Lessons

adamolupin

Rating: PG
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 11/07/2006
Last Updated: 11/07/2006
Status: completed

A series of three vingettes where Harry and Hermione realize they don't need to be in Hogwarts to learn something new. FIRST in the series.

Chapters

1. Driving Lessons

2. Cooking Lessons

3. Parenting Lessons

1. Driving Lessons

A/N: I apologize for how short this one is, but they get a bit longer as they go.

It didn't matter that the Porsche was basically an engine on wheels and not much else; it could go fast, corner on a knut, and had a bass that could cause heart irregularity, but most importantly it was hers.

Hermione sighed, looking at the little car with pleasure and pride before fear twisted and gripped her stomach. She warily glanced over at the young man next to her. Just as she suspected. His green eyes were alight with an almost feral gleam behind his glasses. He looked at her Porsche like he looked at his Firebolt and that did not bode well. For her or her car.

He was in the driver's seat and leaning over to watch her through the passenger window before she could even properly gather her thoughts, straighten her spine and walk resolutely toward the car. “Well?” he called out to her. “You promised, you can't back out!”

Hermione worried her lip between her teeth and forced herself into the passenger seat before she chickened out and called the whole thing off. “Don't say I never do anything for you,” she murmured primly buckling her seat belt. She sat back and turned slightly toward him, expectantly. “Aren't you forgetting something?”

Harry frowned and looked around the dashboard as if it would give him the answers to life, the universe and everything. “Keys?”

“Seat belt, Harry,” she sighed.

He turned slightly in his seat and looked at the restraint with displeasure. “You can't be-“

“Harry, even wizards can die in car crashes. Your wand won't prevent you from flying through a windscreen at sixty-five miles per hour, bits of your body strewn about the M4-“

“Ok, ok, alright, alright, I get it! I never knew you to be one for dramatics Miss Granger,” Harry grumbled snapping the belt in place with a put upon sigh.

“I wasn't being dramatic, I was proving a point,” she replied, a disapproving frown pursing her lips. “There's a difference.”

Harry grumbled softly under his breath, but Hermione ignored it. “Ok. This is your dashboard. That is your speedometer, your RPM's, you don't really have to pay much attention to that, the temperature gauge for your engine and your gas gauge. F means full, E means empty,” she ignored his slightly impatient grunt. “The pedal on the far left is the clutch, the pedal in the middle is the break, the pedal on the right is the accelerator. This,” she held up the key which he snatched from her grip, “-hey!”

“Key, ignition, go! This I know all about,” he said with a slow grin inserting the key into the ignition and turning the engine over.

The car made an aborted neyah-neyah-neyah noise before Harry released the ignition, his slow grin fading into a confused frown. He tried again with the same results before looking over at Hermione. She looked up from where she had her head in her hand, her elbow resting on her arm wrapped around her body, and stared straight ahead of her. Her hand covered the grin and giggle that threatened to burst out of her. Harry stared at her, his frown deepening into a scowl as he tried turning the engine over once again to the same pathetic noise. Hermione glanced at him and snorted, her giggle escaping before she could lock it behind her hand again. “I'm sorry, it's just too funny,” she explained in a strained voice, her lips pursed to keep the giggle inside.

“Are you gonna help or not?” Harry asked with a sulking dejected slump to his shoulders.

“I'm sorry. Yes, I promised. You're not pressing the clutch. Make sure your gear shift is in neutral, press on the clutch then turn the car over,” Hermione replied, patting his knee consolingly.

Hermione chose to ignore his grumbling again and felt proud when she only made the barest wince when the car shuddered to life. “Ok, keep your foot on the clutch and shift the car into first. The diagram is on the gear knob.”

Harry studied the diagram carefully before taking the stick in hand and moving it into first. A screeching banshee howl of metal on metal startled both of them. Harry fumbled for the shift and shoved the stick back into neutral before glancing hesitantly over at Hermione.

Hermione slowly relaxed from cringing in her seat, releasing tense muscles one by one. He didn't mean it, he didn't know, he didn't mean it, he didn't know, she silently chanted in her brain while she regained control of her breathing. “It's ok,” she finally spoke up her voice a bit too calm, a bit too quiet. “You need to keep the clutch all the way to the floor as you shift.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry,” he murmured sheepishly. “This all looks so easy when you do it.”

“I know,” she replied with a grin while he tried shifting the car into first again. Carefully mashing the pedal all the way in and shifting the gear, Harry looked over at her with a gleam of triumph in his green eyes. He had finally dominated this Muggle machine and Hermione wouldn't have been surprised if he suddenly broke out into a fit of yelling and chest beating.

“Now release the clutch and gently press on the accelerator, but not too gently or else - slowly Harry! Slowly!“

The car lurched forward for two neck snapping moments before it died completely.

“Well, even if I never learn how to drive I'll at least give Tonks a run for her money at the next Weird Sisters concert,” Harry spoke up after a few moments of silence.

Hermione sighed.

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2. Cooking Lessons

The stove was his baby. It was a gas stove because he believed electrics were for pansies and he really didn't want to spend two weeks charming it so it would work like he'd done with the TV and DVD player. With the amount of magic he and Hermione used on a daily basis they kept the electric appliances to a minimum. At any rate, the gas stove he'd bought to replace the one that had come with the flat (despite the fact that they were only renting) was top of the line. He couldn't create with inferior means right? Hermione wasn't convinced, but she couldn't talk since she'd bought her Porsche only days before he'd bought his stove.

Harry had been pressed into learning how to cook at a very young age and it had taken him a couple of years after moving out of the Dursley's to truly enjoy the meditative qualities cooking had. Since then, his stove had become his sand garden. And whenever Hermione got it into her head that she wanted to cook, she made a litter box of that sand garden.

Or at least she had in the past. It was up to him, his job as the dutiful boyfriend, to teach her how to cook. It was only fair to repay her services as driving instructor earlier that week. Hermione said that she woke up in the middle of the night in cold sweats from that day, but he thought she was exaggerating to get a pity snog of which he was more than happy to oblige and then some.

“This,” he said laying a loving hand on the range, “is a stove. The oven is beneath. The tools with which you will need are thus.” He pulled out a drawer ignoring the super heated death glare Hermione was sending him. “Spatula,” he instructed holding up the instrument at her huffy eye roll, “whisk, tongs, long fork -“

“Is that what it's really called?” Hermione asked with a skeptically raised eyebrow.

“Well - I dunno. That's what I call it because that's what it is,” Harry replied, glancing at the utensil in his hand before replacing it back in its drawer.

“Now are you finished pointing out the obvious and teach me how to use this thing or are you going to stand there all day and show me what a teaspoon is?” Hermione asked with a sigh, leaning back against the counter adjacent to the stove.

“Well, I figured you were already well acquainted with teaspoons. You are Ron's friend after all,” he teased with a grin, reaching over Hermione's shoulder and pulling out a shoe box from a cabinet above the sink.

He opened the lid and Hermione's eyes lit with a feral glow. Inside was a messy pile of recipes collected over the past couple of years from magazines, newspapers, Mrs. Weasley, hastily scribbled notes from demonstrations on the telly, Mrs. Granger, and even one called “Shit on a Brick” from Tonks which he vowed never to touch but was too polite to turn down. “Harry,” Hermione breathed, leaning around him to get a better view of the contents. She licked her lips and darted a glance up at him before riveting her eyes back on the box. “If you'd just -“

“No. You're not getting your grubby mitts on my box.”

“Please! It'd take just a couple of hours and I could have all your recipes written on four by five index cards and indexed and cross referenced by course, calorie count, main ingredient -“

“Hermione. I let you categorize my underwear drawer, the toiletries, the books, the DVD's, the CD's, the furniture even for Merlin's sakes. There is no way you will ever touch my recipe box. And I've charmed it to keep it that way,” he added pleasantly, dropping a soft kiss on the tip of her nose. “Now do you want to learn how to make bread and butter pudding?”

Hermione sighed softly and nodded, stepping away from the temptation Harry and his recipe box presented. “Only if you promise that I can actually make this.”

“If the same Ron who couldn't even toast bread could make this, you can make this,” he replied stepping over to the charmed ice box and pulling out ingredients. He cracked three eggs into a bowl and stepped back from the stove gesturing for her to take his place. “I'll read the instructions and supervise. You do all the work.”

“Sounds familiar,” she murmured with a saucy smirk as she stepped up to the stove. “Why'd you crack the eggs?”

“Cheeky,” Harry replied with a grin and a shrug. “I didn't want to wait for you to pick out the shell.”

Hermione grumbled about being perfectly able to crack eggs without getting shell in the yolk, but Harry ignored her.

He hovered nearby, keeping a close eye on the proceedings while Hermione measured the milk, cream and salt to boil with a vanilla bean, her brow furrowed with the same concentration she gave her research. “Careful you don't scramble the -“ Harry spoke up just before she dumped the boiling milk and cream into the bowl of eggs and sugar she'd just finished whisking. Instantly they had very soggy and very cooked eggs.

“Sorry,” Hermione grimaced, glancing up at Harry's grin.

“It's ok. I bought a whole dozen eggs for this. We'll just start over,” he replied patiently.

Hermione carefully cracked another three eggs before spending ten minutes picking out invisible bits of shell. “Hermione. Hermione, love, leave - leave the egg alone,” Harry growled wrestling the bowl away from her.

“Harry - don't!”

“This is not funny,” he sighed from behind a veil of egg yolk and egg white dripping from his fringe.

Hermione looked up from where she was doubled over laughing and burst out into a fresh belly laugh. She was completely incapable of replying.

Harry grumbled wiping the slime off his glasses and evanesco'd the mess away with a fancy bit of wandless magic. “If I thought bread and butter pudding was going to be this messy I would've suggested teaching you how to make toast.”

“But toast wouldn't have been this much fun,” Hermione replied wrapping her arms around his waist and kissing his clean chin in apology for laughing so hard.

Harry replied with a non-committal noise, looking down at her warily.

“How about this: you leave the driving to me, I'll leave the cooking to you, and we can teach each other different things,” she suggested with a wicked glint in her eye.

That suggestion revved his imagination into overdrive, but eventually his mind came back to the Porsche and how freeing it must be to be out on the open road going a hundred miles per hour, the wind in his hair. Until he attempted downshifting in his daydream. Yep, there went the engine and the transmission and his chances at Hermione ever trusting him to drive a car again.

Harry sighed.

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3. Parenting Lessons

A/N: This is it folks! Thank you for the reviews! There's a sequel called Soaked From Head to Toe and a sequel of that called Sink or Swim so you'll see more soon!

“This is your idea of other things?” Harry asked incredulously as he gestured toward the door.

Hermione glanced up at him with a perplexed expression while leaning forward to rap the knocker once again. “Of course. What else - ? Oh honestly. You thought that - ” Her lips tilted down into scolding frown that no less did very little to hide her smirk. “You have a dirty mind, Mr. Potter.”

“Maybe so, but it's probably not nearly as dirty as -“ he started before being cut off by the mistress of the house opening the door.

“Oh good! Your timing is impeccable,” Ginny smiled stepping aside to let Harry and Hermione in.

“Afternoon Ginny!” Hermione chirrped, giving her long time friend a hug.

“Afternoon Ginny,” Harry murmured less enthusiastically as he bent to give her a kiss on the cheek.

“He's upstairs,” Ginny told them with a mischievous grin. A tiny wail drifted down to them. “Everything you'll ever need is in his room. I've left instructions on the changing table on when to feed him and I've prepared four bottles of milk that are in the ice box. That should be more than enough until we come home tomorrow. Oh bugger, I've got to go,” she muttered glancing at her wrist watch. “Have fun,” she grinned, giving their cheeks a kiss before scurrying out the door.

She'd been barely gone two seconds before the door opened again and Ginny peeked her head back inside. “Fair warning: he has excellent aim.” And then she was gone.

Harry and Hermione looked at each other with trepidation and determination respectively. Hermione dropped her duffle on a nearby davenport, squared her shoulders and marched to the stairs. “Come along Harry. I don't want either Draco or Ginny to skin us alive if we neglect the Malfoy heir for long.”

Harry ran a hand through his eternally rumpled hair and dropped his duffle next to Hermione's. “Aye aye cap'n,” he replied following her upstairs.

The wailing increased in volume and urgency the closer they got to the nursery. Inside, flailing his little arms and legs in beet red fury lay Alaric Draco Malfoy in his crib. Sensing someone nearby who did not smell like his mother or father, Alaric let out a shriek that had Harry and Hermione wincing in pain.

“Shh, shhh,” Hermione murmured picking Alaric up from his crib. At least vaguely recognizing this person, the shrieking stopped but the crying did not. She patted his bottom and noticed a certain squishyness to his nappy. “No wonder Ginny said we had impeccable timing,” she said turning to Harry.

Harry blanched. “I was sort of hoping we would build up to this point. I had no idea we were going to jump straight into the pit!”

“Honestly Harry, how do you expect to be a parent if you can't even change a nappy properly,” Hermione replied laying Alaric on the changing table. “This is for research, books only tell you so much. I've learned that the best learning tool is a practical application of guides and texts.”

Harry didn't look so convinced and eyed the increasingly frustrated baby warily.

“Come along now Harry, don't dilly dally,” Hermione said tersely, striding over to him and grabbing his arm. “He's not going to hurt you.” She glanced over at him and realized he was probably a lost cause, at least for this changing. “Here, clean his dummy. With hot water please.”

He watched Alaric, still extremely uncertain, while Hermione scanned the instructions Ginny had left before folding the parchment up into neat squares and safely tucking it into her pocket. He finally turned and left for the kitchen holding the dummy by its handle. Meanwhile Hermione rummaged through the various drawers under the changing table collecting a clean cloth nappy, a container of baby wipes and a small container of talcum powder.

Just as she was about to release the pins on the cloth, a soft tread alerted her to Harry's return. Hermione turned and groaned softly at the sight of Harry in the doorway. He had returned from the kitchen armed with not only the clean dummy, but also decked out in a “Kiss the Cook” apron, yellow rubber dish gloves, a bottle of liquid dish soap in his other hand, a scrub brush peaking out of the front pocket of the apron and a pink and purple flower dishtowel around his mouth and nose. He looked like a demented Dishwasher Bandit. “If you tell me to `stick them up,' I swear to Merlin I will hex your manhood off and all of this will be for nothing.”

“You'll feel foolish when you're not adequately protected,” he warned, his voice muffled by the towel as he made his way over to the table. “And it's `stick `em up,'” he added in a mutter that Hermione still heard, but chose to ignore.

"Where'd you get that ridiculous towel anyway?" Hermione asked eyeing the garish design with a barely surpressed grin.

"I found it at the bottom of a drawer," Harry replied, yanking the towel down around his neck, unable to breathe behind the suffocating cloth.

He leaned over Hermione's shoulder curiously, depositing the dummy next to Alaric's head just as she unsnapped the pins and the nappy unfolded in all it hideous glory. “Oh mother of Merlin!” Harry gasped, stepping back in horror, his arm instinctively covering his mouth and nose.

Hermione stepped back as well, closing her eyes and turning her head in a dainty gasp. “Well.”

Alaric, freed of his cold, wet and smooshy prison immediately stopped crying and giggled at his babysitters' reactions.

“Harry, we have a job to do -“

“In the name of research, yes, I caught that,” he replied, stepping forward and eyeing the mess disdainfully.

Hermione stepped back up to the changing table and made quick efficient work of Alaric's soiled nappy and bum. “Bin this will you?” she said absently handing Harry the mess.

“Now who's a good boy?” Hermione coo'd to the six month old chubby baby, lifting up his legs and splashing some fresh smelling talcum powder on his backside.

Harry returned to find a very stiff and stunned Hermione and a happily gurgling Alaric sucking on his fist. “What - ?” He clapped his hand over his mouth, turning bright red with the effort not to laugh. Alaric had very good aim as was evidenced by Hermione's soaked blouse.

“Harry, be a love and hand me my wand,” she said in a very calm, very quiet voice. “And don't you dare say `I told you so.'”

He did one better and cleaned up the mess for her with a wave of his wand. “I wouldn't dream of it, love.”

“Thank you. For both.” Slowly, muscle by muscle, she relaxed and resumed changing Alaric. “Next time you change him.”

Harry pursed his lips to control the last dregs of laughter before he nodded. “Agreed.”

Finished, Harry and Hermione stood side by side looking down at the drowsy baby. He wrapped an arm around her waist and squeezed, the rubber of the gloves squicking loudly in the quiet room.

And they sighed.

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