Plastered

Facade

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 07/07/2007
Last Updated: 07/07/2007
Status: in_progress

Hermione narrates how her life has reached the lowest of lows. She has been in love with her best friend since the day she discovered her last boyfriend turned gay. Now that she hears Harry is to be engaged, she's determined to change her life around.

Chapters

1. Sober

1. Sober

PLASTERED

Welcome to the real world. It sucks. You're gonna love it.
- Monica from FRIENDS

Let me start off by saying I’m a woman of a few secrets.

I figure I am not the only woman (person even) to admit that I have some skeletons in the closet, but I can assure you I have stuff of great magnitude there. Like cemetery big problems.

Besides the fact that I helped save the world and the complications that have resulted from that... I have.... Well, some issues to settle.

I, Hermione Jane Granger, 24 years old, am still a card-carrying member of the the V(irgen) club.

Actually, I am a platinum member.

How? you ask.

Simply by doing nothing. Simply by being me, I guess.

I don’t know how this happened to be sure. I mean, I knew I would never grace any cover of a men’s magazine or be a hussy by the time I learned the definition behind libido, but I was positive I had one.

Everyone does, don’t they?

Unfortunately mine has a condition, mine is package deal tied to one Harry Potter. A Harry Potter that has been dating my best friend.

For the last five (FIVE!) years.

Clearly, you can see why my life sucks and why I am now on the path towards becoming an alcoholic.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s happy hour and I need to visit my mum in a bit. Enough of a reason to get a drink.

>>>

The Bitter End has been my home for the last three years. It’s been a place where I have discovered many things.

One, that whiskey tastes like rubbing alcohol and nail polish remover combined but that it can get me completely off my kilter in three shots flat. Or was it two? Merlin, I can’t keep track anymore.

Anyway, besides that and somehow my tipsy self becoming a world champion of darts, I discovered that I am, somehow, unconditionally in love with my best friend.

Like, I-can’t-think-of-anything-else-but-him kinda love. Like, I giggle to myself when I’m alone out of nowhere. Like, I am a dumb teenage girl that just discovered she is filled with estrogen.

It’s pathetic, it’s disgusting, and it’s me (still, to this day).

The day that started this self-awareness was July 31st, his birthday (three years ago).

The tip-off of my harbouring LOVE for him should have been that my date looked like a very poor-man’s version of him. Fake!Harry, I never bothered to learn his name to be honest.

I met Fake!Harry through one of my mom’s friends.

I know, I know -- one of my mom’s connections??? But, as you can see, my version of low is still sinking.

The point was that I needed a date desperately because a week before the party I discovered that my steady boyfriend of three years had turned out gay. And I couldn’t show up alone when everyone else was producing babies like Molly Weasley was their idol or close to it.

Anyway, I think it was at that point that I started wondering why my life looked like it needed to be flushed down the loo.

>>>

“Horrid, absolutely horrid. I don’t understand how I could have produced such a daughter that would revel in such an atmosphere.”

That’s my mother for you, a self-righteous bitch at times. She would faint if she sighted The Leaky Cauldron. I mean, at least The Bitter End had heard that the 19th century had passed by a while ago. It had more of a turn-of-the-century-appeal.

“Mother, think of the antiquity of this place. Doesn’t it fascinate you?”

She sniffed and cradled her clutch tighter.

“Is that a cob web I see? Hermione Jane, how can you still come to this place?”

Hmmm, gee, I don’t know. Maybe because the name itself fit my current situation? I was bitter (check!) and I was at my end (noted). It didn’t look like it was going to change much.

“It’s special to me, that’s why. I don’t know why you get so shirty with me about it.”

Shirty is an understatement but I had learned how to talk to the oh-so-tempermental one since I was nine. Walking on eggshells was the key.

“Shirty?!” she shrieked.

Okay, maybe I hadn’t mastered the art. I had moved to a Boarding School for about half of my life. Away from her (thank goodness), because then I would be constantly bombarded by --

“So, how’s the love life?”

That.

“Hmmm, pretty dead, Mum.” I couldn’t disguise it anymore. Have I told you my life was at a very low moment?

“I don’t know why you are so adamant about carrying on with such a lifestyle, Hermione. You’re about to turn twenty-five --”

Almost a quarter-of-a-century, yeah yeah. She spoke these things like I haven’t lived every second of my life. Like I didn’t know.

“-- and I haven’t seen you with anyone for ages. Not since Henry --”

At this I interrupted her. “Wait, Henry? Who?”

Her eyes boggled.

“Henry, the foot model? The one you allowed me to set you up with for Harry’s party (at this atrocious place)?”

I sighed. “Oh, you mean the one that turned out gay?”

She leaned her body closer to mine.

“Speaking of that, how’s Terry these days?”

>>>

Terry Boot is one of the most unusual men I have ever met.

I mean, one: he is as much as a workaholic as I am (trust me, this is rare). Two: he keeps this QuidditchGirl calendar filled to the brim with lots of leather and very little clothes on our favourite male athletes on his ceiling (over his bed) and sometimes he lets me borrow it. Three: he’s my flatmate and coincidentally my last boyfriend.

My only real, solid relationship was with Terry and he wanked off to pictures of Ron and Harry more than he did of me.

My ex, ladies and gentlemen.

I know it’s queer to share a flat with the man you could have seen spending the rest of your life with, but here you have it.

I was never your run-of-the-mill girl.

He was sitting on the couch watching telly, as usual. Probably one of the Spanish soaps we discovered on our one-year anniversary we had in Spain. Ah, that time was so nice.

He caught my eye and motioned to his lap. This used to excite me with many fuzzy feelings, like two years ago, but now? Nothing, absolutely nothing.

“Hey Gorgeous, how was your playdate?”

The screen flickered and it was a FRIENDS rerun playing, one of our favourites.

“What do you think? A disaster. She’s wondering why I’m not a breeding ground yet.”

He ran his fingers through my hair. Actually, he always does that. He holds some morbid fascination with the bird’s nest atop my head that calls itself my hair.

“When was the last time you cut your hair, love? Split ends like these are a criiii-me.”

Okay, it was moments like these when I remembered why Terry and I didn’t work. He made words have more syllables then they were supposed to, to start. After I accused him of this, the first time, he assured me it was pretty normal for his kind.

“I’m trying to tell you my problems. Don’t point out any new ones, please.”

He rubbed the bags under his eyes.

“That’s just your life story isn’t it?”

Can you say uncalled for? He really had some nerve to say things like that when I was, of course, on the verge of my hormone breakouts.

“Do you want me to break out the Ben & Jerrys? Is that it? Do you relish my misery?”

Terry smirked. “You know I need some entertainment after I’ve seen this FRIENDS episode some five times.”

I wagged my finger at him. “Very well, don’t accuse me of having no life. Monica and Rachel have more of a relationship with you than people with a pulse.”

He frowned and shook his curls away from his eyes.

“Um, Kirk left you a message. Something about tuesday next week?”

Uhg, Kirk. He’s one of the newest guys I have tried out. Mostly so I won’t be bored to tears and not host pity parties by myself. But, like always, I always seem to want to restrain from stabbing myself with a fork in the middle of the date.

“Can you tell him I died or something?”

Terry’s eyes perked up. I knew that look.

“Yeah, you can have a go with him. Give him the usual story.” I waved my hand in his direction.

As a result of my apparent asexualness, I basically send all my dates to Terry. He tells them that he just moved in and that I didn’t live here anymore. Would they care for some lemonade?

Yeah, Terry got my sloppy seconds.

We don’t have a normal relationship, I think.

>>>

But then again, I don’t with anyone.

Take the two boys in front of me, for instance. Okay, one of them at the moment.

Ron. What can I tell you about Ron? Besides that he screams Hermione’s Failed Attempt all over?

Back when I thought sicing canaries at your boy love was a sign of affection, I thought Ron was cute. Nothing more, now that I think about it, but I was pretty possessive for thinking he was only cute.

The point was that he was the only guy that showed active interest in me that I could note. I read my romance novels and could tell all the signs. Opposites attract and I’ve never met someone so unlike me than him.

So I thought I was supposed to end up with him. Until he shoved his tongue down Lavender's esophagus. Then he tried to so the same slimy thing on me, I swotted him.

Again, failed attempt.

As for the other? Ah, here he comes.

“Sorry guys, I’m a bit late but I had to pick up a few things from Gladrags for Ginny.”

The object of my desire, readers. There he is... expressing feelings for someone who isn’t me. Wonderful.

I really know how to choose them.

I downed my wine in three seconds. White wine, nothing but the best for misery central.

Harry took my glass. “Christ, Hermione! It’s not even noon yet.”

As if I didn’t know that, tosser. My lovable tosser.

>>>

The guys and I have these mandatory monthly meetings.

Not to mean that we don’t see each other more than once a month, but sometimes that’s the case. We are all pretty deep in our work. What with Ron touring the country as a Quidditch Star and Harry... doing whatever it is he does. None of us knows.

But I’ll tell you that one Ginevra Weasley is always tied to his hip. A leech, my only gal pal.

“Mate, I need to leave in a few. Here’s a wad of pounds, er, right? Did I get the name right?” Ron looked bemused. His natural expression.

“Zing! You are correct. Congratulations, go shag another conquest.” Sometimes I can’t control my mouth.

Harry looked worried while Ron smiled. “She is awfully cheeky when tipsy. I hope you can handle her Harry.”

I think he left. I don’t know. I had my head on the tabletop at this point. The Muggle joint simply buzzed with it’s usual suspects. The lone writer typing furiously on her labtop and the teenage couple that looked exactly like each other.

A hand appeared in my vision.

“How many fingers?”

I belched quietly. “I am not gone, you know. Maybe not entirely coherent, but I’m O-K.”

This is my worst nightmare and dream combined. Being centimeters away from Harry and breathing the same air. Bacteria being shared, how romantric is that?

“I don’t know why you’ve suddenly picked up this habit. It’s nothing like you.”

What did he know?

“Sorry?” Harry adjusted his glasses. “Well, anyway, I have something important to share with you.”

He started getting shifty with me. Like his eyes were going crazy and everything. Which looked very weird when his eyes are magnified by those coke bottles he calls glasses.

Endearing.

“I don’t know how to say it. But I’ve been thinking --”

“Always a good sign,” I interjected.

He chuckled. Can I say that I simply live for his chuckles? Really, considering he’s the poster child of the disease Tragic Herois he hardly smiles, let alone laughs. I fluttered a bit. Hello cloud nine.

“I’ll just say it,” he lifted an eyebrow, “I’m thinking of asking Ginny to marry me.”

Time stopped.

Or I wanted it to. His mouth kept opening and closing but all I heard was a ringing in my ears. Something of shriekshriekshriekFIVEYEARSshriekshriekshriek.

Oh my Merlin on a cracker. Marry? MARRY? HER?

“Why, why would you want to do that?” This was my suave response.

Harry looked puzzled. I pinched myself. Way to go, Hermione, way to be the supportive friend. I grabbed my glass and tipped it towards him.

“When I hardly have enough wine to toast you. Congratulations! How long have you been thinking about this?”

How long have you been thinking about ruining my life?

>>>

A/N: I started this just to tide me over before Deathly Hallows hits the shelves. Plus I was desperate for some chicklit but I could hardly find good quality ones. I know the plot isn’t original (what is these days?) but I can promise that this story has my own unique twists. I have it outlined with a majority of the scenes written out. I just think it’s up to you guys to see if there’s enough interest for me to complete this. So review and tell me what you really think. I won’t cry if you tell me I’m not funny, heh. :)