in the morning?”

“Like you'll ever know,” Hermione replied, a bit too nervously for her liking. “So…so
there's magic in sweat…and…other bodily fluids…and clothes capture some of it, and so it
dampens this magical aura that the Master needs to paint magical portraits…this seems farfetched.
So it's impossible to paint magical portraits of people wearing clothes?”

“Of course not, signorina,” Romeo replied. “The Master could paint a portrait with the subject
wearing clothes…and depending on the strength of the subject's aura that echo might even think
and talk. The amount of magic lost by sweat in the clothes…it is, after all, very small. It is
large enough, however, to keep even Master Rondino from making a masterpiece….a portrait that is
dynamically linked with its subject.”

“Hmmph…” Hermione muttered, as she thought for a moment. “You make it sound just weird enough to
be magically plausible….and you've certainly given me enough rope to hang you if what you said
isn't backed up by what your Master no doubt has told my Headmistress.”

“Signorina,” Romeo proclaimed, “You dishonor me. I am not a *cacasentenze*.”

“Well you are a perv, and that's almost as bad,” Hermione replied. “So Romeo,” she
continued, “you said that there was a second reason?”

“As yes, signorina,” Romeo replied. “The second reason…when a portrait is fully animated, it
knows what the subject knew at the time of the painting…unless, of course, it is a dynamic
link.”

“Yes, go on,” Hermione said.

“Well, signorina, most people would say that this knowledge, these memories…they are mostly
stored in the brain, no?”

“Yes, of course.”

“But think for a moment, signorina, and tell me if it is possible that there are things we know
and memories that we have collected that are linked not just with the brain, but with other parts
of our body.”

“What do you mean…like love residing not in the head, but in the heart?”

`Well, yes, but it goes beyond just that. Again, these are subtle differences, but imagine that
there is a portrait of, say, a farmer whose hands have been hardened over years of toil in the
field. Do you think that the captured echo might be a bit lacking, somehow, if the artist failed to
paint the calluses on his hands?”

“Well, perhaps, but…”

“Perhaps a subject closer to your heart, then…what would the echo of `Mione's Harry Potter be
like if the Master forgot to paint a certain scar?”

“So you're saying that you need to include every part of a subject in the portrait because
we are more than what is stored in our heads?”

“Exactly, signorina.”

Hermione thought about that for a moment, while Romeo mixed a few new colors for his next
still-life.

“And so, signorina,” he said, “I have enjoyed your company very, very much, but these paints,
they will soon harden, and I have a few more plates of swill to check off on my menu.”

“Yes, I understand,” Hermione replied. “Well, perhaps it is time I go find my Harry
Potter….I'll see you tomorrow, I guess.”

“Si, Signorina Hermione,” Romeo replied with a grin. “I will indeed see you tomorrow.”

+++++++

**A/N:** Okay, so now that the Fat Lady and Romeo have shown that they have the same thing on
their minds it's time to find out what Harry and Hermione are thinking, no? Hmmmmmmm…. Oh, and
here's the web site
I used to brush up on the 140 slang terms for, well, you know….

*b**elino* [penis]

*cacca* [shit]

*cacasentenze* [a person that pulls words from his ass (literally: someone that shits out
sentences)]

*cazzone* [penis]

*Che* *cacasenno**!* [smart-ass: someone that defecates wisdom]

*Che coglione*! [What a testicle! (what an idiot, only coarser…in U.S, the equivalent is
*What a dickhead*!)]

*Che* *faccia di stronzo* [What a shithead! Literally “What a face of feces”]

*dalla* *ciocc**i**e* *alla* *culo*. [from tits to ass].

*P**eta* [fart]

*scopate facile* [easy lay]

*`**V**affanculo**!**'* [insult: “Up your ass!]

*vecchio sporcaccione* [dirty old man]

-->



4. Act IV
---------



**Act IV**

**A/N:** Sorry that this took a bit longer, but I had to write most of the following chapter
in order to figure out what had to be covered in this one.

**Disclaimer:** Not my characters, no money being made, etc., etc.

++++++++

Harry heard Ron before he spotted him on the Quidditch pitch.

“Pull! - *Reducto!**”* - (Smash!)

“Pull! - *Reducto!**”* - (Smash!)

“Pull! - *Reducto!**”* - (Smash!)

As he carefully picked his way through a field of broken pottery shards, Harry noticed that both
Ron and the magical skeet loader were getting quite a workout.

Ron was concentrating so hard on plate smashing that he didn't hear Harry come up on
him.

“Pull!” - *Reducto!* - Bollocks! You made me miss!”

“Sorry,” Harry apologized, as he drew back the hand that had tapped Ron's shoulder. “You do
know Hermione's modified the loader so that it dispenses Death Eater images, don't you
Ron?”

Ron used his wand arm to wipe the sweat off of his brow, causing Harry to duck when Ron's
wand pointed his way. “Yeah,” Ron replied somewhat breathlessly, “but the sound isn't as
satisfying when they fall.”

Harry pulled two cold bottles of butterbeer from the bucket of ice that he'd carried out
from the castle and handed one to Ron. “Little more of a challenge out here then in our shooting
range back home, huh?”

“Not when the need for blasting something is that much larger as well,” Ron replied.

The two young wizards walked into the cool shade of the stadium's shadow and plopped down
upon the ground, with backs against the short wall that divided pitch from stands.

They sat silently for a full minute, nursing their butterbeers.

“So was the row about the painting?” Harry finally asked.

“Yes…no,” Ron replied, “it was…it was about us….well, more like the fact that there is no
`us'.”

Harry's eyes narrowed a bit with interest. “Care to be any more specific?”

“No.”

Ron threw his empty bottle up in the air, the hexed it into a hundred different pieces. Harry
followed suit.

Another ten minutes went by, during which time another two bottles were opened, emptied and
*Reducto*'d. Ron grabbed the last two bottles from the bucket and handed one to Harry.

“She's fancied you for the longest time, you know,” Ron said.

“Don't know much about anything when it comes to who fancies whom,” Harry replied
cautiously. His heart rate was doing a tarantella at the thought he was talking about Hermione,
rather than Ginny.

“I've known it for sure since start of Fifth Year.”

“Goooooooooal!” screamed the voice inside Harry's head. Struggling to do something or say
something noncommittal. he pushed out a belch. “You really think?”

“Yup.”

Harry finished off his drink, nonchalantly tossed the bottle into the air, and caught it a foot
off the ground using a *Leviosa.*

“Wish it were you instead?” Harry asked.

Ron slowly shook his head. “Not anymore.”

Harry nodded.

Ron finished off his bottle, but rather than levitate it merely threw it back into the bucket of
ice. He stood up and pocketed his wand. “I'll be at The Burrow if you two need me.”

Harry squinted up at Ron. “Why you think we don't need you right now?”

“Third wheel,” he simply said. “Think I'll go find out how Luna's summer's been
going.”

Harry nodded. “Sweet girl…good to have around in a fight…lots of room at Grimmauld, you
know.”

It was Ron's turn to squint at Harry. “You serious, mate?”

Harry nodded again, then reached his hand out to Ron. “If that's how it works out.”

Ron pulled Harry up to his feet.

“Thanks,” he replied. “Word of advice?”

Harry cocked his head in question. “Sure.”

“Don't take anything for granted, and don't wait.”

Harry silently nodded in recognition of the transition he felt taking place.

“Thanks, mate,” he said, “Thanks for everything.”

They then wordlessly began to clean up the Quidditch pitch.

++++++++++++

“Hey, I've been looking all over for you,” said Harry's mirrored image.

“You could have just called me,” Hermione replied.

“Well, yeah, assuming that I would have remembered to use it earlier than I did…almost
floo'd home to get the Marauders Map…where have you been? Where are you?”

“Prefect's lavatory.”

“Really?” Harry with tease in his voice, “I wondered why you were holding the mirror so tight to
your face.”

“Yeah, well, don't be getting your hopes up about seeing any skin before tomorrow.”

“Hermione, you are kidding, right?”

“What, about the fact that I'm starkers right now, or that you can't wait to see me that
way.”

“Erm, the latter….I'm not drooling…if anything, I've got cotton-mouth at the thought of
being starkers in front of you.”

“Oh, Harry, I was just putting you on,” Hermione replied. “Sorry if I sounded a bit edgy…been on
a bit of a roll today.”

“Hey, no problem…that's why I'd rather talk with you face-to-face, rather than
face-to-mirror about all this. Can we get together sometime soon?”

“Erm, sure, Harry, but give me a few minutes…I wasn't kidding about being naked right
now.”

“What…getting some practice in before tomorrow?”

“No, you prat,” Hermione replied. “Just following the Master's orders…remember, no shower in
the morning?”

“Yeah, that kind of seemed like a strange request.”

“Well, after talking with Romeo I think I know why.”

“Sweet talking you in Italian, was he?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, “he was using some rather colorful language.”

“Oh,” said Harry, warily. “Well, how much time do you need?”

“Fifteen minutes?”

“Fine, where do you want to meet?”

“Here's fine,” Hermione replied. “Have to make sure you're clean behind the ears, now
don't we?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “And just who will be holding the washcloth that makes that a
certainty?”

Hermione smiled sweetly. “You should be so lucky, Potter.”

She deactivated the mirror off before catching Harry's image saying “I know.”

Hermione sighed as she stood up in the bubble-filled basin and tossed the mirror back into the
charmed dry box that sat by the water's edge. She pulled her wand from the box, cast an
*Accio* on a dry towel from a nearby shelf, and wrapped it around her torso. She then grabbed
a witch razor and started to shave her legs.

Once she reached her thighs, Hermione dropped the towel and looked into the mirror, trying to
decide just how far north the razor should travel. Unlike Lavender or Parvati, bikini lines had
never been anywhere near the top of her To Do list. But then again she'd never before faced the
prospect of standing nude before three different men.

Hermione was unnerved when she realized that no small part of her decision making involved the
question, “What would Harry like?” Harry had just talked about his apprehension, but it could have
been nothing like she was presently feeling, as she judged her legs too short, her hips too wide,
and her breasts too asymmetrical (the left hanging just a tad lower than the right).

At one level her fears were silly; there wasn't anyone in the world that she trusted more
than Harry, and she was quite sure she could handle anything Romeo threw her way (that was more a
question of whether Harry would beat her to the punch). But would Harry treat her differently once
he was forced to acknowledge that his best friend had curves with points and creases?

Hermione was glad that Harry wanted to talk beforehand…it might help head-off some of her fears.
She was also glad that there was a pretty darn good reason for what was going to take place to
actually happen. Deciding against doing anything drastic down there, she put down the razor.

She was gauging the relative weight of her breasts when a ghost's head burst through the
mirror and pulled up nose-to-nose.

“Oooh, spending some quality time with friends, are we?” the ghost asked impishly.

“Myrtle, you startled me,” Hermione complained, her hands quickly dropping to her side.

Moaning Myrtle pulled herself completely through the mirror and started to slowly float in
circles around Hermione.

“That's what ghosts are supposed to do, isn't it?” she asked.

“Yes, well…why aren't you down in the second floor lav?” Hermione asked.

“Not much to do down there, what with the students all gone,” Myrtle replied, “so I came looking
for some company.”

“Company, or someone to spy upon?” Hermione asked.

Myrtle answered the question with a question. “It's not spying if it's just us girls,
right? ”

“I guess,” Hermione replied, “so what do you want, Myrtle?”

“Just wanted to see if you were preening as much as Harry Potter,” Myrtle replied, having caught
Hermione doing a side-view evaluation of her unsupported lift.

“So you know about the painting?”

“Of course,” Myrtle replied. “it's the talk of the castle right now.”

“Not surprised, I guess,” Hermione replied. “Why do you say I'm preening?” she asked
hastily. “How do…well, of course I know how you could spy on him…why do you say that Harry is
preening?”

Myrtle giggled as she continued to spin around Hermione. “What would you call it when a boy
stands naked in front of a mirror and flexes his muscles...and I do mean all of his muscles.”

“Oh, I see…” Hermione said quietly. “Did he look at all nervous?”

“Deathly so,” Myrtle replied, “just like you.”

She lowered the height of her spin and came to a full stop with her head a few inches away from
Hermione's pelvis. She smiled broadly, floated back far enough to catch Hermione's eyes,
and cooed. “Of course, Harry doesn't have any reason to feel…inadequate.”

Hermione involuntarily brought her legs together, reached for her towel, and rewrapped herself.
“Why…why do you say that…how do you know?”

“Because,” Myrtle giggled loudly, “I've watched wizards play with their wands for
decades.”

Hermione blushed. “Myrtle, you haven't…you don't…I mean…really?”

“Uh-huh,” the ghost replied. “I'm a regular Mr. Ollivander when it comes to the boys of
Hogwarts coming.”

Hermione sat down on a bench, propped her elbows upon her knees and her chin upon her hands. “A
regular Mr. Ollivander?”

Myrtle lowered the bridge of her glasses down on the tip of her nose, struck a pose, and did a
spot-on imitation of the wandmaker's voice. “I remember every wand I've ever seen, my dear,
every one.”

Intrigued, Hermione decided to play along. “Really?” she asked, “so if I gave you a wizard's
name, like, say…Gilderoy Lockhart…”

“Five and three-quarters inches, pine…very soft.”

Hermione laughed loudly. “Oh, Myrtle, you are terrible….”

“But not too terrible for you to ask again, right?” the ghost asked.

“Maybe.” Hermione got a gleam in her eye. “Severus Snape.”

“Five and one-half inches, willow…nice and swishy.”

Hermione laughed out loud again, then told herself “*in for a penny*…”

“Fred Weasley.”

“Six and one-quarter inches, walnut, slight bend to the left.”

“George Weasley”

“Six and one-quarter inches, walnut, slight bend to the right.”

“Really?”

Myrtle nodded solemnly. “I never had any problem telling the two of them apart.”

“Viktor Krum.”

Myrtle looked at Hermione funny. “You mean you never saw his wand?”

“Of course not,” Hermione replied.

“That's a pity,” Myrtle said with a sigh. “Seven and five-eighths inches, oak, satyr's
heartstring.”

“So that's larger than normal?” Hermione asked.

“Oh…..yes.” Myrtle said. “If it was the witch that chose the wand, then his would be a very
popular model.”

“I see,” Hermione replied quietly, as she sat and thought.

“A little curious about Harry?” Myrtle asked.

Hermione snapped her head up and gave the ghost a piercing gaze.

“No…erm…definitely not,” she said.

“Already stored that information away?

“No, we're best friends…just best friends.”

“And that's why you were wondering if he'll like the size of your melons, right?”

“No….not at all.” Hermione said, as she crossed her arms in front of herself.

“So it's the Master's Assistant that makes your insides flutter?”

“Oh, Merlin no,” Hermione replied.

“So we're back to Harry,” Myrtle said. “It's okay if you're curious, you know…I
don't fancy him anymore.”

“You mean you did?”

“Oh my, yes…for the longest time…until Draco and Draco Jr. started to visit me last year, of
course.”

“Draco Malfoy?” Hermione asked incredulously. “Draco's named his…erm…wand…Draco Jr.?”

“No,” said Myrtle dreamily, “I gave his wand that name…seven inches, very stiff…definitely
hardwood….”

“Oh,” Hermione said, and with all the nonchalance she could muster asked, “so you were
saying…about Harry's wand…”

Myrtle swooped right in close to Hermione. “So you do want to know….”

Hermione entire face, neck and upper torso turned beet red. She was too embarrassed to reply,
until she remembered that it was Myrtle she was talking with.

“Yes, Myrtle, I do want to know.”

“I just knew it,” the ghost replied.

“So?” Hermione asked impatiently.

“So,” conspired Myrtle, “Mr. Potter's wand is….” She paused for effect.

“Go on, then.”

“Harry Potter.” Myrtle said matter-of-factly, “Nine and seven-eighths inches, ironwood, horse
heartstring.”

Hermione choked on a bit of her saliva. “Are you sure?”

“Just verified that measurement today, my dear,” Myrtle replied.

“Oh,” Hermione said, as she slowly realized the implications. “oh….oh…Oh!”

“Just what he was saying,” Myrtle quipped.

Hermione laughed in spite of herself. “So Myrtle, why horse heartstring?”

“Well he is hung like one, isn't he?”

“I guess,” Hermione said. “So, not changing the subject or anything, but the Master's
Apprentice…his name is Romeo…”

“I thought you weren't interested in him.”

“I'm not,” Hermione replied, “but he's so cocky, I'd love to know if he has the,
well…you know…to match.”

Myrtle giggled. “Guess I've got another observation to make,” she said. “I'll see what I
can see tonight.”

“Erm, thanks Myrtle.”

“You're welcome, Hermione,” Myrtle replied. “Oh, and Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“You can stop worrying about whether your bits will measure up in Harry's eyes.”

“Why do you say that?” Hermione asked.

“Because he was excited enough just hearing me describe them…”

“You did what?” Hermione exclaimed.

Myrtle ignored her. “Like I said, so excited that just as soon as he thought I'd gone,
he…well…” she giggled. “How do you think I confirmed my measurement today?”

“Oh, Merlin!“ Hermione exclaimed.

Myrtle started to float towards the basin's piping. Just before she squeezed down one of the
tubes she turned towards Hermione.

“Not quite,” Myrtle replied, “just before he finished he was saying `Oh, Hermione!'”

++++++++++

A very pensive witch was still sitting on the bench, wrapped in her towel, when Harry knocked on
the door. She looked down at her towel, then looked over at her clothes thrown in a pile along side
the basin.

“Sod it,” she said to herself, then called out to Harry to enter.

“Oh, Hermione, I'm sorry,” Harry said, casting his gaze down at the tiled floor as he
entered. “I thought it was safe for me to come in.”

“Of course it's safe,” Hermione replied. “It's just me, and I'm wearing a lot more
than you'll see me wearing tomorrow.”

“Erm…guess so,” Harry nervously replied.

“Calm down, Harry,” Hermione said with a chuckle. “It's only me, right? Not like you're
facing Voldemort again.”

“That might be easier,” Harry replied. “At least I've done that before.”

Hermione stood up and walked over to Harry. “You mean you don't know what it's like to
be naked in front of a girl?”

“Erm, no…” Harry said, “I mean yes, but only if you count Madame Pomfrey or Moaning Myrtle.”

Hermione laughed. “Madame Pomfrey doesn't count,” she stated, with a twinkle in her eye,
“but tell me about Myrtle.”

Harry's face turned red. “Oh, well, Myrtle…let's just say that she's got a bad habit
of popping up at just the wrong time.”

“So I've been told,” Hermione said with a smile. “So…you've never…with Ginny…”

“No,” Harry said, quite quickly and emphatically. “Our…erm… relationship…it never went past
snogging.”

“Really?” Hermione asked. “I mean…it's just that…well, Ginny made it sound like she'd
laid down tracks for your locomotive lots of times.”

Harry turned a bit pale. “What? That's a complete…we never did anything close to
that…Hermione you've got to believe me.”

Hermione looked at Harry very closely. “Of course I believe you Harry, why wouldn't I?”

Harry walked over to the bench and sat down. “Well, I didn't want you to think that I
didn't care about…well I guess I really do care about…..I can't believe that Ginny was
saying those things….when?”

“Oh,” Hermione replied, “she said a few things right before end of term, but I guess it was at
the wedding that she really tried to make a point.”

“You mean Bill and Fleur's wedding…the one where I spent all day avoiding her and dancing
with you?”

“The very same,” Hermione replied.

“That little witch…” Harry muttered.

“So there really isn't anything going on still between you and Ginny?”

“No,” Harry said emphatically. “When I broke up with her, I said it was to protect her…but that
seems so long ago, and so much has changed since then…even when it's all over with Tom it's
still going to be over with her.”

“Oh,” Hermione said quietly. “So what's changed?”

Harry looked at her intently, trying to pick between the different paths of potential
conversation. “Well, certain things haven't changed at all, it's just maybe that
I've…I've decided that there are times when we have to choose between what is right and
what is easy.”

“So tell me, Harry…what is easy?”

Harry bit his lower lip. “My relationship with Ginny was easy.”

Hermione caught her breath just a bit, realizing just how close her thigh was next to his as
they sat on the bench. “And, what is right?”

Harry looked into Hermione's eyes and prayed that what he saw was hope. Still too scared to
find out, though, he looked down on the tiled floor and stayed just this side of evasive.

“The right thing to do is to be honest about the feelings I've held inside for a very long
time.”

Hermione felt as if Harry had just brought himself up short of a threshold that she knew he
wanted to hurdle. She desperately wanted to jump over that barrier and snog him senseless, yet
after telling Ron off for not saying how he might have felt towards her…she just had to hold
back.

“So Harry, anything more you want to say about those feelings?”

Harry looked at Hermione. He wanted so much to tell her what he'd already confessed to the
Fat Lady, but was so, so afraid what might happen if those feelings were reciprocated. And even if
they were, what might happen to his friendship with Ron…their friendship with Ron.

It was a lot harder to say you should do the right thing than to actually do it.

“Well,” he replied, “erm…you see…erm…oh, we've got a busy day tomorrow, huh?”

The smartest witch in her generation should have drawn out Harry's feelings with some
probing questions and understanding empathy. Instead, she went with the tried and not-so-true
method of trying to make the boy she thought she fancied jealous (it had worked so well when she
went on a date with Cormac McLaggen, right?).

“Yes we do,” Hermione said. “I should let you take your bath…and I've got to get ready for
my dinner with Romeo tonight.”

“What?” Harry asked sharply.

“You know, the Master's apprentice…the elves are making all kinds of English food for us…it
was just so sweet when he asked me in Italian.”

All Harry could stammer out was “Oh.”

“You are still planning on staying over tonight in the Tower, right?” Hermione asked.

“Erm, yeah,” Harry said quietly.

“See you in the morning, then,” she replied. She leaned over and pecked Harry on the cheek with
her lips, taking what was for her the unprecedented step of ensuring that he had a good view of her
cleavage as she bent down in her towel. Hermione then gathered her clothes and left the room.

And left Harry speechless.

After waiting long enough to ensure that the coast was clear, Harry ran to the entrance to
Gryffindor Tower to talk with Lady Bee.

“Harry, you look so dejected, what happened?”

“Oh, Lady Bee, it's a mess… I took your advice and tried to talk with Hermione to try and
sort out some of my feelings for her and my fears of posing with her, but before I could she told
me that she had been talking with Romeo and was going to eat dinner with him tonight...”

“So?”

“So?” Harry replied. “So he's dark, handsome, Italian, probably can say all sorts of sweet
things to her that I can't understand.”

“Harry, I think you're underestimating both you own attractive qualities had her ability to
separate wheat from chaff.”

“But I'm just…I'm just me,” Harry whined. “What could I possible say that would be
romantic?”

“How about telling her how you feel about her…I thought that was the game plan the last time we
talked.”

“Yes, well, it doesn't seem adequate enough…I tried to tell her but…but my tongue got tied
and anything I tried to tell her sounded completely wrong…say, you don't speak Italian, do
you?”

“No, I'm sorry, Harry, I don't,” Lady Bee replied.

“Do you have any friends that speak Italian?”

“Not that I'm aware of, but…my good friend Lady Vee speaks French, would that do?”

“It's got to be better then the English mush that would be coming out of my mouth,”

“Harry, you underestimate yourself…but if it takes using a different language for you to summon
up the courage to tell Hermione how you really feel about her, then *Viva la langue
Francaise*!”

-->



5. Act V
--------



**Act V**

**A/N:** This is the end of the story (for now); while I've laid the groundwork for an
action/adventure Voldy chase (at least in my head) I'm going to need to finish *Muggle
Summer* first. Sorry for the long delay, but this turned out to be an untamable monster of a
chapter. Still not sure I'm happy with pacing/editing, but I want to get this out there.

Thanks to all who have reviewed and inspired me to turn this PWP smut bunny into something more.
**Last chance for everyone to leave a review** **(hint, hint).**

**Disclaimer:** Not my characters, no money being made, etc., etc.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Harry allowed the alarm clock to crudely taunt him once last time (*Seven O'Cock - Time to
Free Willie*) before he grabbed his glasses and swung his legs around side the bed. He
hadn't slept much at all, despite the familiar surroundings of his Gryffindor dormitory
room.

There was a box sitting atop his desk with a small handwritten note attached.

*Dear Harry,*

*I suggest that you wear this (and only this) to and from your session with Master Rondino.
Trust me when I say it will help compartmentalize any embarrassment or insecurity you may be
feeling right now - Headmistress McGonagall*

The box contained a red silk bathrobe, trimmed in gold. Harry doubted that his house colors
would bolster his courage, but appreciated the thought. He left his pajamas in a ball at his
bedside, donned the robe and holstered his wand within a thin pocket that was sewn onto one
sleeve.

He found Hermione in the Common Room, dressed in a similar robe and curled up in a chair with a
book in her lap. She yawned as she looked up and stretched her arms. Harry couldn't help but
notice that her movement caused the hem of her robe to ride high up on her thigh.

“Morning Hermione,” he said. “You couldn't sleep either?”

Hermione shook her head wistfully. “I got a bit of sleep, but my alarm clock kept tripping off
my adrenaline with the snarkiest little comments.”

“I know the feeling…sickles to pickles my clock was channeling Malfoy.”

Harry walked over squeezed in next to Hermione. She pivoted around, swung her legs up onto one
arm of the chair and lay her head down upon the other. Whether by design or accident, the move also
scooted her bum off the seat cushion and up onto Harry's lap, and allowed the hand that Harry
had wrapped around her shoulder to fall onto her middrift a few inches south of her navel.

“So,” she said with a smile and a bit of squirming, “ready for our big day?”

Harry was quite certain that she was trying to get a rise out of him…literally. The two thin
pieces of silk between them...the calculated amount of friction…the short distance between his hand
and the delights in either direction. “Hermione,” he said, “I do believe that you are going to be
the death of me.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Well that's what the portrait is to insure against, right?”

Harry shook his head with frustration. “There's something that I have to confess to
you.”

Hermione's eyes narrowed just a bit, but she maintained her smile. “What's that
Harry?”

“Hermione,” Harry said, far too seriously for the situation, “I'm so afraid that…I'm so
sure that…well, that when we pose that I'm going to have a physical reaction that will make you
think less of me.”

Hermione sighed, a bit tired for the journey, but happy that they'd finally got to that
point. “Harry, you don't have to worry, or be embarrassed. It's a natural reaction,
particularly for a teen-aged boy…I'm not going to think any less of you if you get an
erection.”

“But that's the point,” Harry said without realizing his double entendre. “Any bloke with
one eye opened and a teaspoon's worth of testosterone would get hard looking at you. I mean…why
wouldn't they…you're so beautiful.”

“Harry, you are too kind,” Hermione said, “and I love you for it.”

“But Hermione,” Harry said with rising exasperation levels, “I'm not just any bloke; I'm
your best friend. And my reaction…it's not natural.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“Erm…,” Harry said. “It is natural, but it's more than a physical reaction…its due to more
than a physical reaction. I mean, sometimes I get hard just watching you study.”

“What?” Hermione asked with surprise. “You get turned-on watching me do homework?”

“What can I say,” Harry replied. “Smart is sexy…and you are smart, and Merlin, you are sexy…argh,
but that doesn't mean I'd shag any girl just `cause she sorted Ravenclaw…”

“But,” Hermione said with a smile, “you would shag me?”

“Oh, Merlin, I've really stepped in it,” Harry lamented. “Hermione, you are my best friend. I
value that friendship more than anything else in the world. I need that friendship more than
anything else...well, there's air, food and water, but it's a close fourth.”

“Harry,” Hermione replied, “there is a difference between wants and needs, right? Just because
you need air doesn't mean that you fancy it.”

“But can't you want and need something…the same thing…at the same time?” he asked. “I
mean…what I need is your help, and support, and courage, and brains…but what I want is…”

Harry leaned forward and planted a strong kiss on Hermione's lips. For all of the
flirtatious banter, it caught Hermione by surprise, but it didn't take her long to respond,
with two hands that grabbed the back of his head and caressed his locks.

Hermione let out a content sigh when they finally broke for air. “Harry,” she said, “there's
something that I need to confess to you as well.”

“What's that?” Harry replied.

“I didn't really have a dinner date with Romeo,” she replied. “I just said that to make you
jealous.”

“I know,” Harry replied with a smile, “Lady Bee told me last night.”

“She did?” Hermione asked. “My, but she was a busy bee…she told me last night that you were taking
French lessons. What in Merlin's name for?”

“Oh,” Harry said, “no reason. Just want to learn to say a few things in French that I've always
found it hard to say to you in English.”

“Like what?” Hermione cooed.

“You'll see,” Harry replied, with an enigmatic smile. “Come on, it's time to go.”

Reluctantly, the two got up and exited the portrait hole. Their arrival in the hallway was met
with the sound of resounding applause and cheers. They looked back over their shoulders, only to
find the Fat Lady's portrait filled to the frame with echoes. The Ladies Bee and Vee were
surrounded by almost most every portrait echo hung in Hogwarts hallways, and quite a few of the
former headmasters as well. Dumbledore's echo stood just behind a Lady Bee with a raised goblet
in hand.

“Good morning, Harry and Hermione.”

“Morning, sir,” Harry replied, reflexively. “Come to see us off on our next adventure?”

“We have indeed, handsome,” Lady Bee replied. “Thought you might need some support.”

“And some liquid encouragement, as well,” Dumbledore added, before crying out “Dobby!”

Not a second later Dobby and Dumkie popped in front of Harry and Hermione with a pitcher and two
goblets, which they filled and handed to them.

“Good morning Harry Potter, sir,” said Dobby.

“Good morning Harry Potter's `Mione,” chimed in Dumkie.

Harry covered his mouth and raised his brown in fake shock as he shot Hermione a playful look.
She replied with a slight shake of her head and sparkle in her eyes.

Dumbledore gave a shout out from over their shoulders. “A toast, then,” he said, as he raised
his glass. “To paraphrase something I said just a few short years ago…it takes a great deal of
courage to stand naked before your enemy, but it takes even more courage to stand naked before your
best friend.”

The other echoes laughed and cheered. Harry and Hermione looked at each other, neither knowing
whether to laugh or hyperventilate. They tentatively clinked their goblets together and took a
taste of the orange liquid within.

“Oh, this is delicious,” Hermione said to Dobby. “What is it?”

“Headmaster told Dobby to make a pitcher of `Hogwarts Sunrise',” Dobby replied. “Dumkie
wasn't sure that Harry Potter and his `Mione were old enough, but I told her Dobby always
listens to Headmaster, even when he's inside a painting.”

“Well it certainly is delicious, Dobby,” Harry said. “What's in it, though?”

“Dobby used the Hagrid's special recipe…pumpkin juice, fresh cream, nutmeg and
Ogden's.”

“Really,” Hermione said, as she reached out for a refill from Dumkie. “Is this something he
drinks on special occasions, then?”

“Yes,” Dobby replied. “Hagrid says every breakfast is special at Hogwarts.”

“Smart man, erm giant, that Hagrid,” Harry said, before letting out a loud belch.

“Mind your magic, Harry,” Hermione said with a smile.

A group of ghosts, led by Nearly-Headless Nick and Moaning Myrtle, joined the impromptu
send-off.

“Your honor guard has arrived,” Nick said with a grin.

“Harry?”

“I asked for their help running interference in case Peeves shows up.”

“Oh, great idea,” Hermione replied. “Good morning, Myrtle…how did it go last night?”

“It came very quickly,” Myrtle giggled. “Three and three-quarters inches, balsa…*very*
soft.”

Hermione refused to explain why she was laughing as they started down the Tower's steps and
into main hallway.

Though the situation was ripe for Peeves's antics, the poltergeist was nowhere to be found
as they walked the halls. In fact, the most interesting thing about their path wasn't along the
way, but the destination itself; rather than lead her down towards Firenze's forested
classroom, Harry guided her towards the library.

“Harry, why are we stopping here?” Hermione asked.

“Because,” Harry said as he opened the doors. The same portable potions laboratory that was
downstairs the previous day was set up where the study tables normally were. An empty canvas was
set upon an easel facing an open stacks of books.

“We're going to pose here?” she asked.

“That's right Hermione…cleared it with Master Rondino last night.”

“Why?”

“Well,” Harry replied, “I thought you might be more comfortable posing here rather than in the
forest…after all, this is your second home, right?”

Hermione chewed on her lower lip. “Harry, you are so thoughtful…but I'm not sure that this is a
good idea.”

“Why is that, Hermione?”

“Well…you were right to think that I'd be more comfortable posing nude here in the library
rather than the forest,” she replied. “The problem is, though, that I've, erm…imagined…being
naked here before.”

Harry's eyebrows shot up in ballistic arcs. “Oh my…you've fantasized about being naked
in the library?”

“Well, erm…yes. I guess.”

“And maybe doing things a tad more athletic than just *being* naked?”

“Erm, well…yes,” she admitted.

“Anything you care to share with me?” Harry asked with a grin.

“Not right now, thank you very much,” Hermione said rather sheepishly.

“So you've dreamed about *Shagging in the Stacks*?”

“Maybe…”

“*Bound Amongst the Leather Bound*?”

“Harry, you're incorrigible.”

“*Boinking on the Bookshelves*?”

“Harry, stop.”

“So would you rather pose someplace else?”

“Not on your life, Potter.”

At that moment Nick and Myrtle wafted in through the wall to report that Master Rondino and
Romeo were about to join them. They hovered above Madame Pince's desk as the two wizards strode
into the room with hands full of fresh limpwort. The Master bade them good morning, and said that
it would take just a few minutes to finish their paint preparation.

“Harry,” Hermione whispered, “why is Nick here?”

“Oh, I asked him to hang around, just in case,” Harry whispered back. “So what's the story
on Myrtle?”

“Same, I guess,” Hermione said somewhat cryptically.

“Good morning, Donna Hermione,” said Romeo. “I am happy to see that you have come prepared…or is
it, in English, prepared to come?”

“Come one step closer to her, Romeo, and you'd best be prepared for a rather nasty hex,”
said Harry.

Romeo sneered at Harry. “Oh look, matching robes, how sweet….do you wear the same undergarments
as well?”

Hermione laughed as Harry started to get flustered. “Don't mind Romeo,” she said. “He's
just making up for his shortcomings.”

Harry cocked his head. “Was that one word there at the end, or two?”

Hermione giggled. “Both probably…it turns out that the `Italian Stallion' here is hung more
like `My Little Pony'.”

Harry snorted as he look towards a rather angry Italian, then went saucer-eyed when he realized
something.

“But to make that comparison, you'd have to know just how long…”

“Yes, Harry, that's right.” Hermione replied with a broad smile. “Myrtle was very
observant…both in the afternoon and last night.”

Harry shook his head and turned towards the Master.

“Is there anything we need to do before you start?”

“No, Don Potter,” Rondino replied, “except remove your robes and stand before the canvas.”

Harry turned to face Hermione.

“Are you sure you are ready to do this?” he asked.

Hermione looked right into Harry's eyes, undid her sash, and let her robe drop to the floor.
“Not sure at all…how about you?”

Harry smiled a bit as he held eye contact and let his robe join Hermione's. “Same for
me.”

They stood there, naked before each other in the library, yet neither could have told you that
for sure, for neither wanted to break eye contact. Neither wanted to make the other self-conscious
with their gaze, and neither wanted to appear more anxious than the other to see what their
discarded robes had revealed. They didn't even dare blink. Finally, after twenty seconds or so,
Harry broke the spell.

“So at the same time, then?” he asked.

Hermione grinned and agreed. “On three, then….One…Two…Three.”

They broke eye contact.

“Merlin, Hermione….you are so…beautiful.”

“Merlin, Harry…you are so…big.”

They laughed nervously as Romeo stepped out from behind the bubbling cauldrons.

“Merlin, Romeo,” he said to himself, “you are so…nauseous.”

“Sod off, Romeo,” Harry said.

“Oh, what are you going to do about it, Potter?” Romeo asked. “I'm not afraid of the only
wand you've got within hand's reach.”

Harry looked back at Hermione with a question in his eyes. She nodded in response, took one of
his hands in hers, then pointed her other towards Romeo.

“*Accio* arsehole's wand!”

Hermione's wandless magic flung Romeo's wand up off the table and into her outreached
hand.

“How quaint,” a slightly flustered Romeo said, “she does the heavy lifting for him.”

Hermione snorted as Harry reached his free hand out and sent a cauldron of water careening
towards Romeo. It dumped its contents on his head before clanging down on his skull. Romeo dropped
to the ground unconscious.

“Well,” she beamed at Harry, “it seems as if all of our wandless practice is starting to pay
off.”

“It's either that or lack of attire,” replied Harry. “We should spellcast naked more
often.”

“Yes.” Hermione cooed, as her eyes softened and her lips pursed. “Yes we should.”

That statement (or more specifically his physical reaction to that statement,) caused Harry to
quickly turn away from Hermione. “Erm, sorry, Hermione.”

“Don Potter, please, you must try not to be..or to get so…excited.” said Master Rondino, who,
unbeknownst to Harry and Hermione, had been painting at a furious pace ever since the robes had
dropped.

“Oh, that's ok,” Hermione said sweetly, as she gazed into Harry's eyes. “We're all
friends here.”

“I'm sorry, but it is not acceptable,” the Master replied. “When his blood starts to flow to
his *cuzzo*, the magic goes with it.”

“Really?” asked Hermione.

“Yes,” replied the Master. “his aura is much too unstable right now for me to paint.”

Hermione looked at Harry and shook her head.

“You heard the man, Potter, get it under control.”

“I'm trying,” said Harry, in a desperate attempt to focus his mind someplace other than
Hermione's lovely bits.

*Umbridge eating saltine crackers… Ear Wax…Bludgers…*

“Please, Don Potter, I can not work when all of your aura is going where your blood has already
gone.”

“Harry?”

*Filch cleaning Mrs. Norris's litter box…Neville's socks…Dragon dung…*

Master Rondino shook his head in disgust. “This is never a problem with older wizards.”

*Slughorn's cozy…Troll buggers…Dudley's toothbrush*

Rondino threw up his hands in disgust, and reached over to the laboratory bench.

“Don Potter,” he asked, “Please…take this empty pot and….take care of your
excitement.”

“What?” Harry demanded. “You want me to wank off and…and catch it for you?”

Hermione looked shocked, but immediately understood the situation. “Harry,” she said,
“there's magic in everything that comes out of you,” she said. “He probably would mix your,
erm…release…in with his paints to conserve the magic.”

“Donna Hermione, you are a very smart witch,” the Master said with a smile. “Now, Don
Potter…”

“Forget it,” Harry replied. “Nick, a little help please?”

“Right away, Harry,” the ghost replied, as he swooped down from his vantage point and dove
straight through Harry's body. The cold and clammy experience tamed Harry's erection
instantaneously.

“Don Potter!” the Master replied. “Why did you do that…the ghost, he just took more of your
magic from you than your released seed would have!”

“Oh,” Harry replied. “Sorry.”

Master Rondino shooed them towards their robes, stating that he'd have to wait some time
before Harry regained enough aura for him to continue. Lacking anything better to do with his time,
and with his assistant still knocked out cold on the floor, the Master began to paint in the
background while Harry and Hermione looked over his shoulder.

“You are very lucky, you know,” the Master said. “Usually I have Romeo paint in the
background…ah well, this will make the work that much greater, I guess.”

“Will the library background be magical as well?” Harry asked.

“Of course,” the Master said, with a tinge of indignation. “Just as the forest behind the
Headmistress yesterday will really become a forest in every way…animals included.”

“And you don't even have to paint all of the animals into the painting, do you?” Hermione
asked.

“Correct,” replied the Master, “I give the form, and with my magic all of the rest is filled
in.”

“So the Headmistress's echo will be able to interact with that forest…her animagi form could
climb a tree, or tangle with centaurs, or anything,” Harry reasoned out.

“*Si*.”

Hermione's eyes brightened “So if the Headmistress's echo can play in the forest, then
our echoes will be able to…”

“Play in the library,” said Harry. “The complete library…or read, or do research, or study.”

“Wow,” Hermione said, “and all of the books would be there. It's too bad that they're
just echoes, or they could do some of our work for us.”

“Why couldn't they?” Harry asked.

“Because they're just echoes,” Hermione replied. “They only know as much as the
originals…it's not like they could read a book and retain any knowledge, right?”

“I've been thinking about that,” Harry replied, “and the only conclusion that I can reach is
that conventional wisdom is wrong. A portrait echo can learn things that the original couldn't
have known.”

“How can you be so sure, Harry?”

“Simple test,” Harry replied. “If we went up to the Headmistress's office right now and
asked Dumbledore's echo what the score was in my floo landing contest with Ron what would he
say?”

“He'd say to give up while you were behind and on your behind,” Hermione giggled before she
thought of something. “But that is something that the original Dumbledore would have never have
known!.”

“Exactly,” Harry said. “The echoes can observe, they can report, they can deduce…in short, the
echoes can think for themselves.”

Hermione looked for confirmation from Master Rondino.

“Donna Hermione, he is quite perceptive,” he replied simply. “Shall we try again, now?
Perhaps…Donna Hermione, if you would stand behind Don Potter, perhaps he would be less
excitable?”

They took his suggestion. Harry sheepishly dropped his robe and faced the canvas. Hermione
walked behind him and disrobed out of his eyesight. Master Rondino walked over to the laboratory
and swallowed another ladle of potion before returning to his canvas.

“Ahh, thank you, Don Potter, for your cooperation. But now, I think….”

Rondino squinted at the pair intently.

“Donna Hermione,” he decided, “you must stand closer to him…his magical aura is a little too
unstable.”

Hermione followed his instructions and stepped up directly behind Harry, so that he could feel
her warm breath on the back of his neck.

“You know, Harry,” she said, “if it wasn't so important for you to avoid getting stiff
I'd compliment your cute bum.”

“Not helping, Hermione,” Harry replied.

“Right…sorry,” she said, in a tone of voice that didn't seem so. “So tell me …what were you
planning on saying to me in French?”

“Oh,” Harry admitted, “I never really decided. *Je t'aime* sounded a bit corny, if
accurate, and anything longer than that sounded like the name of a 70's disco tune.”

“Really,” she asked, “like what…'*Voulez vous couche avec moi'?*”

“Why Hermione, I thought you'd never ask…of course I would,” Harry said, prompted Hermione
to swat his *derriere*.

“So were you able to come up with anything more original?” she asked.

“I don't know,” Harry admitted. “Just that…just that you're *ma raison d'etre,*
*et* *ma raison de vivre apres Voldemort*.”

“Oh,” she replied, is a quiet and wondrous voice.

She placed a hand on each of Harry's shoulder blades and leaned into Harry…her cheek on the
base of his neck…her breasts cushioned up against his back…her pelvis spooned up against his bum.
Harry closed his eyes and leaned his head back, savoring the sensations that had every square inch
of his body more alive than he could ever recall. It was only when he began to think about exactly
which parts of Hermione he was in contact with that he got into trouble again.

“Don Potter,” Master Rondino said, “perhaps it is time to bow to the inevitable?” He reached for
the paint pot.

“Well take care of things, Master Rondino,” Hermione said, as she walked over to her robe. After
tying her sash she grabbed Harry's robe and threw it at him.

“Let's go, Harry.”

“Where are we going?”

“Someplace where we can take care of your aura imbalance.”

As Harry donned his robe, the Master took Hermione aside and handed her an empty paint pot.
“Make sure he doesn't spill any of his magic on the ground.”

“Oh that won't be necessary,” Hermione replied sweetly.

“And why is that?”

“Because I have my own container.”

The Master's eyes went wide as Hermione turned and grabbed Harry's hand and led him out
of the library. “We'll be back in a few minutes,” she called out over her shoulder.

Master Rondino was chuckling to himself as a tabby cat came out from its hiding spot. The
cat's Cheshire grin remained fixed as the body that surrounded it transformed into
Hogwart's Headmistress.

“Master Rondino,” she said reprovingly, “you are a dirty old man.”

“Why Donna McGonagall,” he replied, “am I the one that has been peeking behind a bookstack all
this time?”

“I have a mission to protect my students, you know,” she said with a smile. The Headmistress
then looked at him appraisingly.

“She didn't need to pose naked with him, did she?” she asked.

“No,” the Master admitted, “she didn't. She could have just stood by him clothed…but with
all of their unresolved sexual tension…I thought that if I could encourage some resolution…well, I
am certain that their combined auras will be as strong as I've ever seen.”

The Headmistress shook her head with a mischievous smile. “Stronger than even ours?”

The Master's eyes twinkled. “Minerva, I was too enraptured yesterday afternoon to even
notice.”

“Well,” the Headmistress replied, “perhaps I'll give you another chance to compare and
contrast.”

++++++

Hermione led Harry downstairs towards the main entrance area.

“Just where are we going,” Harry asked. “What are you planning to do?”

“You heard Master Rondino,” Hermione replied. “We have to take care of your little problem.” She
giggled. “Well, actually, it's not so little right now, is it?”

“Merlin, Hermione, I'm sorry…I've never been so embarrassed.”

“Harry, we've already discussed this, remember? You have nothing to be sorry or embarrassed
about.”

“Why aren't you letting me take care of it?”

“Well, since I caused the problem, I ought to be part of the solution, don't you think?”

“Are you saying what I think you're saying?” he asked.

Hermione just smiled back at him as she pushed open the doors to the Great Hall and led Harry to
the Head's Table, which was set for lunch.

“Hermione, are you sure that you want to do this?”

Hermione spun Harry around, put one hand behind his head, and pulled him into a deep,
open-mouthed kiss. She then guided his other hand to a warm moist spot beneath her robes.

“You're not the only one with an imbalanced aura right now.”

“Erm, okay,” Harry stammered with saucer eyes, “I'll take that as a yes.”

She pulled Harry's hand back out and led him around behind the Head's table. She then
pushed back the Headmistress's chair, and carelessly swept the place setting in front of it to
one side.

“Sit,” she ordered, as she pointed to the space she'd just cleared.

Harry followed orders. “Hermione, but…whenever I dreamed of this happening, well…I never…I
wanted our first time to be special. I wanted *your* first time to be special. Not rushed, or
anything.”

“Oh, don't worry,” Hermione replied with a grin, as she untied Harry's sash and lifted
the tented material up and off of what was, at that moment, the very center of his magical core.
“You're not getting off the hook so easily. You'll still have the chance to plan for our
first time.”

“But…erm…won't we need a container?”

“No, Harry,” Hermione said with a smile, “I've got someplace else in mind to store your
magic.”

Harry nervously looked back over his shoulder towards the rest of the Great Hall and the open
doors at the far end.

“Erm, Right here?”

Hermione looked up at Harry's face and cooed.

“Why not, Harry? After all, this is the Head Table.”

She buried her head in his lap, and began to work her magic on his.

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