Author's Note:

Magic Knickers was only ever intended to be a one-off, but two years later Valentine's Day was approaching again, and I found myself wondering - well, what would Hermione do?

Dedicated to everyone who will be spending V-Day in bed with a giant bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk and a Colin Firth DVD.

Pb, 11th Feb 2011

Chapter Two: Hermione

This is ridiculous. Here I am, the night before Valentine's Day, wandering dazedly around the Gifts For Men department in Debenhams and so desperate to buy something - anything - that a few minutes ago I almost considered buying him a Simpsons tie. For someone who hasn't worn a tie since the day he left school and has never heard of The Simpsons.

It's my own fault, of course. I shouldn't have left it this late. And it's not like me at all; I'm usually Mrs Super-Organised. I make lists. I buy presents months in advance. I research. But this time, all my preparation has failed me.

It doesn't help that Valentine's Day is on a Saturday this year, so that's one less shopping day I have to find the perfect present. I should be home already, but instead I've come into town after work - me and the entire population of London, it seems, as Oxford Street is heaving - desperately hoping that the perfect present will just leap off the shelf.

The perfect present. Is there even such a thing? He's always seemed to like all the other presents I've bought him (with the notable exception of that homework planner in fifth year, but we don't talk about that). Usually you can't go wrong with anything Quidditch-related, or made of chocolate. But that's the easy option, and the easy options are for other people. Everyone else can buy me books. Everyone else can buy Ron chocolate. We know each other well enough to do better. Well, I thought we did. So why the hell am I standing here looking at novelty golf tees?

Oh, God, I can't believe I've left it this late. It's Friday night, it's half past seven, and if I don't find anything in the next hour and a half, I'll be going home empty-handed. My feet are aching, I haven't had any dinner, it's bitingly cold outside and stiflingly warm in here, I really need a coffee, and on top of all that, I think I'm getting a tension headache. And I still haven't got a clue as to what to buy him.

It's not fair; it's easy for men. They have a checklist of things they're supposed to buy and do: romantic meal, flowers, champagne, chocolates, and of course, 'sexy' underwear for the wife or girlfriend, which as we all know, is really a present for him. It gives men the excuse that as long as they tick all the romantic boxes on Valentine's Day, they don't have to bother for the rest of the year.

I should say at this point, Ron is not that bad. He is not afraid of the words "I love you", in public or private or even in front of his friends and family. Even if this sometimes comes in the form of a mumbled "loveyou" when he's half-asleep and his hand is wandering up the front of my nightie. But he also will come up behind me and slide his arms around me and kiss my neck at parties and family gatherings, will happily hold my hand when we are walking down the street, and will sometimes just ambush me with a passionate kiss for no reason at all other than that he loves me and can't believe (as I can't either) that neither of us are dead and that we are finally together. I suppose that we had to keep our feelings for each other suppressed for such a long time that now we don't have to anymore, we both want to make the most of it.

It's been four months now, and living with Ron is everything I hoped it would be and a lot more too. Four whole months and I'm not bored yet! I'm very happy indeed with that side of things. To be honest, I can't quite believe we waited so long. I can't even begin to imagine going without sex for that long now. Not even a month. Not even a week! When we first moved in together, we could barely go an evening. We even used to come home at lunchtimes! If we didn't have work to go to and rent to pay, we probably wouldn't have got out of bed from the end of October, when we moved in together, until Christmas. I think that when you are a couple of late starters like we were you want to do as much catching up as possible! We don't quite reach those early frenzied heights anymore. Not that we've got bored with each other or anything like that, just that it would have been impossible to keep up that level of momentum indefinitely. We'd have been hospitalised with exhaustion.

I was worried, before we moved in together, that we were rushing it, that it was too soon, that being cooped up together in a small flat all the time might ruin things before they'd even got started. After all, we'd been a couple for only six weeks at school before the war had got in the way, and one war and two years later, we weren't the same people anymore. We were just kids then. We'd been through so much, seen so much. It was ridiculous to expect us to just pick up where we'd left off. Since the war had ended we'd both been living at our respective parents' houses and still seeing each other more as friends than lovers. A few times we slept together in the same bed, but we always kept our clothes on, and I didn't feel ready to do anything. We were just getting to know each other on a one-to-one basis again, I suppose. For two years, twenty-four hours a day we'd had someone else - Harry - standing between us, and being alone together felt like both a delicious luxury and oddly wrong. We were in limbo, not longer "just friends", but not quite ready to take it to the next level, even though we'd both wanted it for so long.

It was odd, that it felt like we were rushing headlong into moving in together when we'd actually only really been a couple - in the physical sense - for a couple of weeks. But then we'd been waiting for this moment for six years. I've been in love with him since I was fourteen. We'd taken three years to get to the point of admitting our feelings for each other, and then had to put it all on hold for another two years because of the war. Maybe it was about time that we rushed into something in this relationship. Maybe, for once, we should act without worrying about how the other might react, what other people would think, whether it was the right thing to do, or whether it would upset Harry. For once, we were just going to do what we wanted to do. It was the first decision we made as a couple, really. The first forward-looking decision, the first forward move anyway. All our previous decisions had been about putting things on hold, denying our feelings, hiding our relationship, pretending to ourselves and other people that which in retrospect must have been blindingly obvious to all. Wasting time when we could have been together, especially considering that either or both of us could have been killed in the war. We came close a few times, too.

That kind of thing should make you throw caution to the wind, shouldn't it? It's why so many people - Harry's parents, Bill & Fleur, Remus and Tonks - get married in war time. Seizing the chance of happiness while you can, not knowing how much time you have left. But Ron and I - being contrary types - did exactly the opposite. We put our relationship on ice during the war and I suppose it took some time to adjust to not living in fear anymore. Realising that we had a future, that we could be together, that no-one or nothing else was going to stop us. Except ourselves.

Of course, once we did move in together, I realised what an idiot I'd been. Spending so much time together wasn't a problem at all. Since we were both working now, we actually spent less time with each other than we had at school, when we had lessons together all day, and certainly less than during the war, when we'd spent two whole years in very close proximity to each other, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. If we could get through that without killing each other, living together ought to be a doddle.

And what I hadn't even considered was the joy of freedom. We were finally together. We were adults now. We had jobs, and our own money, and we could do whatever we wanted. Including staying in bed all weekend eating biscuits if we wanted. And staying in bed all the time was mostly what we did. We'd waited so long to be together, and were both discovering the joy of sex and each other's bodies at the same time. It was fantastic. Far from annoying each other by spending so much time together, we found we couldn't wait to get home to get our clothes off and get back into bed again. Going out with friends felt like a waste of time. Dinner with family seemed like a waste of time. Nine hours at work felt like the longest time we'd ever spent apart in our lives.

I suppose for a lot of people who have that much passion when they first get together, it eventually burns itself out and they realise there's nothing else to their relationship but the sex, and they have nothing else in common. But for us, we already knew each other about as well as two people ever could. So when, inevitably, we couldn't keep up the momentum and weren't doing it every night anymore, it wasn't the end of the world. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that things are even better now. It was just the start of yet another new phase in our relationship. Learning to be a couple. Me bringing him a cup of tea in bed on a Sunday morning. Him making us beans on toast on a Sunday teatime. Doing the supermarket shop together. Cuddling up on the sofa. Just getting on with our lives together like everyone else does. Being normal. It was nice. It is nice. Better than nice. It's wonderful.

There's a framed photo of myself, Ron and Harry aged twelve on the bookcase. It used to be in our bedroom, but we moved it into the front room for, um, obvious reasons. Basically, Ron said he didn't want Harry watching us while we were doing it, and I could sort of see his point. Sometimes we look at it and shake our heads in wonder and ask each other, "How did we get from there to here?"

This September will be the tenth anniversary of when we met. Ten years! A whole decade. Although, I say that, but it actually feels longer than ten years, so much has happened in that time. And let's face it, the changes you go through from eleven to twenty-one are pretty monumental, even if you don't factor a war into that equation. But that photograph is a daily reminder of how far we've come, how much we've been through together, how much we've been through to be together. And it was all worth it, every last second of it, every argument, every tear, every moment of doubt and confusion. We lived through a war and survived. We lived through Lavender and survived. And now, when I look back, it seems like the tiniest bump on the road, and I can't quite believe how close we came to destroying it all before we'd even begun. Well, of course he didn't really love Lavender. It seems so obvious now. And of course I was never really interested in Viktor. I love Ron, completely, utterly and all-consumingly. I always have, and I always will. And I know without a shadow of a doubt that he feels the same.

So this is my chance to show him how much I love him. Why should men be expected to do all the running? I want to give him something original, something surprising, something perfect. I made this decision three weeks ago, and since then I've had a hundred ideas and dismissed them all, certain that a better idea would soon come along. Only it didn't. And now it's the night before Valentine's Day, I'm standing in a department store staring at slippers, and I can't remember a single one of them.

The problem is there's no checklist for girls, no boxes I can tick. Or rather, there are lists, in all of the magazines, but the things they suggest are so far removed from the reality of our lives it's almost laughable. One of the articles genuinely suggested cashmere bed socks. How blasé do you have to be about money to believe that £35 is a reasonable amount to spend on a pair of socks? Ron would be appalled.

Other apparently serious suggestions included:

A video of his favourite TV programme.

Great idea! Except that Ron doesn't watch television. And we don't have a video. Oh, or a television. Or electricity.

A CD of his favourite band.

Ron doesn't really listen to music – certainly not Muggle music – and could no more tell you what was in the charts at the moment that I could tell you which team are top of the Quidditch League. And even if he did like music, surely if they were his favourite band, he'd already have their CD? Honestly, who writes this rubbish?

A Rolex watch.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ha.

A real leather travel bag.

Yes, because that would be perfect for the many foreign holidays we can't afford to go on.

A luxury men's grooming kit, including badger-hair shave brush and white clay moisturiser.

Funnily enough, the concept of the metrosexual male has not yet hit the wizarding world.

Bring a bit of humour into the boudoir with these "100% British Beef" Union Jack boxer briefs.

No. Not that I think humour should be kept out of the – I refuse to call it boudoir – but just no.

Other apparently serious suggestions included buying him tickets to his favourite sports team. Yes, because nothing says 'I love you' more than the willingness to spend seven hours of your weekend watching the Cannons get beaten again while your boyfriend uses every swearword under the sun to abuse the referee. Besides, Ron already has a season ticket, which he bought in a fit of financial optimism the day he received his first pay cheque and will probably still be paying off next season. I believe there's a match on tomorrow in fact, but if he dares even suggest it, I will not be held responsible for my actions. Basically, he has a choice. He can go and watch the Cannons in action if he wishes, but he won't get any bedroom action tomorrow night. Valentine's Day may be essentially a commercial construct, but that doesn't mean I'm going to pretend it doesn't exist. Or that I'm not expecting to be gloriously romanced tomorrow.

Run him a warm bath, fill it with rose petals, and light scented candles.

Rose petals? Scented candles? Have these people ever met any actual men? Anyway, we tried to do it in the bath once and it was a disaster. Too much of Ron to fold into such a confined space, too much water, too many bubbles… I nearly drowned and he nearly kneecapped himself. No, baths are for washing, and beds are for sex, and that's just the way it is. And now I'm thinking about him all naked and wet and slippery… Ahem. Where was I? Oh, yes.

Something relating to his favourite hobby.

The suggestions they gave as to "typical hobbies" for a man were - wait for it - motor racing, gardening, cooking and golf. Do I even need to answer that one? Ron doesn't really have any hobbies, not in the traditional sense of the word. He is not quite twenty years old, for a start. I am not sure that most twenty year old men have hobbies. My dad has hobbies. Ron's dad has hobbies. Ron does not have hobbies. He likes Quidditch, he goes out with his friends, and he spends time with me. He likes the countryside, but that's as far as his interest in gardening goes. And anyway, we live on the fourth floor and do not possess so much as a window box. The closest our flat comes to greenery is that dusty poinsettia his mother bought us for Christmas that resolutely refuses to die, even though neither of us have watered it since New Year in the vain hope that it will.

As for cooking, he likes eating food a hell of a lot more than he likes cooking it. He can do the basics – full English breakfast, bacon sandwiches, shepherd's pie, boiling vegetables, roasting a chicken, jacket potatoes, mashed potatoes, chipped potatoes, pretty much anything to do with potatoes – but I'm not sure he's interested enough in cooking to consider, say, a wok a suitably romantic present. I'm certainly not complaining, since I'm no better and most of the time considerably worse. When I was a proud young feminist growing up I was generally of the view that cooking was women's work, and therefore not worth my time to learn. Besides, Dad always did most of the cooking, as Mum is one of those unfortunate people who can burn food simply by looking at it.

Neither is he interested in those traditionally male Muggle hobbies like motor-racing or golf. In fact, I am not entirely sure he even knows what golf is. He can't drive, either. Not legally, anyway, but that's another story. He can probably tell you who Michael Schumacher is, purely because my Dad loves Formula One and has talked poor Ron's ear off about it on more than one occasion. Dad would probably appreciate a pen-holder in the shape of a Ferrari. Ron would have no use for a pen-holder and no comprehension of why it would be in the shape of a Ferrari.

He does like Quidditch, but you couldn't really call it a hobby. An obsession, maybe. He'd probably be highly delighted to receive, say, a quill-holder in the shape of Enzo Moriente, the Cannons' new Chaser, which would no doubt make him the envy of the entire office. Well, a little envy and a lot of derision, since he's notorious for having scored the lowest number of goals by any League Chaser in their opening season since 1946. And if Ron could hear me say that, he would be very proud.

Surprise him with a singing Valentine at his workplace.

My God, Ron would hate that. He loathes having any kind of attention drawn to himself, and if I did something like that, I rather suspect it would be grounds for divorce. Not that we're married, but you know what I mean.

If in doubt, get him vouchers.

Well, a) that's the least romantic thing I ever heard, you might as well just say, here you are, I couldn't think of anything you'd actually like, so you make the decision for me, and b) hmm, what's the other thing… oh, yes, he hates shopping! Buying him vouchers would be like forcing him to do something he hates, and what kind of special Valentine's treat would that be?

And then there are loads of appalling novelty gifts and gadgets, all useless rubbish that I can't imagine any man being pleased to receive as a gift, let alone someone already rather bemused by the idea of, say, cuff links. Ron, it turns out, is surprisingly minimalistic. I don't mean that he's tidy, of course, far from it, just that he doesn't buy or accumulate stuff. When we moved in, my belongings filled several boxes, and that was before you even counted the books. Ron had one rucksack and a broomstick. Four months later and I reckon you could still fit everything in this flat that belongs to Ron into one rucksack. If the house ever burnt down he'd be able to save everything he owned on the way out of the door and still have time to make himself a cup of tea, while I would have to be dragged out by a fireman, screaming that I couldn't decide which of my books to save, and he should just leave me there to perish with them.

Oh, God, what am I going to do? There's nothing - literally nothing - in the entire five floors of this shop that Ron would ever want in a million years. I did think of going away for a dirty weekend somewhere (what does any man want for Valentine's Day but lots and lots of sex, after all?) but I left it too late, and of course, it being Valentine's Day, everywhere was booked up months ago. Shame, because that would certainly have solved my present-buying dilemma.

I should point out that I haven't just left it until the last minute before going out to look for a present. You are talking to a girl who once bought all her friends talking homework planners for Christmas, remember? I am nothing if not organised. I've been scouring the magazines, the shops, and my own mind since before Christmas, certain that the perfect Valentine's present must exist, and that I must find it. I even asked my friends and family for advice, which was both fruitless and, well, mortifying. Last weekend I got so desperate I even spoke to Ron's mum about it under the pretext of helping her wash up after Sunday lunch.

Molly: "Cook him a wonderful meal. Food is the best way to a man's heart, you know. Especially a Weasley man's heart. You can't go wrong. I'll lend you some of Ron's favourite recipes if you like."

Good idea in theory. Unfortunately, as we've already established, I'm not much of a cook. Unless I'm going to serve it up wearing stockings and suspenders, which would at least be one way around the problem - distract him from the food Imade and then order a pizza afterwards! I don't mention this idea to Molly, of course. "Actually, Molly, how about I just throw your son down on the kitchen floor amongst the potato peelings, tear his trousers off, and shag him silly? Don't you think that's a much better way to a man's heart?"

Besides, I think Ron might wonder what he's let himself in for if he came home to find me in the kitchen wearing an apron and serving up one of his mum's recipes. I'm not his mother and I have no intention of turning into her, thank you very much. And I'm quite sure he doesn't want me to either.

Her other suggestion was equally unhelpful. "Knit him a scarf or a jumper." Frankly I rather suspect that after spending the first nineteen years of his life clad entirely in his mother's homemade knitwear, the very last thing Ron wants to see is yet another bloody hand-knitted jumper.

I asked my own mother for advice too. She can neither knit nor cook, so had rather more practical suggestions for me.

Me: "I want to do something original for Valentine's Day and I need your help."

Her: "Hermione, there is no such thing as "original" on Valentine's Day. Don't you think that over the century or so that men and women have been celebrating it, people have tried to be original and failed horribly? That's why they stick to the tried and tested options, like chocolates and champagne."

"What do you get Dad?"

"I don't get him anything. Oh, don't look at me like that, he doesn't get me anything either. Presents are for birthdays, Christmas, and our anniversary. We exchange cards, we have breakfast in bed if we're not working, and in the evening we have a nice meal at home, just the two of us. It's not hugely different from any other day, to be honest, but when you've been married twenty years, you do tend to run out of ideas. Neither of us wants to do anything too commercial, and restaurants just use it as an excuse to rip you off with some overpriced set menu full of things you wouldn't usually eat for a price you wouldn't usually pay. We'd both much rather stay at home and enjoy a nice quiet meal together, without having to shell out thirty pounds for a bottle of wine we could have bought for six pounds at the supermarket. And we don't have to listen to some dreadful "gypsy violinist" or put up with people trying to sell us "roses for the lady" while we're trying to eat.

"But when you were younger, didn't you ever do anything romantic?"

"What, before we were married and became dried-up old prunes, you mean? Look, you have to bear in mind we were twenty-six when we got together, we weren't teenagers. Those early years, we were adults with proper sensible, grown-up jobs. We worked long hours, too. If we managed to get a night off at the same time more than once a week, it was a miracle. But in answer to your question, yes, of course we did romantic things, we just did them on random dates throughout the year and not on the one day it seems to be compulsory. We had a moonlight picnic once, but I couldn't tell you what day of the year it was, or even what month. I don't imagine, however, that we would have had a moonlight picnic in mid-February; it's far too cold for that, especially in Norfolk."

"My advice to you is; stop trying to do something unique and impressive. The best way to show your love for each other is just to spend time together; it doesn't matter where you are or what you actually do on the day. You could be sitting in a bus shelter in the rain, and it wouldn't matter if you were with the right person. Well, actually, the best way to show your love for each other is to show it every single day of your lives and not just once a year because everyone else is doing it, but I imagine you already do that, don't you? Honestly, I see the way you two look at each other, and you don't have anything to worry about. Do you know what your father said to me, that first time you brought Ron round to the house and introduced him to us as your boyfriend? He said, 'He looks at her as though she's an angel sent from heaven and he can't believe his luck, and that's exactly the way a father wants a boy to look at his daughter.' More wine, darling?"

Yes, yes, that's all very well and good, but I don't want to spend our first proper Valentine's Day together sitting in a bus shelter in the rain. I want it to be special, I want it to be romantic, I want it to be unique and impressive, and memorable, and perfect. Maybe something abstract like a moonlight picnic would be the way to go, although as Valentine's Day is – aargh! tomorrow - I rather suspect I've left it too late to organise something like that now. Plus it really is freezing out there, so that pretty much rules out anything outdoors. And as for something indoors, every hotel and B & B and restaurant in the country will be booked solid this weekend. Basically, to borrow a phrase that my dear sweet boyfriend would probably use, I'm screwed.

I asked Ginny for advice too, although it was a short conversation, as there is not much in life more embarrassing than talking to your boyfriend's sister about your plans for "romance". For which read, lots and lots of sex, but with candles.

Me: "So, I was thinking about buying myself some nice underwear. You know, for Valentine's Day. Not that all of my underwear isn't nice, of course. Well, it's more practical than nice. I just mean, it's not… I mean... uh…"

Ginny, with her usual admirable ability to get straight to the heart of the matter: "You mean sexy underwear."

Me, blushing: "Yes."

"Isn't that his job?"

"Well, it's supposed to be, but can you seriously imagine Ron in a lingerie department?"

Ginny, dryly: "I'm trying not to."

"Anyway, really nice underwear is expensive. Ron hasn't got that kind of money. And is it really worth spending so much on something you might only wear a couple of times? And - well, I'm worried I'm going to feel stupid in it. I don't want him to laugh."

"I wouldn't worry about that. You might need to put a cushion down in case he faints, though."

"What if he buys me something really cheap and tacky-looking, like one of those nasty red lacy things from Ann Summers?"

Ginny, trying not to laugh: "Like what? Crotchless knickers?"

Ginny, as I may have stated before, is embarrassed about nothing.

Me, with a shudder: "Don't. Not even as a joke."

"Just be grateful if he manages not to buy you underwear in Cannons colours."

"Oh, God! It's going to be awful, isn't it? I'm going to have to pretend to like it, and he'll know that I don't, and -"

"And he'll never buy you underwear again, which is a result for everyone. Listen, you're getting yourself in a state over nothing. How long do you think you're actually going to be wearing it anyway? About three minutes, probably. I bet most blokes don't care if you're wearing something expensive and silky or something that comes in a pack of five for a Galleon. Most of the time they probably can't even tell the difference. Knickers, bras, stockings… they don't care what you're wearing or how much you spent, they just want to get you out of it as quickly as possible. You might as well save yourself a whole load of time, money and effort and just turn up naked!"

Yes, thank you, Ginny. Anyway, I thought about it and decided not to buy myself sexy underwear. I am oddly nervous at the thought that he might have done, though. We've only been sleeping together for four months. We're still - you know, learning. I've never dressed up for him before. The thought of it is pretty mortifying. But not quite as embarrassing as the fact that, as if asking his sister how to romance Ron on Valentine's Day wasn't bad enough, I also made the mistake of speaking to his sister-in-law Fleur about it. Probably because I, like everyone else, am suckered in by the whole ridiculous cliché about the French and romance.

Fleur: "Mon dieu, I can 'ardly think about romance at the moment! Bill and I 'ave not slept properly in months! If we can find a babysitter, the first thing we will do is go to bed and sleep for ten 'ours! But before we were married, Bill would meet me after work with flowers and take me to a romantic restaurant - once it was actually in Milan! And then he would give me some thoughtful romantic little present - jewellery, or lingerie - and take me dancing, and once we went on a river boat cruise on the Seine -"

Me: "But what did you do for him?"

"I do not understand what you mean."

"Well, did you buy him a present?"

"No, of course not. Valentine's Day is for the man to buy presents for the woman. You 'ave already given him a present by agreeing to marry 'im. Valentine's Day is your 'usband's chance to say merci for the gift of you."

The gift of you? Well, excuse me, but I am not a gift. I am a person. He doesn't have to thank me for agreeing to go out with him, as though I'm doing him some sort of big favour. I knew it was a waste of time asking Fleur for advice. Or anyone; no-one else knows Ron as well as I do, so what's the point in asking other people what he might want?

Oh, this is hopeless! Ginny's right; most men don't care about champagne and flowers and romance. They just want to get you out of your knickers as quickly as possible. I might as well save myself a lot of time and money and embarrassment and just spend the entire bloody weekend naked!

Oh, God.

I think I've just had a revelation.

Endnote:

Chapter 3 will be posted on Valentine's Day for your reading pleasure. Hope you enjoyed the story from Hermione's point of view, and please leave a review if you can - I'd love to know what you thought!

Pb x

p.s: Ann Summers, for those who don't know, is a British high street knicker emporium which sells unbelievably tacky polyester lingerie, wipe-clean naughty nurse outfits, Rampant Rabbits, etc, and is also where women planning hen nights buy their penis-shaped novelty drinking straws and pink plastic cowboy hats. It is not the sort of place a nice girl like Hermione would be seen dead in.