A/N. Just to let everyone know, the baseball theme of the conversation was not my idea. A reviewer from ffnet, eaglesnest, suggested it and I had a lot of fun writing it. If you find yourself scratching your head, and saying 'huh?', don't be too hard on yourself, or on me. My only excuse is I can't possible think like a man, at least not completely, and may have a really weird understanding of the game of baseball. LOL!
Go Blue Jays! We seem to have a good team this year.
The second part of the chapter brings us back to the future and sheds a bit more light on what happened to Ron, why Harry is in Toronto. By the way, for non-Torontonians, if you're ever in town and love to eat, you can get a taste of the world's dishes here.
Chapter 15 - The Squeeze Play
14 February 2006 - Yonge and Elm, Toronto - The Amor Ninho
Dragon keeper…repressed bookstore owner…and such a flirt…
Harry as Roy sat across the table from Hermione as Jane, laughing inwardly and enjoying himself immensely, as they smiled at each other and allowed the waitress to serve their entrées. Yes, he wasn't being fair. He knew way too much about her to know what she liked and what lines would work. But he could not help teasing her and finding out how she would react.
Maybe years from now he could tell her and they could laugh about this together. Many, many years from now. Maybe.
As he was getting to know this other side to her, he felt an excitement. If he was out looking for some companionship, he would have definitely made a play for this mischievous and uninhibited Jane that he just met. Harry realized that what they were doing at the moment they would have done a long time ago if she was not with Ron. So this was how it felt to go out on a non-platonic date with her. It felt different in a wonderfully unexpected kind of way.
And if not for the necessity of appeasing his hunger pangs and his foresight that he needed to store up energy for the physical activities his florid imagination were suggesting for the rest of the night, he would have proposed to her to skip dinner altogether. Judging from her openness, the proposal would not have been met with resistance.
After he left a broken-nosed Floyd and a very anxious Waxball at the Ghoul earlier that day, he lost a tail by taking the anti-Polyjuice Potion and went to the Ministry for Magic. Harry had a conference meeting with Kingsley and Toronto MLE Head Jack Muller and they had a plan. Roy would have to meet with Hermione, ensure sufficient interaction to prevent untoward suspicion, and then attend the 6am meeting at the Ghoul. Toronto MLE would be on standby and would storm the restaurant once Roy/Harry gave the signal. Simple enough.
The need to meet with her as Roy definitely quashed a temptation that arose earlier that day. He thought it was a sure sign that it wasn't meant to be. It was just so enticing; them being far from home, on their own, away from the pressures of family and friends, to offer his services to be her last fling if she was interested. Being in Toronto with her was a second opportunity to seriously ask what he thought he should have the other day.
He was quite cognizant of what the consequences of the offer would be. The suggestion itself would have made her ask why he was so eager to help and the truth was not something that Hermione would want to hear. He could only imagine the range of curses she would likely throw at him when he told her of his unimaginable lust and how he just wanted to have sex with her that one time to satisfy it. Even if she did not jinx him right then and there, that would definitely make things awkward between them for the rest of their lives.
With the suggestion of being her last fling seemingly behind him, he contemplated on what to do about the dinner with her that he as Harry agreed to. He could not meet her as Harry. They were watching her and if he was identified as a London MLE, information about his arrest of the real Roy Hunt might leak and blow his cover. Not good for his first case as an Auror and for justice for Helga Braun.
Regrettably he had to cancel, have the consideration to let her watch Les Mis in peace and then allow Roy to come in and do his thing; talk somewhere public and in plain view.
However, Floyd appeared unexpectedly and he had to think fast. Roy Hunt was up, way ahead of schedule. As he tried to convince Hermione to spend the night with Roy and was successful, the temptation to satisfy his longing reared its ugly head back into the picture. It was almost perfect. She obviously wanted a last fling and was prepared to live with the guilt, he could be her last fling and if it could quench his thirst for her he could live with the guilt, and she did not have to know it was him so there would be no reason for any future awkwardness. Perfect.
When she did not protest the very evident inappropriate intra-Apparition contact, it was all systems go. Harry decided that he was going to give Hermione a proper last fling. One that she would never forget. One that he would never forget. And when he decided this, the likelihood of him telling her and them laughing about this together became almost zero.
Harry reasoned to himself that it was better him than some other stranger, which would probably happen if Roy Hunt did not take advantage. She was so obviously vulnerable that any real 'Roy' would have had no problem whatsoever talking her into having sex.
At the theatre he could not help but look at her with unambiguous and unmasked desire as he never could before, eliciting the response he wanted her to have. He was surprised at her use of magic to get them to leave the theatre sooner but that only proved even further that this was what she wanted. And that poem, he didn't know where that came from but the feeling as he said it was like he was on liquid luck.
"So, what do you think of my poem?" Harry asked her after the waitress left.
They started eating.
"What do I think? You want to know what I think."
So, obviously stalling again. What are you up to?
"Being owner of a bookstore who handpicks what she sells, I'd like to know if you, at least, liked it enough you'll consider carrying my second collection."
"It wasn't half bad," she said, kindly.
"Ouch! I told you I was sensitive," Harry feigned being crushed.
She chuckled as she replied, "It was more than half good, really."
Now, she was trying to make him feel better. He really wanted to know what she thought about it.
"Is that a compliment? I can't tell."
"It was delivered well and personally, I found the content excellent."
Huh? Really?
Then she added, taking the accolade back somewhat, "Though it's very hard to judge just how good it is having just heard one verse."
Pushing our luck, are we? Should he even dare attempting one more?
"Well, I may find more inspiration tonight. Maybe after I round first base?"
His eyes flitted over to her inviting lips, thinking about their first kiss, hoping for the perfect moment to come soon.
"I'm rooting for you to get a hit," she answered with mischief. "That bunt earlier was good; it caught everyone off-guard but you wasted it by going straight to second. You were fortunate you weren't benched for that."
This was, yet again, a surprise. Baseball talk with her. As far as he knew Quidditch was the one sport she understood and only because she had to. And Ron never watched the Muggle game. Just how much does she know?
"You mean the intra-Apparition thing?" she nodded. "Sorry. Pinch hitter jitters."
"You do strike me as an everyday player," she continued to sport a poker-face.
"I do like to play."
"I can tell," she concurred. "What position?"
Oh, she's good.
"Any guesses?"
"I was thinking 3rd baseman at the hot corner but your agility and skill suggests the flash of a shortstop, though I certainly hope you're not one."
So, you're not interested in flashy but may go for someone hot. Hermione would never admit to something like that.
"Actually, I'm a designated hitter," he was in real life.
"A DH, how could I miss that? You come to the plate to hit, get on base, and score runs without the more serious responsibilities to help the team win."
He laughed. That was well put.
"Yes, I'm strictly an offensive player. Is that a problem?"
He thought he'd throw in a chance for her to back out. She didn't take it.
"Actually, if I needed someone to pinch hit, a DH, if one was available, would be perfect."
"Really?"
"A pinch hitter is called in because runs are needed, right? A DH is supposed to be good at that," she said, making sense and seemingly knowing what she was talking about.
"True."
"I'm curious. How big and how hard a bat do you swing?"
He was wondering when she would ask. Wording was everything in baseball talk. If only you could see how big and hard my bat is right now, and I'm not even on base yet. He hoped the cold wine he was sipping might help lower the tent he was pitching at such an inappropriate moment and venue.
"How my bat rises to the occasion depends on what's at stake, on the prize, but as you probably already know, it's not only the size of the bat that matters but how you swing it."
"And do you swing yours well?"
"That's what designated hitters are paid to do," he replied, trying not to laugh at how innocently she was projecting it all out to be. "I can tell you're not a big fan of the DH. Which position player do you root for the most? Pitcher?"
He was just curious what she would say.
"Merlin, no! Starters only play once in four or five days and only a few can complete games consistently. Middle relief gets even more sporadic playing time and closers are only in the game in save situations. Pitchers are also the worse base runners. No pitchers for me," she explained. "I do love catchers, because they're involved in each and every play and pitch."
Ron was definitely not a catcher. He wondered if he just misjudged him and quickly pushed Ron away from his thoughts to go back to their very enlightening conversation. She was quite comfortable with this and so far he had not seen her blush. It was time to up the ante.
"So, what do you think is the most exciting play in baseball? The grand slam?"
She shook her head, grinning, "Definitely not grand slams, I'm not the type. Actually, in general, I find homeruns too quick, the play seems over too soon that after the runner comes home it leaves me hanging…you know…wanting for more."
Really?
"I prefer players and teams who manufacture runs well. Though, I admit, a timely unexpected solo homer has its place in the game."
That's a relief.
"I agree about grand slams. I like scoring runs but not if I'm the fourth one on the same play. As a DH, I admit to loving solo homers though I can be asked to manufacture a run once in a while."
"That's good to hear. What about you? What do you think is the most exciting play in baseball?" she asked him back.
"The squeeze play."
"The squeeze play?"
"The squeeze play."
"I'm not quite familiar with that. How does it work?"
She was lying. He could tell. Okay.
"It involves one player trying to bring home a runner from third base."
"It does?"
"Imagine me, a base runner just off third base, ready and eager to come home."
"Imagining…" an impish smile curved around her lips. She sure was being naughty tonight.
"You're the hitter. I absolutely need your help to score a run."
"Absolutely. I like that notion, of doing things in…unison."
"You really want me to come home and you're at the plate waiting for that perfect pitch."
"Uh-huh…I definitely want you to come home. What am I looking for?"
"A ball that you can handle; something you can control. See, you know I'm coming and I know you're trying to get me there so it has to be precise. Our execution of the play is quite important. Are you still with me?"
"I'm ready. What do I do?"
"You're going to have to lay down …," that is such a nice thought to linger on, "…a bunt."
"A bunt…laying down one."
"But not just any bunt."
"Of course not," she was almost whispering.
He leaned in closer and looked deeply into her brown eyes. She let him as he explained the rest of the squeeze play in a quieter voice.
"You have to lay a trickling bunt down the third base line towards where I'm coming from. And it has to be one that leaves your bat fast and far enough from home plate such that the catcher won't be able to field it, yet slow and near enough home such that the third baseman will not be able to get to it, at least not in time to throw either of us out as you accelerate as quickly as you can towards first and I bear down with all that I have towards home."
He paused. She was blushing, finally. He was probably flushed too. He needed another drink. A stiffer one. Where's that waitress?
"The squeeze play," she took some wine and recovered quicker than he did, "You're quite right. The anticipation of it coming, seeing it slowly unfold, rapidly approach and then come to a frenzied…um…climax is quite exciting. I do have a question."
"Yes?"
"If it's a close play at home plate would you slide?"
He swallowed hard.
"Home plate is the worse place to slide short and be called out. I would charge; ram, if I have to, to score."
She was grinning from ear to ear.
"A pinch-hitting DH who's a charger not a slider. Tonight, that's definitely what I'm looking for."
"Good. I do have to be honest."
"Yes?"
"I know you don't care much for homeruns but tonight, I am swinging for the fences."
"As you should with minor league pitching, though my only wish is that when you hit one out of the ballpark, take as much time as you can rounding the bases," Hermione replied. "It is more…satisfying that way."
"I'll try my best. What if I hit the cycle and score a run on each hit?"
"Ambitious, cocky even," she laughed and was eyeing him with mischief, "That would make for one very special night I wouldn't mind being witness to."
He lifted his wine glass.
"To the art of manufacturing runs and a well executed squeeze play," he said.
"To swinging for the fences, solo homeruns and hitting the cycle," she countered.
They were chuckling as they toasted. He didn't know how she acquired such a good understanding of the sport and was very curious. This was turning out to be one very interesting night.
XXXXXXXXXX
7 February 2007 - Just Outside the Toronto Ministry for Magic.
It was way past 9pm before Harry and Andy were able to leave the Briefing Room. He was crankier, more tired and, judging from the weird sounds emanating from his stomach, hungrier than a woman who had been in labour for more than 24 hours. At least that was how Andy described him as the left the Ministry. He had not forgotten what he had been so eagerly looking forward to all afternoon.
"Um, Harry, where are we off to?" Andy asked him.
With hesitation, Andy climbed into the passenger's seat of the Taurus and hurriedly fastened her seatbelt, tightly. While Harry knew she preferred to drive, he also knew she wouldn't go where he wanted to go, so he securely entrenched himself in the driver's seat, magically started the engine and put the gear in motion.
"To get some dinner," he said, his voice calm and incongruent with how he felt.
Harry floored the gas pedal, driving on the wrong side of the road, speeding head on towards incoming traffic. Andy quickly turned on the Arthur Weasley patented Invisibility booster and switched the gear so it would fly, just in time to prevent them from crashing into a Beamer. He always forgot to do that.
"Great idea. I'm starving," Andy replied, too excited to be genuine. She was onto him, "I know this great Italian place just off College and Grace."
"I really don't feel like pasta tonight."
"What about some souvlaki?"
Harry shook his head, thinking about what he was about to do, working himself up to the task…
"No? Sushi?"
Floyd was the reason why he was in Toronto and had to stay…
"I guess not. Jerk chicken?"
Others referred to it as a sad obsession; an unfortunate delusion. The reason he was not physically in London and, by extension, the reason Hermione was going out with Malfoy…
"I know. Beef and vegetable wonton noodle soup."
For the past year, Floyd had been wise enough to lay low. Harry was meticulous but there was no evidence to pin anything on him, big or small. His involvement in the plot against the Research meeting was something he could not miss; this was a rare opportunity to catch him red handed and get him to tell everyone how Ron died. To confess and to gloat as Harry knew Floyd wanted to do.
Floyd blamed him for his brother's death and he exacted vengeance through Ron. Quid pro quo, Floyd taunted once. His presence in Toronto was for justice but with time and frustration it was dangerously bordering on retribution. And proving the untold truth about Ron's death would also hopefully take away some of Hermione's guilt and make it possible for them to start talking to each other again.
Andy realized where they were headed.
"Jeez, Harry. Are you still thinking what I think you're thinking? They don't have real food there!"
It was Screw Harry Potter Day. It started out with waking up in some stranger's bed, agonizing over the fact that Malfoy had hoodwinked the woman he loved for a kiss and Merlin only knows what else, finding out Ron was a ghost and needing to see Hermione but couldn't. Really, Harry had to vent his frustration on someone more deserving.
"At least have the consideration to drop by a hotdog stand," Andy pleaded, a bit melodramatic.
It was obviously to detract him. Not working.
"I'll be quick," he said as he parked down the Ford Taurus in an alley close to the Ghoul Waterhole.
"It's common sense not to pick fights on an empty stomach. Must you do this now?" she asked again.
He said to her as he got off the car, "Wait here."
"Um, no," came Andy's terse reply and followed him.
Harry tried to reason with her, "He's not going to do anything to me. He prefers me alive."
"So you tell me and that's so nice of him, but I'm not concerned about you," Andy retorted. "I'm worried about what you'll do to him."
Harry did not argue. She actually had a good point. The last time he was alone with Floyd, well, suffice it to say that he lost it and was warned that if he hexed the Squib again, a restraining order was going to be issued immediately. That would be most annoying if it were to happen.
They were going into the Ghoul outside of usual Squib surveillance protocol. He reassessed his plan. If he went in alone, he could do whatever he wanted but the last thing he wanted to happen was for him to get Andy in trouble, or worse, killed, for this impulsive act that was really personal.
"Fine," he said to her, then remembered something, "But can you look less…like you? Let's not get the regular crowd too worked up."
Andy, gave him a scathing look and transformed to a hag with a few missing teeth, a hooked nose and a really bumpy face. The last time she was in the Ghoul as herself, they attracted too much unwanted attention.
"Appropriate enough for you, laddie?" Andy asked rhetorically, "And remember, we're not dining here. I don't want to spend the night bending over a crapper."
The Ghoul was packed for a Wednesday night. They slipped into a nearby freshly vacated booth and Harry hailed a waiter, ignoring the hag's glare. He heard her. They were not eating there.
"We're really hungry," Harry told the waiter, "Two specials please."
The waiter left quickly, probably excited that somebody actually ordered something, but not before Andy grabbed the menu and found out what the special for the night was.
"Flobberworms sautéed in Niffler dung," her face contorted into a most disgusted expression involuntarily, "There goes my fucking appetite."
Yup. It was close to that time when it was best not to get on the hag's bad side.
"Just be ready," Harry warned her. "Remember, no wands."
"Don't you think I need sugar in my brain for that?" she scoffed, but was met by Harry's crazed expression from earlier, "Fine! Just let me know when."
"When it's time for 'dinner'," Harry said to her, proud he came up with that.
"Cute," she replied sarcastically, just as a group of men came from the door marked 'Employees Only' right beside the bar. Five, six. Not too bad.
"Well, this is a wonderful surprise," the tallest man in the lot said coldly, "Potter, you're as pathetic as ever. And nice look Marsh. Lovely."
Andy blew him a kiss and answered back, "Floyd, just being in your divine presence makes me want to puke all over."
"What can I do for you?" Floyd asked, Harry thought a bit more anxious that usual. It was apparent Floyd did not want them inside the Ghoul.
"If you can hurry up the kitchen for our specials that would be great," he answered, "We're really hungry. Busy day at work. Something about the Research conference, you and tonight."
Floyd laughed aloud and was joined by his minions.
"I don't know what you're talking about but if there's anything else at all, you know where to find me," came Floyd's response.
"I'm sure your not dim enough to tell us what you're up to so just do what you do best and I'll make sure you get what you deserve," Harry replied calmly.
They were interrupted by the waiter serving their specials. As Harry took a whiff of his cold wiggly grub he saw Andy shudder out of the corner of his eye.
"Hmmm. The scent itself is mind clearing, but I hear it's delicious. By the way, congratulations are in order. Toronto is back in the Quidditch Cup finals," Harry said to Floyd making conversation.
Floyd's eyes danced with excitement at the mention of Quidditch, just as he anticipated. Harry knew it was going to come. Floyd would not be able to resist and he needed a reason to do something.
"Ah, Quidditch, yes, thanks. That makes me wonder if you're going to go to the game. I hear your dead friend is being honoured. What a tragic accident, and very bizarre too. Falling off his broom during celebrations, not even able to savour his team victory. He was named MVP too, wasn't he?"
"Greasy, so modest," he replied in a condescending tone, "It's just us, you can drop the act. You were there. I saw you and you wanted me to see you. We both know it was no accident."
"You should really get on with your life and stop harassing poor innocent honest hard-working Squibs like me," Floyd said mockingly, "I was here, in prison and it was an accident. What did the Ministry Healer say? That you're delusional?"
Harry laughed derisively as he stepped out of the booth and stood in front of Floyd who was almost a full head taller than he was. He met his grey steely gaze, unflinching.
"I know you, you slimy, cocky son of a hag," he was taunting, loud enough for most to hear, "You were there, and the only reason you're not blabbing about it is that you're someone's bitch. She's cut off your little wiener and got you by the balls so tight, you whimper when you move."
"I am nobody's bitch!"
Harry was glad that Floyd had as volatile a temper as he had and absolutely had no tolerance for public insults. That and he still fought like a girl. Harry saw his right arm swinging from the corner of his eye, caught it in time and twisted it hard behind his back. Floyd could only protest in pain. He would not be able to move without breaking it.
His cronies were shocked and were waiting for some direction on what to do. As he guessed, Floyd preferred the brainless brawny ones.
Andy was up from her seat and said to him nervously, antsy, "Harry, dinner looks to be ready. Overdone, if you ask me."
Floyd's eyes were watering in anger and pain. He called out to his men.
"What are you fools waiting for?!"
"Let's have dinner, then."
"Do something!" Floyd commanded.
As the mob closed in, Harry grabbed a handful of Floyd's oily hair and dunked his face into the "special", rubbing it in a bit for good measure, just as he planted a thunderous kick squarely at his first attacker's chest, sending the huge man back and taking out two others in the process. And as he saw an Asian goon bearing hard on him, Harry instinctively pulled Floyd up by his tendrils and used his wet, dung-dripping face to shield an incoming punch.
"No!" Floyd objected, wide eyed, but it was too late.
Crunch!
That sound, music to Harry's ears, remembering to not get in the way of any squirting blood.
"Ooops! I'm so sorry, boss," his underling apologized.
He let go of a dazed Floyd, ensuring his face fell into the other full platter of the chef's special, just in time to parry another fist coming straight at him, landing a good right uppercut, lifting his disoriented foe over his head, then throwing him down onto two others who were actually not that enthusiastic to join the fray.
Harry looked around. The Ghoul patrons were in shock but there were no more takers. Andy had easily disposed of the two that came at her.
"Feel better?" Andy asked him.
"Yes, much better, thanks," he said to her, relieved, content for the moment. "And you?"
"I'm great. Quite happy, actually. You know how much I enjoy crushing marbles," Andy replied, Harry feeling it for the two who were doubled up, hands on their groin areas, with tears in their eyes. Andy knew the essential pressure points, um point. "Now, can we leave and have real dinner?"
He took a twenty dollar bill from his pocket left it on their table. Just as they were about to leave, he turned to a livid Floyd, who was holding on to his bleeding broken nose, wiggly flobberworms seemingly liking his slimy greasy hair.
"By the way, the special was great. Send my compliments to the chef."
"You'll wegwet tis! You metter watch your mack, Motter!" Floyd screamed at him.
He laughed with Andy. Hearing Floyd say that made it all worth it.