Disclaimer: I do NOT own Harry, Hermione, Ron, Luna, Ginny, Cho or . . . the Daily Prophet. But hey, know what I DO own? That's right: NOTHING.
Author's Note: Hello, unsuspecting Portkey populace! It is I, Goddess of Ether, who has wrecked havoc on the (formerly unsuspecting) populace of FF.net! Now I've decided to ramble on over and torture you all too, *wink wink*
Well, seeing as how this is my first fic on here, let's spice this up a bit! What happens is, I load this one-shot. Then you read. Shake well, pour reviews into a martini glass and garnish with olive!
Now . . . without further ado . . . (ado meaning in this context `crazy ramblings of an authoress who is confined to walking very little, due to spraining her ankle') . . .
All right, so you protested, and I decided that you were right, and I kind of took the H/Hr out of no where. Now it comes out of somewhere! I also totally rewrote the ending, hopefully more canon now. ENJOY!!
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Sweet Revenge
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WEASLEY: YOUNGEST TO WIN TSOKISIS
LONDON - Last night, the biggest and brightest stars of the wizarding world gathered for the 234th Annual Marty F. Tsokisis Quidditch Awards. Among them was keeper Ronald Weasley of the Chudley Cannons; at jersey number 23, Weasley led the Cannons to the World Cup Semi-finals last year, where they lost to the Befus Bindlies. Nevertheless, he's being hailed as the brightest Keeper in years, and last night he became at twenty-three the youngest player to ever win Keeper-of-the-Year. Other award-winners were James Harkle, the forty-year-old whose catch of the snitch in the fourth minute of the World Cup game two months ago set yet another record. He was accompanied by his wife, Gemma, who's the Head of Magical and Non-Magical Relations. She was wearing stunning brocade robes from the new Cho Chang collection. Also attendi
Ginny Weasley threw down her copy of the Daily Prophet with an incredulous `humph'. She couldn't believe it; not a single mention of the dress from her fall collection that she put on Ron's (her brother, the prat) girlfriend.
Cho Chang made it in the Prophet, of course. Bloody bitch.
The aforementioned girlfriend of Ron Weasley, whose name happened to be Hermione Granger, entered the kitchen, attempting to slide on her sling-backs and pin up her hair at the same time. She managed to haphazardly pile her hair on her head, and she reached down to hook on her right shoe. As she moved onto the left, her hair tumbled down in all its frizzy glory and she sighed.
"Have you seen the Prophet this morning?" demanded Ginny, looking accusingly at her flatmate. Hermione collected her hairpins off the linoleum and flopped into the vacant chair next to Ginny.
"You know I'm an Alley Financial Times sort of girl," replied Hermione, once again attempting to form the frizzy curls nailed to her head into something vaguely resembling `professional up-do'.
"Look at this!" Ginny hissed, shoving the front page of the Prophet at Hermione, pointing to the offending article. It was sporting a picture of Ron Weasley beaming and shooting bright smiles at the cameras. "Not a single mention of you or the dress I specially designed for you especially for the effing Tsokisis awards!"
"There's my elbow," pointed out Hermione helpfully, where, sure enough, in the edge of the picture of Ron was the body part in question.
"Bloody well-dressed elbow," snapped Ginny, huffing upwards through her expertly-hewn fringe. "It's all Cho Chang this, Cho Chang that." She snorted inelegantly. "I hope Cho-fucking-Chang chokes on the designs for her winter collection."
Hermione had finished sticking in hairpins, and slowly moved her hands downwards, trying to keep her head from moving.
Ginny slapped the Prophet onto the kitchen table, and Hermione jumped. She closed her eyes and sighed as the hairpins clattered to the floor yet again. "Here," soothed Ginny apologetically. "Let me."
Two minutes later, Hermione's hair was swept away from her face in a complicated knot that was as secure as it was gorgeous. "It's perfect, Gin," said Hermione, shooting a smile over her shoulder. "And I really am sorry about the whole Prophet thing. I happen know for a fact that you have a whole spread to yourself in Witch Weekly."
"You could make it up to me," suggested Ginny with a bright smile.
"How?" asked Hermione slowly - she was Ginny's flatmate and had known her for approximately thirteen years, and sometimes Ginny went completely mad and forced her friends into mortifying favors that they hadn't even known they'd agreed to until they were wearing a Playwizard bunny costume with a plastic carrot to a Ministry of Magic formal dinner.
"I-" began Ginny, but she was cut off as the clock over the fireplace rang. Hermione jumped up, shooting a look at the clock over the stove.
"Its five to eight," she said, confused. "Why is the clock going off?"
"Actually," corrected Ginny, checking her wristwatch, "it's nine. The kitchen clock must've gotten off after the explosion last week, you know, when Fred and George blew the power played with the circuits to see if Acid Pops could really fuse Muggle outlets."
Ginny, however, was talking to an empty kitchen. Hermione had dashed off, shrieking about how she was a half-hour late.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
In a flat a block away, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were about to dig into their breakfast that was made almost solely of fatty acids - Ron had even gone so far as to have raised a forkful of bacon - when the morning post arrived.
There was a screech as hundreds of owls poured in the kitchen window left open for this purpose. Four held actual mail; the rest dumped their load and swooped back out of the window.
An avalanche of female lingerie and some decidedly male pieces drifted down on the two men. Both were unsuspecting.
As the hypothetical dust settled, Harry looked up furiously at his flatmate. His glasses were askew, his hair even more ruffled than usual, and a pair of red lace thong panties had hooked themselves over his right ear.
"I wanted to get an Unplottable flat, but Ronald Weasley couldn't possibly live without his fucking fan-mail! Bloody effing hell, Ron!" Harry picked up his fork, and poked the collection of lacy feminine undergarments burying his breakfast.
"Oh, come on," said Ron with a loopy smile. He seemed unaffected by the morning's occurrence.
"What about Hermione?" accused Harry, pointing his fork threateningly. All in all, the effect was ruined by the underwear still hooked on his ear. "How do you think she feels about you receiving all this attention?"
Ron laughed. "Hermione's fine with it!" he insisted. "And it's not like it's this bad every morning! Please - this is the first time I've ever gotten this!" He raised an eyebrow and pushed Harry fork away so it wouldn't poke him in the chest. "And Hermione and I happen to have a mature, trusting relationship."
Harry snorted at his lofty tone.
"What would you do if Hermione got a collection of Banana-hammocks every morning with her toast?"
"Banana-whatsis?" asked Ron.
"They're Muggle swimwear for men," said Harry, "And now I want you to think of the name again."
The tips of Ron's ears turned pink.
Harry smirked. "Mature and trusting, eh?"
"Shut up," grunted Ron, pushing away his plate, for once in his life not really hungry. "You're not really one to talk," he added gruffly. "The man who hasn't had a single date in four bloody years isn't exactly the expert on relationships."
Harry stood and brushed the lingerie off his breakfast plate, before dumping the food in the trash and placing the plate in the sink. "It's not my fault every girl you try to set me up with is an empty-headed buxom blonde."
"What's wrong with buxom blondes?" inquired Ron, grinning.
"It's the empty-headed part," snapped Harry. "Pardon me for wanting to have the occasional intellectual conversation." He caught a view of himself in the mirror across from him, and he hurriedly removed the thong, shuddering.
"Take it from me," said Ron, leaning back in his chair, "intellectual isn't all it's cracked up to be." He smirked. "I'd take empty-headed any day."
The mirror he'd been staring into cracked down the middle.
Ron, in classic Ron fashion, didn't notice. "You're coming tonight, right?"
Harry shuffled with his glasses hurriedly, attempting to draw attention away from the shattered surface. He frowned then, his mind completely blank. "Tonight?" he asked.
"Enchanted?" clarified Ron, raising his eyebrows. "Eight o'clock."
"Fuck," muttered Harry.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
"Fuck!" exclaimed Hermione before slapping a hand across her face, a scandalized looked scrawled on her face.
"Hermione!" exclaimed Ginny right back. "You swore!"
"Didn't mean to," mumbled Hermione, turning bright pink. "It's just that I had completely forgotten . . ."
"Well, it's no wonder," said Ginny. The redhead's face was floating in Hermione's office fireplace, and she looked around what little of the room she could see. The place was full of tidy piles that stacked a meter high from the floor. "How much paperwork is all this anyway?"
Hermione sighed. "Don't even remind me."
She was interning at St. Mungo's Unidentifiable and Otherwise Strange Malady Department while at medical school, and she had yet to actual see a Healer in work.
Mostly she organized paperwork; and although she happened to like paperwork, this was fast becoming ridiculous.
"Can we return to the present subject?" inquired Ginny. "Namely, me, dressing you, for the club night at Enchanted tonight for Ron and Deamus Gugenheim."
"I'm sure I have something already," said Hermione distractedly, pulling a piece of paper from the pile in front of her and placing it at the top of another pile to her left. "It's really not necessary for you to clothe me for every Cannons event."
"Will there be pictures?" asked Ginny calmly. Hermione nodded, shuffling around a few manila folders, and stuffing a still-dripping quill behind her left ear. "Then it's necessary," she said firmly. "Three o'clock?"
"Sure," mumbled Hermione, not knowing what she was agreeing to. She quickly moved her head, and a small drop of ink splattered onto the neck of her blouse. "Let me just . . . ha! There we go. What were we talking about?" She looked up to a derisive, bodiless Ginny.
"We were talking about how you are going to leave work at three so I can find something for you to wear tonight to Enchanted," said Ginny patiently.
"I don't even know if I'm going," declared Hermione, setting down all of her papers to lean back in her spiral desk chair.
"What!?" screeched Ginny.
"Well," continued Hermione, slowly pushing her chair into circles with her toe, "Ron never spends any time with me at these things, and once everyone is hip-deep in shots, the coach starts to hit on me, and frankly it just isn't worth it."
"Luna'll be there," said Ginny helpfully. "And Harry! He'll protect you from the coach, if you so wish." She smirked. "Don't you want to show up all the dumb groupies who'll be there, hoping to get laid by Ron Weasley, and suddenly who's there but his icy hot girlfriend?"
"Icy hot?" asked Hermione. "That's an oxymoron, Ginny."
"You know what I mean," dismissed Ginny, and unfortunately she was correct. Hermione did know what she meant.
Because Hermione was an absolutely awful girlfriend; she was insanely jealous of the girls that danced with Ron, and threw themselves at him, and even the ones that asked him for his autograph in Diagon Alley, where both had their flats.
Hermione also had an absolutely awful body image of herself - she'd been a bit chubby when first entering Hogwarts, and nine years found her still cowering at the memory. Definitely not helping was her mother, who insisted that 144 lbs just `did not sit well' on her daughter's five foot six frame, and thus Hermione had not the best conception of herself.
Of course, Harry being there could possibly remedy the situation. He always danced with her, talked to her, and glared at the drunken quidditch players who had - once onto their fourth Firewhiskey - conveniently forgotten she already had a boyfriend. He'd perfected the glare during Auror training, and now happily practiced it for her protection.
He really was sweet.
Hermione sighed, and Ginny knew this to be the acceptation of defeat that it was.
"See you at three," she trilled, and drew her head out of the fireplace, grinning madly. She turned to her assistant, Maddy, who was no doubt painting her nails in the outer office.
"Maddy!" she yelled. "Pull out everything we have that comes in a size eight! We have three hours to find something!"
"For what?" asked Maddy, who thought her paycheck to be smaller than it should be, considering all that she did for the eccentric clothing designer. At that moment, Ginny had the look in her eye of furious make-over activity.
Ginny widened her eyes theatrically, in the way of the crazy American Muggle actress, Wimoma Something-er-other. "For whom, indeed."
Maddy quickly left the room, deciding that perhaps her employer spent far more time that healthy in the company of The Quibbler's editor-in-chief, Luna Lovegood. It was just the sort of thing the luminescent blonde would declare.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
When Hermione Granger emerged from the posh office of Scarlett, Ginny's design company, she felt and looked absolutely nothing like the harried-looking student-slash-intern that had rushed in at three.
Now at quarter to eight, she was blown dry, plucked, wrapped, high-heeled, manicured, painted, and moisturized. It was the same process she had gone through the night before for the Tsokisis Awards, but Ginny was even more insane this night, completely determined that a picture of Hermione would end up in the Prophet.
Hermione wiggled her fingers, and stopped to take a look at herself in the disjointed three mirrors haphazardly thrown together. Reflected in the bottom mirror were the shiny silver heels and the wide-legged black pants made of a stretchy material that clung to her legs while still hanging loosely on them.
The second mirror revealed a top was a silver and burgundy brocade halter-vest. It accentuated her cleavage - which really didn't need accentuation - and revealed part of the creamy skin of her back.
In the top mirror, she saw that despite the muttered spells and potions applied, her hair was still curly to a fault. But her eyes were lined and shadowed, her lips glossed, and she looked different enough that Ginny had deemed it suitable.
Now she was waiting for the limo that held Harry and Ron. Jittery, and somewhat eager at their reactions, she tapped her upper thighs to an inaudible rhythm. Once she began to hum along, she decided that perhaps she was the teensiest bit nervous.
Strangely enough, it wasn't Ron's reaction she was worried about. She knew he'd leer a bit, and tell her she looked nice (which would be accompanied with a significant look). This was, after all, Ron. He was, if nothing else, utterly predictable.
Harry . . . she wasn't so sure about. He'd had trouble peeling his jaw off the floor when she'd arrived the night before, but Hermione had little doubt that it was the stunning crimson gown Ginny had designed more than any of her own attributes.
But still. For a moment there, his appreciation had been nice . . . all right, maybe a little more than nice.
Maybe the look in his eyes had made her stomach drop behind her kneecaps.
Shaking away her confusing thoughts, Hermione reached to tug up the top so it would at least appear a bit more modest.
"Don't you dare touch that top!"
Hermione shivered. How did Ginny do that? She turned to face her friend who was leaning over the balcony, glaring at her. "If you value your life, do not touch that top again! That is meant to be low cut!"
Hermione failed to hear the limo appear behind her, and Harry and Ron step out to find her. "It's meant to be low cut for women with not cleavage!" she snapped loudly back. "I, however, `have a rack', in the immortal words of your brother."
"You mean the one that's standing right behind you?" asked Ginny sweetly, and Hermione turned pink. She slowly rotated to see Harry and Ron, both looking a bit shell-shocked.
"Oops," she muttered, and Ron grinned.
"You look fan-bloody-tastic," he whispered in her ear as she gave him a quick peck on the cheek. It was accompanied with the `significant look' Hermione had been expecting, and she ignored him, sliding into the black limo that had been leant by the club for the occasion.
Ron sprawled across the seat to her left, so Hermione joined Harry on the opposite seat. Their hips nestled together, and for a brief moment she remembered the twinkled glitter in his eyes when he had seen her in her Tsoksis dress. Then Ron launched into conversation, and Hermione lost her train of thought.
They arrived at the club after ten stifling minutes of Ron's jabbering. Hermione had tuned him out after a while, and watched him, nodding and "hmm"ing occasionally for good measure.
"Let's go!" declared Ron, sliding himself out of the limo with practiced ease. "The public awaits, eh?" He shot his two best friends a cheery wink before disappearing in a shower of light flashes.
Hermione reached up to straighten Harry's collar when their eyes locked and he shot her a grin. For a split second her hands froze, one resting against his chest, the other pressed to his neck. His smile melted away, and she finally remembered to breathe again. She swallowed, telling herself that she was probably just going zonkers with all the work she'd been doing lately.
She quickly pulled away her hands, and reached up to rub the bridge of her nose, before recalling halfway there that she had one enough concealer and mascara to make that all but impossible.
"Hermione?" asked Harry, and when she turned to him he clutched her left hand and smiled. "Don't sweat it."
She couldn't help grinning back, despite her nervousness, and she gave his hand a squeeze, holding the warmth between her fingertips. Realizing what she was doing, she let go and shooed him out. He did so, then turned and gave her a hand. She smiled at the gallant gesture, and took the proffered hand.
He pulled her out of the limo, and Hermione could feel the flash of the camera as pictures were snapped. Questions were shouted at them, but for a moment, Hermione ignored them, scanning the red carpet for Ron. He was deep in an interview of some kind, and she forced herself to return to the present.
A blonde reporter who was quite a bit less than five feet tall was shoving aside men twice her size, and when she shouted for Hermione's attention, she paused, Harry with her. "Monica Goldbloom!" declared the blonde woman. "Daily Prophet. Care to tell who you're wearing?"
"Ginny Weasley for Scarlett," replied Hermione, and she forced herself to stand still long enough for her picture to be taken (if only for Ginny's sake). She was moving on quickly, hoping to get into the club before any more reporters accosted her, but she was stopped by the blonde. "Ms. Granger, how long have you and Mr. Potter been a couple?"
Hermione's head snapped around. "I beg your pardon?"
"You and Harry Potter." Goldbloom smiled coquettishly. "How long?" Her self-writing quill gestured to their clutched hands.
"I'm dating Ron," replied Hermione, clenching her jaw. Goldbloom continued on, oblivious.
"I thought Ron Weasley was dating Luna Lovegood." Goldbloom showed teeth vaguely reminiscent of vampire fangs, which was more the work of Hermione's imagination, not the Goldbloom family genetics. "They were seen very cozy at last night's after party."
"I was at the after party," shot back Hermione. "I was with Ron the entire time. If you excuse me." She coldly nodded, and yanked at Harry's hand, steering him away. Her stomach had turned icy cold - she'd left the party early, due to a headache, and when she had, Luna and Ron had been just about to dance.
That's ridiculous, she told herself. Just that nasty woman trying to get a rise out of me.
Her steering had her and Harry in the club before Ron, and they migrated to a table for four in the back. Harry flagged down a waiter, begging off him a beer for himself and a tartini for Hermione. Normally she would have protested, but Hermione needed a drink after the somewhat disastrous two-minute interview.
She downed her entire tartini like a shot when she saw Ron heading towards their table, Luna in tow.
The waiter instantly appeared, Ron ordering himself a beer as well, and Luna a cosmopolitan. Hermione, who really didn't want to be drunk, tonight of all nights, ordered a club soda.
As the Cannons players drifted in, they all stopped to slap Ron on the back in a sort of macho/manly congratulations, and stare down into Hermione's cleavage. She blushed furiously, but after the first few times stopped attempting to pull up the top; it seemed that Ginny had painted it on, and it wasn't budging unless it was coming off.
When Luna was on her second cosmopolitan and Ron his first glass of Firewhiskey, they went off to dance. "Hermione?" asked Ron as Luna dragged him out onto the dance floor, barely looking back.
"I'll sit this one out," she said, desperately trying to ignore the words of the reporter echoing in her head.
And that she did.
And the next one.
And the one after that.
And the one that came after that.
She was seriously debating breaking her own rules and ordering a few fingers of Firewhiskey for herself when Harry broke off in the middle of their conversation and asked, "Hermione, would you like to dance?"
That's just like Harry, she thought as she said yes, and they pushed their way through the gyrating bodies to find a spot half-way decent, he knew I was feeling bad, and he knew just how to make me feel better.
The new song was more rhythmic, and a second later she was moving a half a step closer, completely forgetting her worries over Ron and Luna in the green of Harry's eyes. "Thank you," she whispered into his ear, forced to stand on tiptoe to reach it. When she lowered back down, he gave her a smile.
They'd made it through one dance, and were halfway through the second when Harry spun Hermione around, and she saw them. They were closer than they should have been, seeing as how Ron had a girlfriend and all. It was all in slow motion, as if it were a horror movie or a car crash, as Ron leant his head down, teasing her, saying something, and Luna bridged the gap by standing on her toes and pressing her lips against his. The motion was so practiced, so smooth, than it seemed as if they'd done it before.
Done it before.
Harry must have noticed the stricken look on her face, because he turned his head over his shoulder, and saw them. His features hardened into stone, and returning his eyes to her, he asked, "Do you trust me?"
"Harry," she began, voice broken, but was cut off as his lips pressed against her throat. Oh my god, she thought, weakly, but a second later those lips were trailing up across her jaw, and planting themselves on her mouth.
She had decided to let Harry kiss her, if simply to exact her revenge, but when she felt his tongue hesitantly brush her lower lip, she felt herself explode under her fingertips. He tasted bittersweet, like the ale he had been drinking, and peppermint, probably toothpaste, and something musty and masculine that was his cologne.
Hermione arched her hips and bent her back and could feel with every ultra-sensitive nerve ending where they touched; his hands on her waist, on her back, pulling her closer, hers on the back of his neck, and their lips, pressing and begging and urging for them never to stop what they were doing.
Hermione knew that she needed air, and she pulled her lips away reluctantly, and she had barely inhaled before Harry was yanking her against him again, and his teeth grazed her lower lip, begging her to open her mouth again and explore just a little this new side of her best friend.
She did as requested, and electricity flooded her veins, sparking with a vengeance that made her stomach flitter and burn. If this was revenge, then it certainly was fantastic . . .
Harry broke away from her for another second. It was then Hermione saw Ron, his fist careening from no where into Harry's nose. It was a lucky shot; Harry was used to physical fighting, and in a second he'd hit Ron with a right hook that sent the redheaded Weasley sprawling.
"You were kissing my fucking girlfriend!" Ron was shouting, and Hermione had to shake her head to clear the foggy haze that kissing Harry had spun in her mind. Harry was shouting something back, but she had to focus to hear.
"And you were cheating on her! How long did you think you could keep your relationship with Luna a secret?"
Oh.
"Fuck. You," enunciated Ron, his ears a burning red, and Hermione could feel Harry tense.
"Relationship with Luna?" she asked, slowly. Both men froze, obviously having said more than they'd intended to say. "By relationship, I assume you mean that this isn't just some one-time fling?"
Ron had opened his mouth to respond, but Hermione could feel furious tears begin to force their way out of the corners of her eyes. Before she knew what she was doing, words were pouring out of her mouth. "I stayed with you because I thought that you would never do anything as juvenile!" A tear leaked, and any second now, Hermione knew the dam would break. "I don't even know if I love you anymore."
She spun on her heel, pushing her way out of the wide circle that had formed around them. The last thing she wanted was her face plastered over the cover of the Prophet, she so fought her way to the back exit, which emptied into an alley scattered with trash cans and crates.
Clutching her sides, she waited for the dam to crack, for the tears to push their way out, but they wouldn't come. She tightened her fists in preparation of heaving sobs, but they didn't erupt.
Hermione felt empty. Hollowness pushed against her ribs, and she wandered over to a rickety wooden bench, allowing her head to fall into her hands. She wasn't in love with Ron; that much was true.
The kiss rose to mind. A millisecond before Harry had touched his lips to hers, there'd been a look in his eyes - a combination of hope, fierce protectiveness, and -
Hermione stood abruptly. She really was an idiot, wasn't she?
No wonder the tears wouldn't come; she wasn't weeping for an ended relationship, was she?
There'd be no point in crying for something she wanted to end.
"Hermione?" She turned, and Harry was a few feet away, the door to the club swinging shut behind him. She couldn't read the emotions flittering across his face as he shuffled his feet, hands stuffed in the pockets of his pants.
"Hermione, I'm so so-"
"Don't." She was suddenly next to him, without having remembered moving. "If you are going to say that you're sorry, don't you dare," she hissed. Her hands were on his shoulders, then his cheeks, gently bringing his chin up so their eyes were level.
"If you aren't really sorry, then don't say you are," she whispered.
"I'm not," replied Harry, and their mingling breaths crystallized on the air. Silence hung heavy for a brief second in time.
"Good. Because I don't think I am either."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The End.
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