Porschephile

Porschephile

So it turns out I am a bit of a Porschephile.

Who knew eh? For you laymen out there, a Porschephile is someone who loves all things Porsche. I know, I know, `but Harry, you have a broom, and you can Apparate and Portkeys…' and all the rest of the ways a wizard can travel. Yes, I know, but over the last few months I have discovered that sometimes the best part of the trip can be the journey, especially if you are behind the wheel of the right car.

Maybe I should back up a bit and give you some history to clear things up.

I was 19. Voldemort had been dead and gone for about 18 months but things still hadn't settled down. Scrimgeour was after me constantly to make appearances and the Prophet had Paparazzi following me all the time. I didn't have a moment to myself, really.

Hermione had been injured pretty badly during the Death Eater's last stand. In fact, she's just recently been released from St. Mungo's.

A force of about 50 Aurors, most of the Order members, Ron, Hermione and I clashed with the last remnants of Voldemort's army. Unfortunately for us, they all knew what was waiting for them if they were captured. Even worse, they had the last of the Giants loyal to Voldemort with them.

It was a horrible battle, though I will never forget how Ron came into his own that day. We were all weary of fighting and war, but Ron had truly had enough. After losing his father, who could blame him? He could sense that this was the last of them and he seemed to be out to punish anyone who would cross wands with him. He was almost scary.

Hermione was brilliant as always, but as the battle started to wind down she got caught between the last two remaining giants. It was Moody who cast the curse that slew the one to her left. He hit it with a Reductor that amazingly cut right through its mammoth heart. It was dead before it struck the ground, but Hermione had her back turned, dealing with the other giant. It missed her by a foot or less, but when 22 feet of giant lands that close to you, the force of it is nothing to be taken lightly. She was thrown a good 20 feet and landed in a broken heap after bouncing off of a nearby boulder.

Ron and I were first at her side, but she was unconscious and the way she laid there… I will never forget it. I thought she was dead for sure. Her limbs were sprawled in the most unnatural way. Blood from her mouth, nose, eyes, ears. It was disturbing.

Finally, Lupin pushed a path to her and Apparated her away to St. Mungo's. He probably saved her life that day. I just wanted to hold her and cry.

Moody, surprisingly enough was a wreck. He blamed himself for what had happened. If there was ever a doubt how much Hermione meant to us, to everyone, one look at Moody's tearful face would have quashed it.

She didn't die of course, but it took months of therapy and potions and hospital care for her recover. Even now, months later, she still seems somewhat frail. Not like she was when she was at Hogwarts. She is herself again but, I don't know how to describe it. She seems delicate to me now. Maybe it was seeing her lying there, broken. I don't know.

The next few months I spent a lot of time at St. Mungo's in Hermione's room. I was worried for Hermione yes, but it was one of the few places that the Prophet's reporters wouldn't hound me and Rufus Scrimgoeur would leave me alone.

Ron was there almost daily, but he had started tryouts for the Cannon's and things were looking good for him. I was proud. I was his last team captain after all, I thought to myself, and now look at him.

Prospect for the Cannons.

Hermione, not content to sit around and heal up, had started an advanced study course by owl. She said that having something to put her mind to would make the time pass faster and I supposed she was right. I just wished I had something to put my mind to as well.

Actually my mind was busy during that time. After almost losing her again, I was finding it harder and harder to not be in love with Hermione.

Sounds strange to say it like that; like it was inevitable and I had been avoiding it since the day I met her, but that's what it feels like now. So natural and right. Like an involuntary reaction almost. Your heart beating, your eyes blinking, swallowing, breathing, loving Hermione. All the same thing.

She and Ron were still in the middle of their will-they-won't-they nonsense so I tried with all my might to avoid the topic of her love life, or mine, and just tried to be there for her, to make her convalescing as pleasant as possible.

I regret it now. Why hadn't I just told her everything then? She and Ron got hot and heavy a week or two before she left the hospital. I missed my chance. I don't think I will ever get another.

As time went on I fell into a funk that I couldn't get myself out of.

The Prophet and Scrimgoeur got bored with me and moved on to more pressing issues. I was glad at first, but then, something weird happened. I came to the realization that I had absolutely nothing to do with myself now. Voldemort had been my one purpose in life. All consuming. Now that he was gone I had the rest of my life ahead of me and nothing to look forward too.

I know this doesn't seem to make much sense. I should have been happy and treasured each new day as a gift, but I guess that's just human nature for you.

I had nothing to work towards. Hogwarts gave me my diploma and said I could go into any profession I wanted, but they all seemed so contrived and unnecessary now.

How could I go into wizard banking or Muggle relations after Voldemort? Even becoming an Auror seemed like a bit of a joke. “Mr. Potter, welcome to your first day of Auror training. We understand you've recently done away with the greatest threat to our way of life and all that rot, but today we would like to study basic defensive spells…”

I spent a few days holed up in my flat feeling very frightened. It seemed strange to be scared of the unknown after all that I had been through in the last year but, human nature you know. I was scared of nothing. Fear itself, as a Yankee President once said.

I shut myself up in my flat and waited for something to change. The horrible part was nothing had to change. I finally got `round to doing the math, and when I added it all up, I had something like 4 and a half million pounds in the bank. That didn't include property like Grimauld either. I never had to work a day to make money if I didn't want to. I could literally sit up there alone for the rest of my life and waste away.

Lucky for me, I have great friends.

Ron and Hermione came over after about a week of not seeing or hearing from me. They seemed well, though there was some tension between them. Maybe it was my imagination, I suppose being alone for so long can make you hyper-sensitive to these kinds of things, but they seemed to not be enjoying each others company like they should have been if they were… dating.

They worked their normal routine on me; Hermione affectionately hugging one moment, and frantic with worry the next. Ron more even keel, “it's not as bad as all that, Mate!” and the like.

We went out to eat at a little Muggle pub in my neighborhood called O'Tell's. The moment I walked through the door I could tell there was something about that place that would bring me back again and again. It's hard to describe, but it felt--sheltered. Like I could hide away inside but not seem like I was hiding really. More like go unnoticed. Something I could never do in the wizarding world.

They talked to me at great length about finding something, some purpose, which would give me a sense of passion.

Ron, who was now reserve keeper on the Cannons, had found his lot in life. He talked of Quiddich constantly. I wondered if maybe that was what annoyed Hermione so much.

She was in a graduate style school, provided by the ministry, to become a wizard scientist. I know, it sounds a bit weird, science and magic should have nothing to do with each other, right? Turns out even wizards need a little disciplined logic to advance things every now and again. I couldn't think of anyone who would better fill the job than her.

By the end of the night Ron was nearly incoherent (real beer is a bit different than Butterbeer) and I was also a bit light headed. Hermione had one or two but remained ever the responsible one. I couldn't help but wonder what she would be like after four or five pints. Could she never let her hair down and forget herself?

We left just before midnight and stood outside to say goodbyes.

“And here I thought I was done having to worry over you,” said Hermione. I noticed how pink her cheeks were as she turned to me and gave me a warm embrace. Was it the pints or the night air?

“Sorry Hermione”, I replied. “I will find something. Everything just changed so fast…” but as I spoke I watched Ron sink lower and lower until he was sitting on the ground, leaned against the wall.

“Better get him home,” Hermione muttered, disgusted with Ron's latest display. He had a bemused expression on his face like he thought everything was slightly humorous, and I couldn't help but pity poor Hermione. I hoped he wouldn't be sick. Vomit is no fun, Scourify or no.

Hermione and I heaved Ron back to his feet and turned the corner from the pub into the alley. She could Apparate Ron home from here without being noticed.

She turned to me, leaving Ron free standing for a moment and said, “Harry, please owl me and let me know you are ok. It was my idea to drop in on you tonight. I know Voldemort is gone now, but I still worry about you. I want you to be happy. I couldn't be happy myself if you weren't.” She took hold of the front of my jacket and pulled me close to her, emphasizing the last sentence.

She couldn't be happy if I wasn't. Why did she have to put this kind of pressure on me?

But as I pondered this she made everything better by standing on her tiptoes and giving me a quick peck on the lips. The kind of kiss that old friends give each other, but at the same time, the kind of kiss that had just enough on it to make sure you thought about it long after it had happened.

Ron didn't seem to appreciate it as much as I did.

“OY! That's my job, you git!” he yelled.

Hermione turned to him and grabbed him in an awkward hug around his middle. She looked back at me with an expression that said, `Going to be a long night', and with a POP, they were gone.

I turned and started home trying to think of anything that had inspired me recently. Certainly Hermione inspired me. My thoughts returned to the moor where she had almost been killed by the falling Giant. Why didn't I tell her everything when I had the chance?

I walked slowly, taking a route that passed a newsstand to see if anything caught my eye. As I passed, I saw the most gorgeous car that could have ever been put together by Muggle hands on the cover of a magazine.

I wasn't the kind of bloke who fancied cars before now. Growing up Muggle, I know there are people out there who live for cars, but after a ride on a Firebolt, I didn't think anything would compare.

There wasn't a broom made that looked like this car, though. It was all curves and bulges and glass and steel. It was painted bright red and even though the picture was just sitting there still, like all Muggle pictures do, I couldn't help but think it did look like it was moving. And moving fast at that.

I bought the magazine and took it home to read everything on the car I could. Turns out, it was the new 911 Turbo. I didn't know anything about Porsche. I didn't even know what turbo meant, but after reading the article a few times, I decided to find out.

I went to the Muggle library the next day, hoping they would have something on Porsche. I expected to hunt a needle in a haystack but there was more information then I could have read in weeks of research.

Porsche had been making cars for decades and they were the most profitable car make in business today. They had a history of unique engineering and were known for making arguably the best sports car in the world. They had won race after race and produced spectacular car after car. I was overwhelmed by all the information I had found but then it hit me; I had 4 million pounds in the bank; why not treat myself to something nice?

The thing of it was, I couldn't even drive a car. I didn't have my license. I didn't know how to drive, and the more I read on Porsche, the more I discovered that they didn't exactly make the best first car. So I went to the one person who could help me. The person who had both a Muggle background and (as usual) all the answers.

Hermione.

“So I ask you to find your passion in life and this is what you come up with?” She glared.

“Yeah, well I was out walking one night and--“

“Well if it will make you happy”. She smiled at me knowingly and at that moment I realized, I had found something that put a fire back in my belly. For a long time I felt lost, and while cars were nothing to base your life around, at least it was a start.

We went to the license testing center and got all the material I would need to study for the test. As we were going to leave however, Hermione took a second copy of the material for herself.

“What's that for?” I asked.

“I've always wanted to learn to drive too, you know. I guess I was just waiting for a good reason to study up and take the test.” She thumbed through the material and added, “We may as well make appointments while we are here. This isn't so much to learn after Transfiguration.”

I smiled. Nothing was too much for her. She probably could have spent twenty minuets with the material and passed the test. I, on the other hand, would need to study.

We made our appointments, said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. I read and read until my eyes hurt. The material was pretty dry, but I knew it was important. I also went to a Muggle driving school to learn how to actually steer a vehicle around on city streets. The operator of the school gave me a disdainful look when I asked if they had any Porsches to take out for my lesson. He didn't know I was serious. Unfortunately all they had was a very beat up Ford Focus. At least it was a 5 speed so I could learn how to shift too.

During this time, I was narrowing down the choices for the car I was going to buy. I would go to O'Tell's and have a pint and read the latest issue of GT, a Porsche only magazine that I now subscribe too. The bartender that worked the evening shift was a Spanish woman named Maria. She had long, straight black hair and deep, dark eyes. I didn't really fancy her, but she was very pleasant company. She seemed interested in whatever I was doing or reading, or whomever I was with, and the two of us became friends. She even had suggestions for which car I should get, though she seemed a numbers kind of person. If I presented her with 3 options she always picked the one with the most horsepower or the highest price tag.

Then one night, I made the mistake of taking Ron with me. He was instantly transfixed on Maria.

“Bloody hell! Where was she hiding the first time we came in here??

“Ron, would you get hold of yourself please? I would hate to have to give Hermione a bad report on you.”

I knew Ron didn't have it in him to cheat, so I wasn't really worried. I just got a weird feeling when he started to flirt with Maria. I mean, he already had Hermione, how could he ask for anything more?

Hermione and I also went to O'Tell's frequently. Maria probably thought she and I were dating. It seemed everyone else always did. We discovered that O'Tell's was almost exactly halfway between out two flats so we could both walk and meet there if we wanted too.

Ron was spending weeks away playing Quidditch now, and while Hermione didn't seem to mind so much, she was always thrilled to see him when he came back from a trip. He and Ginny were both still living at the Burrow, keeping their Mother company since their father had been killed. Ron seemed to like living with his Mum. I suppose it was all the free meals.

Hermione gave up on owls and bought mobile phones for the three of us. Ron thought it was some kind of joke, and it took the better part of a day to convince him it was worth using. I had to admit though, it was pretty sad only seeing two entries in the phone's memory: Hermione and Ron. They were the only people I would ever call. Actually, Hermione was the only one I would ever call.

As time wore on though, I found myself needing to put some space between Hermione and myself. I couldn't help it, really. It was like I needed her. Like if I didn't have her, if I couldn't be with her, I wasn't complete somehow. I suppose it was the doldrums I was in without a job or anything besides Porsche giving me any reason for getting out of bed in the morning, but I was afraid I would have a pint too many one night and break down and tell her how I felt. I couldn't do that to her and Ron. I wasn't that selfish.

She still called me about 3 times a week, but I would only meet her maybe once a fortnight. I was getting worried that she sensed there was something wrong, though. I somehow managed to keep a balance between keeping her at bay and myself under control, and seeing her enough so she would not think anything was wrong.

While all this was going on I had made my decision on what car to buy. The Porsche 911 has been in production since 1965 and, with my budget essentially unlimited; I had a huge variety of cars to choose from.

From 65-89 the cars were basically the same. Sure, the engine got bigger and the suspension was revised a bit here and there but for the most part the chassis was the same as the year before, and the year before that and on and on. It was a testament to the design of the original car. That and the team of engineers who refined the car over the decades without losing what made it great in the first place. To have a car in service for that long, it's amazing really. I wonder if Dr. Ferdinand Porsche, the man who created the first cars and his son Ferry Porsche, might have been wizards who lived amongst Muggles. It would explain the odd success of the 911.

To enthusiasts, the first cars, the 65-89's, are simply known as 911's. Then in 1990, the 911 had its first overhaul. The body was all new, though it still strongly resembled the original, and again there were motor, suspension and interior changes and upgrades. These 911's are known as 964s to us Porschephiles. In 1994, Porsche made what I think was the best car ever. The 993 as it is known, was the last chassis to have an air-cooled engine. By air cooled, I mean there is no radiator used for the motor. It doesn't make the motor better or worse not having a radiator, but when the 911 was first designed, back in the 60's, all Porsches were air-cooled so they stuck with it.

To be honest, I like it because of the sound that it gives the engine. There is something different about the sound the air cooled motors have and the 993's is especially nice. It's hard to describe it in words, but as the RPMs climb, the engine howls at you, like an animal of some kind.

After the 993 came the 996 and then the 997. They are both water-cooled 911s and the most modern by everyday car standards. They're cars you can drive daily if you like, but they still had some of the Porsche edge to them. In my opinion, that took some of the shine off. I guess having it all takes a bit of the fun out of it. I mean, if I am going to drive the car hard, I would like to have to work on it a bit as well, to get to know it under the hood. Does that make me a glutton for punishment I wonder?

The other reason I had decided on the 993, other than sound and having to get my hands dirty now and again, was the looks of it. The shape of the thing is almost sensual. Bulging fenders and long, low lines make it look like it is moving fast while it is standing still, like a good sports car should. But the curves-- they're, scandalous. I love the shape.

So I found a 1997 “911 S”. The “S” means it is the special model with bigger fenders, to squeeze even larger wheels and tires under, and some special options in the interior as well. I decided on green, dark green like my eyes I suppose, with polished wheels that sparkle in the sunlight. I called on my mobile and made an appointment to see the car. The seller was very helpful, answering my many questions. I had to take the Muggle bus to get to the house where the seller lived. Embarrassing yes, but I couldn't bloody well roll up in the purple triple-decker Knight Bus. He would have thought I appeared out of thin air.

He was an older man, in his fifties maybe and well to do. He owned a large house in an upscale neighborhood. What took away all my reservations about plunking down the most money I had ever spent at once was when he opened his garage. There was my 911, but parked next to it was the car I had first seen in the magazine all those weeks ago. It was a 997 Turbo.

“Sorry to see the old girl go.” he said softly, running a hand down the curved fender of the 993. “But the wife will only allow one 911 at a time and the Turbo is…” he took his time and chose the word carefully, “Magical.”

I smiled, “I can only imagine.”

I gave him the check I had made out for the amount he asked. I didn't feel like negotiating. It would only have spoiled the euphoric mood I was in.

As I drove away from his house, I watched as he waved me goodbye, like he had known me all his life. I couldn't help but feel like I had just been inducted into some kind of secret club. The feeling was comforting, but nothing compared to driving that car.

When I drove away from the house, the odometer read 38065. One week, and a small fortune in Petrol later and it read 40140. I had driven two thousand miles in six and a half days and I hadn't even gone anywhere, really. I would spend the morning planning out my route and the rest of the day finding the best back roads in all of Britain. I drove from London to Exmoor just to drive on the winding paths there. I drove up the coast past Liverpool and Southport and kept driving until I hit Scotland. I drove all the way to Hadrian's Wall just to drive along that 80 mile straight line.

I drove everywhere.

After that first week I was getting comfortable with my 993. I could anticipate what it was going to do when I threw it `round a turn harder than I should have. I was ready when the rear end began to step out on me mid-corner. It was a unique, confidence building experience to drive the car fast. It was all that I had hoped it would be, really.

A few days later I decided to show the car off for the first time. Since I had bought it, I had basically disappeared of the face of the earth. Hermione had called but I told her I was busy studying for the Auror entry test coming up. I lied. I know. I am going to hell.

Hermione wasn't a car person. At least she had never before said anything about liking a particular car or given any car much notice. Admittedly most wizards thought they were redundant what with Portkeys and Apparation, but Hermione in particular would be much too… sensible to like the Porsche.

Ron was in the same boat as Hermione. No, not sensible, but he would see it as redundant. Why have to care for and feed a car when you can just pop about as you please? That's what he would say.

The funny thing is I didn't own the 911 to get from point A to point B. I owned it for the pleasure of driving it and when it came to understanding that sort of reasoning, my money was on Ginny. I owled her and set a date to come over and show her my “surprise”, planning on taking her for a drive and see what happened next. Maybe she would love it and want to buy one herself. Never could tell with Ginny.

I had purposely not driven anywhere near Ottery St. Catchpole so that I could take her for a drive on some unknown roads and go for a nice exploration run.

I rolled up to the Burrow at about 3 on a wonderful spring day and honked the horn. Ginny's head appeared in the window and her eyes went round as saucers at the sight of the car. A good sign. A moment later she was bounding down the drive, her crimson hair flying behind her, all hugs and I-missed-you's.

As always, she looked effing deadly. She had on a small sun dress that made her waist look smaller, her breasts look fuller and her eyes somehow twinkle. I couldn't help but wonder for a small moment, why had I broken up with her again?

She did a lap round the 993, taking it in from all angles and decreed, in her slightly nympho-maniacle way, that it was a female car. She said the curves and bulges reminded her of tits and arse. Her words, not mine. On reflection however, if anyone would know it would be Ginny, as she had a lovely set of T&A herself.

I popped the door open for her and averted my gaze as she tried to slide into the low-slung seat and maintain her feminine dignity in that dress. Then I jumped into my seat and watched as her eyes went round and round the interior, taking it all in. I thought it was a bit funny; she must have looked everything over at least four or five times but I knew she had no idea what the purpose of any of the controls were.

Was she just humoring me?

I turned the key and the air-cooled, flat six-cylinder engine behind us barked to life.

“OH!' cried Ginny, “Is it broken Harry?”

I gave her a puzzled look.

“It's just,” at the look on my face she went on, “aren't the noisy bits usually up there” she gestured toward the dash, “and not back there?” and then back at the idling engine behind us.

I understood. Ginny had probably been in a car as many times as you could count on one hand. I smiled warmly at her ignorance an went into a monolog about Porsche engineering and design theory, finishing up after a minute or two on my soapbox with a description of the pendulum-like inertial movement the car gets when you lift off the throttle in mid corner and how it can be used to make the car actually go faster around said corner.

Ginny was non-pulsed. “So then even though the motor is back there.” She gestured again at the engine behind us, “We will still be driving in that direction?” and again at the dash.

I couldn't help my eyes roll now.

“Yes Gin. We are going in that direction.”

I slotted first gear and drove away from the Burrow at a nice pace. Not too fast, but fast enough to make sure she didn't fall asleep on me. She seemed to have something she wanted to talk about, but every time she would start to speak we would hit another tight right-hander or switchback as we climbed up a wide hillside, edging towards the moor at its plateau. Her concentration would ebb from conversation, and flow to gripping the edge of her seat.

She still hadn't gotten a word out when we crested the hillside and the vast moor lay before us. I could see the road stretched out for miles now. Long, straight and smooth as glass, it seemed to taunt me. Come on now lad, let's see what it'll really do.

“Hold on to your knickers, Gin,” I murmured and double downshifted from fifth to third, slamming the throttle to the floor as my ears drank in the noise. Cams, gears, springs, valves, rods, pistons, chains; they were orchestral behind me, each playing it's minute piece, but together, a crescendo of howling, screaming aluminum and steel.

RPMs increasing fast, I shifted to forth and again floored the throttle. Finally, somewhere in fifth gear I looked down at the speedometer and saw 140. It didn't really seem that fast, there was a lot of wind noise, but the car felt just as stable while going half that speed.

My cheeks actually hurt from smiling as I looked over at Ginny expecting to see astonished joy, but instead finding tear-streaked terror.

She was white as a sheet, her eyes had lost the twinkle that the color of her dress gave them and were puffy and red. I understood too where the term white knuckle driving comes from now; her hands were clenched so tight on the door handle that the blood had been forced from them.

“GINNY! Are you ok??”

She didn't seem to hear me.

I jammed the brakes and pulled off to the side of the road. With the car stopped I grabbed her about the shoulders and forced her to look at me.

“Ginny, please say something!”

She shook her head and pushed my hands away, wiping the tears from her face, suddenly very embarrassed.

“I'm sorry Harry. I don't know what happened. It was just so… fast.”

I felt like the worlds biggest moron. I wanted to show her a nice time and see if this kind of thing would grow on her. Whether I had done too much too fast, or she was just not the car type, I would never know.

“I'm sorry Ginny. I should have warned you or something.” I said weakly. What I really meant to say was, `I thought you would be made of sterner stuff', but I was never very good with crying women.

“Let me take you back to the Burrow ok? I will drive slow.”

She nodded and said, “I didn't really know what to expect, you know? I thought that time you let me have a go on your Firebolt was fast but—what you just did back there… It was horrible.”

I nodded and concentrated on driving the posted speed limit.

We pulled back into the drive at the Burrow and I shut off the engine while Ginny fidgeted with the seatbelt. She seemed to be herself again, twinkling eyes and long legs.

“Oh! I just remembered! Have you heard what my twit of a brother has done now?”

I pondered for a moment. She had a few brothers who met the description `twit'.

“Percy?” I offered.

She laughed, “No. Well, yes he is a twit, but he isn't the twit in question.”

She leaned her head back against the headrest and sighed. “Bugger, if I don't have a lot of twit brothers, don't I?”

Now I laughed and nodded.

“No this time the twit is Ronald, I'm afraid.”

I noticed that she used his whole, proper name and that she sounded a bit like their Mum when she did.

“I haven't spoken to him in over a week. What is it this time?” I asked.

She gave me a look that was a bit hard to describe, as if she comprehended that my ignorance meant something grander than she had first realized.

“Haven't spoken to Hermione either then?” she prodded.

“Just for a moment on the phone, why?” She had my attention now. Had something happened between Ron and Hermione???

But before she could respond my mobile phone started chirping away from the glove box in front of her.

Ginny yelped in surprise and exclaimed, “Harry, I don't think your Porsche likes me very much!”

I rolled my eyes for what seemed like the 10^th time in the last forty-five minutes.

“Relax Gin, it's just my phone.” I clicked open the glove box and looked at the call id.

“Speak of the devil and she'll ring your mobile,” I muttered.

“Hello Hermione. What's going on?”

“Hey stranger! Surprised you remember my name!”

Hermione sounded so enthusiastic and happy, not at all like she had just broken up with her boyfriend.

“Yeah well, my call ID reminded me what your name was.”

I heard her make a noise somewhere between a laugh and a huff. She had every right to be annoyed with me. I hadn't spoken to her in a good five days. Not very friendly, I know. I was afraid what I might do if we were alone together. Having the car had made me feel a little reckless. Like I might just say SOD IT ALL and make my move on her. Ron or no.

“Very funny Potter. Maybe I should just stop calling so you'll forget.”

“Oh don't do that. Then I will never get any calls. You know Ron will never figure out how to place an outgoing call.”

Her voice didn't change at the mention of Ron's name when she next said, “Seriously though Harry, I wanted to talk to you. I called to see what you are doing today?”

“Well I'm with Ginny now--at the Burrow,” I replied. Ginny took notice of her name and for some reason put her hands up and mouthed “Leave me out of this!” to me.

“Oh. That's nice then.” Hermione said, some of the enthusiasm gone from her voice. “Are you having dinner there too?”

Dinner at the Burrow was always nice, but dinner with a newly single Hermione would be better by a large factor.

“No, no dinner plans yet. Want to meet at the usual? Say… around five?”

The happiness back in her voice, Hermione said, “Yeah, that sounds good! That will give me plenty of time to get things ready.”

I was about to ask her what things, but Ginny had suddenly brought her hands to her mouth like she had swallowed a golden snitch.

“Ok then Harry, see you at five.” Before I could say anything else, Hermione was gone.

My gaze still on Ginny, I demanded, “What? What are you looking at me like that for?”

She lowered her hands and whispered, “She told you, didn't she? That's why you asked her to dinner tonight, isn't it?”

As Ginny seemed to get quieter, I was getting louder. “Tell me what, Gin? She didn't say anything about Ron. What happened between them?”

“Oh! This is BRILLIANT!” she squealed, clapping her hands very fast in front of her. Any regrets I had earlier about why I broke up with Ginny Weasley were now very far from my mind.

“Well are you going to tell me or am I going to dinner tonight unprepared?”

Ginny's mood suddenly changed from raucous schoolgirl to concerned friend.

“You really do love her don't you?”

“What??” Was I that obvious? Maybe I just wanted to be prepared for the polite conversation we would have over drinks and pub grub.

“Oh come on Harry! You've been moping around ever since they got together. I'm pretty sure it's not just me who's noticed it.”

Spectacular. Everyone knows I am pitiful.

“Ginny, it's not as simple as `do I love her or not',” I began. Ginny had all the information I needed. She spoke to both Ron and Hermione so if anyone would know how they felt about the break up, it would be her.

“What do I do about Ron? What if Hermione doesn't feel the same way about me as I do about her? Shouldn't I wait and give her some time before I go trying to shag her so I don't get her on the… what's it called…?”

“Rebound?” Ginny asked, her face was dead serious now, like she had been waiting to have this conversation with me all day. She probably had, actually.

“Yeah that's it,” I replied. Before I could say anything more however, Ginny had her hands on my shoulders turning me to face her so that she had my undivided attention.

“Ron is a big boy, he can take care of himself. Hermione does love you. She has since the end of fourth year but she never felt the time was right to say anything about it, what with the yearly attempts on your life and all. As for the rebound thing—“, She considered her next words carefully. “They broke up because they realized that what they had was not as good as when they were friends. Hermione felt like she was being left alone for too long and Ron felt like he was staying committed to someone who he never got to see. They mutually decided to end their commitment to each other, but not their friendship. If you ask me though,” Her eyes flashed with that manic schoolgirl look again, “It's because she really loves you! So, it is that simple!”

“I dunno Gin, what if—,“ but she cut me off, “Harry just go and be with her will you!!??”

Her hands were still on my shoulders and she pulled me close so our faces were inches apart and whispered, “Take it from me Harry, you don't want to spend any amount of time pining away for someone when you could just go and get them. It's not healthy for the ego.”

I realized she was talking about me, and how she spent her first few years at Hogwarts wishing she was with me before her 5^th year when we finally did get together, if only for a few weeks.

Before I could say anything she kissed me quickly on the check and hopped out of the car saying, “Tell her everything,” over her shoulder as she walked towards the front door of the Burrow.

I watched her walk away and she knew I was watching because she swayed her hips far more than any girl would ever sway in a normal walk.

I chuckled to myself. One moment she is telling me to go and hold onto Hermione and don't let her get away, and the next she is giving me an eyeful of tits and arse.

God bless you Ginny Weasley, don't ever change.

Which leads me to the here and now. I am southbound on the M40 and traffic is pretty light for this time of day, which is a bit of magic in itself.

I told Hermione I would meet her around five at O'Tell's and I should have some time to spare. I would love to get there early and park the car out front so I can ask if she saw anything interesting at the kerb on the way in.

Hermione. Hermione. Hermione. Hermione. She is racing through my head in perfect time with the thrum of that flat six behind me, making my heart beat abnormally fast and my right foot abnormally heavy. I don't know what it is she wants to talk to me about, though. I am hopeful that she'll sit down next to me, kiss me firmly on the lips and confess this crush she has apparently had for the last five or six years. Certainly would make my job easier.

My job. That was a funny way to put it. I don't have a job. The way things are going, I may never have a job. What do I have to offer a girl like her?

I know if all I ever do is drive around the whole of England looking for the next hairpin turn I will eventually kill myself. I suppose I had better go to the ministry and apply for the next Auror class. I don't want to. If there is anything else I can think to do with myself I would, but I'm honestly drawing a blank.

It's not like I am afraid of being an Auror. I am just tired of fighting. Tired of killing. Tired of hunting and being hunted. I am all of twenty years old, but I feel like I have lived a whole life already, or at least fought a whole life's battles. I guess it was all that time expecting to die.

That damn Prophecy.

Dumbledore could have taken that bit of information to the white tomb with him. I would have killed Voldemort without knowing the Prophecy.

That's just it. I do want to fight. I want innocent people to stay innocent. I want people like the Death Eaters to go to Azkaban. I want people like Tom Riddle dead. I guess I just don't have the stomach to do it myself anymore. I'm tired.

Maybe I could teach. The D.A. was a success and it would be prophetic if I ended up the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher that could last more that 12 months, wouldn't it? I could do my fighting from the classroom. Wage my war on evil from the podium. I could be Quidditch Umpire and teach flying to first years too! McGonagall would have me, wouldn't she? Maybe Hermione could put a good word in for me.

I've rounded the last corner to the street where O'Tell's is located, but by my watch I took a little longer than I thought I would. Guess I was driving slowly while so deep in thought.

Hermione is probably here already, waiting inside. There is an open spot right in front of the pub at the kerb just big enough to squeeze the 993 into. It's also right behind a beautiful dark grey Boxster.

The Boxster is Porsche's roadster. Two seats and a retractable, convertible top. Water-cooled, flat six cylinder engine mounted behind the driver, though in front of the rear wheels, not behind like in the 911. It's a brilliant little car, and if I wasn't so in love with the 933, I might have considered getting one myself.

I pull in behind it and see the license plate reads `HER 986'. 986 being the numeric designation for the first generation Boxsters like 993 is the designation for my generation 911. Whoever drives this Boxster is two things; a female and pretty savvy when it comes to Porsche-speak.

I am there to meet Hermione though, so I won't bother to go and talk to the owner. She has just put the top up anyway. I can see her through her rear window taking off her hat and straightening her hair in the rear view mirror.

Shutting the door on the 993, I walk past the grey car, glancing through the window for a better look at the driver when the world seems to suddenly stop spinning and I have an acute fear that I might be thrown off into space.

`Her 986” doesn't mean a female's Boxster. It means Hermione's Boxster.

She's looking at her reflection still, but as I rush to the window, her attention shifts to me. She's surprised, and a little disappointed. Apparently she was hoping to surprise me like I was her.

She folds the top back down and I lean against the doorsill looking down at her. She is beaming up at me, pride of ownership, I suppose. I on the other hand, am gob-smacked.

“Her-Hermione.” I stutter. “Whose car is this?”

“Mine, obviously”, she retorts. She has a look on her face that I remember from forth year when she showed me Rita Skeeter in the jar.

“But Hermione,” I stutter again, “this can't be yours. You're much to…” Boring is the first word that comes to mind, but Hermione isn't boring. I have always suspected her choice in cars would be though.

“Sensible?” she asks, saving me from putting my foot in my mouth.

I can only nod in reply. I don't think I have ever seen her looking as sexy as she does in that black leather seat. The seat belt hugging her tightly like I wish I was.

She tuts and shakes her head. “You keep forgetting Harry.” She takes the cap the she removed as I was parking and points to the front. It says `Bright Smiles- DR's A. Granger and S. Granger DTS.' She winks at me. “Both my parents are Dentists. There's been a 911 in the garage at my Mum and Dad's house since before I was born. First my Dad had a 911 SC. A 1983 I think. Then he got a 964. Now he has a 996. A C4S actually.”

A C4S has all wheel drive and the bigger fenders and wheels and tires like my 993.

“Your Dad has a 996 C4S?” I say, as loud as I can, which right now is a whisper.

“Yup”, is all she replies, and there is that look again. Like she is telling me a secret she has know for years.

Merlin, I want her.

“But Harry, what it's really all about, what it all boils down to, you could say,“ she looks me straight in the eye, “is that life is too short to drive shite cars.”

It's at this moment that I've realized Hermione has changed. This isn't frail, broken Hermione that nearly had a giant fall on her and spent months in the hospital. This is strong, beautiful, intelligent Hermione. Reborn and better than ever.

She needs this like I need it. The sound of the howling motor behind her, the wind rushing through her hair, the feel as she pushes a little too fast down a deserted back road, the passion of it all. It's healed her as it will heal me in time.

It wasn't Ginny who would understand this. How stupid of me. Ginny was always a witch. Hermione grew up Muggle.

“I couldn't agree more,” I finally say, gesturing towards my car parked behind hers. She unbuckles her safety belt and turns in her seat to look.

“A 993S!” She exclaims, “Oh, those were the ones with the hips! Green too,” she looks back at me, “the color of your eyes almost. It's lovely Harry!” I am again gob-smacked.

I look down at the interior of her car and notice how much smaller it is than mine without the back seats.

“Just room for two then?” I ponder aloud.

Her expression tells me she senses the innuendo in my statement, though innocently enough, I was just noticing how small the car was. She pats the seat next to her and says slyly, “Jump in Harry. Let's go for a drive.”

She doesn't need to tell me twice. I am in the car, seat belt buckled, before I can think to respond. She puts the cap back on, arranging her hair through the back in a ponytail, re-buckles her belt and twists the key saying coyly, “Hold on to your trousers, mate.”

I know this is going to be an important ride. A life-changing ride. Like she and I will be two different people when we park her car back at the kerb and head into the pub for dinner and drinks.

I'll ask her for an opinion on my teaching ambitions. I surely won't keep from telling her I have been in love with her for many long weeks now, and if there is anyone who would know whether Dr Ferdinand Porsche was a wizard or not, it would be Hermione.

The End

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