The Quidditch Player
Chapter 9
Saturday, 5 August 2006
It was nightfall.
The Bateaux Mouches excursion drifted quietly down the Seine, forging small waves the river eventually swallowed whole. Hermione leaned into Harry's side, comforted when he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. It had been nearly a week since Harry kissed her, and it was certainly a long one at that. For one horrifying second, she thought she dreamt the whole thing, the treacle tart nothing but a figment of her imagination. Harry's lettres d'amour proved otherwise, his short and sweet messages always arriving first thing in the morning, giving her some much-needed fuel so that she could power through the rest of the day. Mr Bagman suspected that she had finally gotten into the Quidditch spirit, the Quidditch World Cup days away.
I know you want England to win, bloody hell, we all do, but those reports aren't going to write themselves, are they? he demanded when he caught her nearly drooling over Harry's Quidditch poster, still one of many fixated on the wall. His Permanent Sticking Charm was cast perfectly.
But Mr Bagman wasn't totally wrong. Whilst she was inundated in the Quidditch furore, she wasn't focused on England winning. It was because of Harry, and that he happened to play for the English National Quidditch team, that had her excited for the final on Sunday. Memories of their kiss often derailed her train of thought, her mind taxiing him to the front of everything else she had going on at the moment. Yet, she wasn't complaining. Maybe it was a better use of her time, despite the hustle and bustle of the Department of Magical Games and Sports.
She was pleased that Harry had given her space to think. Running through her pro and con list more than a dozen times, she was well aware the positives of dating Harry easily outweighed the negatives. A bonus was that Harry's was vastly different from Julien's, the latter a Billy no-mates who only had Lala and his young children to endlessly prattle on about France's 1998 FIFA World Cup win. Conversely, talking to Harry was like talking to a really good friend, something Hermione was rather poor in. She never grew tired of him, even if some of their exchanges were Quidditch related. Harry seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say, listening to her with rapt attention.
When the Grand Palais came into view, its glass barrel-vaulted roof a fiery red, matching the hair colour of the Weasleys, Harry asked, "Wasn't the top of that thing blue last night?"
"I think so," Hermione nodded. The building looked like an enchanting winter fortress under the cobalt complexion. "But I like the red better. It fits the season and all." She saw the flag of France atop it dance in a warm breeze.
He scoffed, "Like we should have another reason to feel warm."
"You still are, are you?" When he didn't reply, she said, "Well, you shouldn't be. Cooling Charms should've done the trick."
"Maybe it was the witch who cast them."
"I'll have you know that Charms are a specialty of mine. It was my favourite subject at Beauxbatons, the one I was best in. How about you? What were you best in at Hogwarts?"
"Quidditch," he answered speedily.
"I was referring to your classes," Hermione said matter-of-factly.
"Flying Lessons with Madam Hooch went well," Harry replied. When she pursed her lips at him, he laughed, "What? They did go well!"
"What about those that you had inside?" she pressed.
"Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"Really?"
He nodded, "I managed to get an Outstanding on my Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. In fifth year, Ron and I set up a defense club to teach anyone who wanted to learn more than we did in lessons."
"What about your professor?"
"She was the worst of the worst," Harry said bitterly, showing her the back of his right hand.
Hermione squinted at the fading red letters but was still able to make out I must not tell lies.
"I had to do lines during detention," he explained.
"They were carved into the back of your hand?" she asked, outraged. "That's totally barbaric! Who was this woman?"
"Dolores Umbridge," Harry answered. "But don't get too angry. She's currently serving a life sentence in Azkaban Prison for what she did to Muggle-borns during the war. She was in charge of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, forcing them to register with the Ministry of Magic. They underwent interrogations into how they supposedly stole their magic from real witches and wizards. At the end of the day, many had their wands stripped and were arrested for good measure."
"How ridiculous!" Hermione exclaimed wildly, drawing the attention of an elderly couple in front of them. The woman stared at her coldly before turning around to face the front. The horrors of war were still being revealed years later after being kept cloak-and-dagger by a big girl's blouse, or perhaps an entire horde of them. It was like the reign of terror that Nazis imposed over those deemed not part of the pure Aryan race under the Third Reich. "A life sentence seems far too painless for this Umbridge woman," she said, albeit more quietly than before.
"I agree," he said. "She should've been given the Dementor's Kiss for all of her troubles."
"Singing wood nymphs would've been more preferable."
Harry laughed loudly at this, making the elderly woman turn around once again. This time, her glare was fixated on Harry. If looks could kill, the English National Quidditch team would be without a seeker for tomorrow's final. If that happened, Hermione presumed Oliver Wood would die of shock.
They passed the Musée d'Orsay, light bleeding out of the arched windows as the Bateaux Mouches crept past it. Hermione remembered visiting the art museum with her parents when they first moved to Paris, engrossed in Vincent van Gogh's Starry Night Over the Rhône. It was a painting of Arles at night, a coastal city and commune in the South of France, depicting lovers on the banks of the River Rhône whilst behind them, gleaming gas lamps lengthened across the quiet waters. She yawned into her hand, the clock towers on the outside telling her it was later than she expected.
"Tired?" Harry asked her.
"We were busy at the office all week," she said. "I think I put in more hours than is allowed."
"But don't you find Paris exciting?"
"The countryside's better," Hermione declared.
"That's right," he said, looking at her. "I almost forgot that you don't like big cities."
"What can I say? They're all extremely overcrowded. Forgive me if I want to keep some of my sanity intact."
"Then you must've loved Beauxbatons, far away in the Pyrenees Mountains, right?"
"It was a wonderful château, surrounded by formal gardens and lawns, with fountains around every corner," she sighed, thoughtful. "Aside from the library, studying outside was rehabilitating."
"Sounds like it," Harry agreed. "Hogwarts is nice, being in the Scottish Highlands and all, but the whole time I was there, I barely paid any attention to the scenery. I'm not a nature enthusiast by any means, but I regret not doing so now."
"Do you miss it?" Hermione asked.
Running his hand through his tousled hair, he said, "Kind of. It's like part of me does and part of me doesn't."
"Would you ever consider going back?"
"And do what? Retake my N.E.W.T.s?"
"I was thinking about teaching, particularly that defense club you put together."
"That was different," Harry waved off.
"But you liked it, didn't you?"
After a moment, he said, "I guess I did," though sounded unsure. "I never really thought about it before."
"What kind of spells did you go over?"
"Loads," Harry replied. "We started with some easy ones, like the Disarming Charm and the Full Body-Bind Curse. After the holidays, we started on the Patronus Charm."
Hermione stared at him and asked, "You were able to cast a corporeal Patronus as a fifth year?"
"I learned when I was thirteen," he said.
"Thirteen?!" she repeated, aghast. "That's advanced magic!"
"Hang on, are you telling me that the incredibly intelligent Hermione Granger can't cast the Patronus Charm herself?"
"No, but I can hex you silly."
Harry grinned, "Here? Doing so would risk the International Statute of Secrecy."
"If you keep pushing it, I'll take my chances."
The Bateaux Mouches took them by the Institut de France, its bowed wings brought together by the College Chapel in the center, the latter topped by a circular dome on the outside and an oval on the inside. It housed one of Hermione's favourite places, the Bibliothèque Mazarine, or the Mazarine Library. Over the summer holiday, she was often found hogging a bench on the Pont des Arts Bridge, one that led to the central square of the Palais du Louvre, consuming book after book as day turned to night. Unfortunately, rats soon invaded the bridge, and just as her luck would have it, they congregated under the same bench as her, scavenging for scraps of her chocolate éclair.
Last night after dinner, Hermione took Harry to Place Cachée where they bought an assortment of bonbons at Confiserie Enchantée de K. Rammelle, a confectionary shop whose owner reminded her of an even more zany Willy Wonka. Between them, the bonbons went extinct by the time they retired to her parents' flat in the 16th arrondissement, Harry responsible for a majority of them. He claimed they were almost as good as treacle tart, only that the pudding would always have a special place in his heart. With their bellies full of food and sweets, they turned on the Wizarding Wireless she had brought with her. They listened as Glenda Chittock, host of the ever-popular Witching Hour, applaud the roaring conclusion of Celestina Warbeck's most recent tour, the Thunderous Sorceress, completely ignoring reports of a three-broomstick crash over the River Mersey in Liverpool that required those involved to be checked into hospital. As her most popular song played, You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me, Harry told her that, according to the gossip columnists, Celestina Warbeck was supposed to attend the Quidditch World Cup with her band of banshees. That was when Hermione remembered the other bit of poppycock that Harry was none too happy about.
"Is Rita Skeeter really supposed to be on commentary tomorrow night?" she asked.
"Trust me, I'd rather have anyone else but her. She'll probably spend most of the match promoting those books of hers."
"Maybe she'll surprise us and won't be that bad."
Harry rolled his eyes and said, "That'll be the day. I'd rather have Ludo call the Quidditch World Cup like he did in 1994. At least he knew what he was talking about."
"What about the Bulgarian fans who don't speak English?" Hermione asked. "Surely they won't appreciate Rita Skeeter any."
"Usually what happens is that depending on the countries that make it to the final, their respective languages will be transmitted on opposite sides of the stadium via the Amplifying Charm. This was introduced in the seventeenth century when non-European teams were allowed to participate in the Quidditch World Cup for the first time. So, English fans have been designated half the stadium and Bulgarian fans the other half."
"You don't expect any skirmishes similar to what happened with Wilda Griffiths, do you?"
"England and Bulgaria don't have the type of animosity that Puddlemere United and the Holyhead Harpies do. But I wouldn't be surprised if the mascots have at it."
"What mascots are you talking about?"
Harry smiled, "You'll see."
Notre-Dame loomed, the slits in the north and south towers like two pairs of tall, skinny eyes watching the Bateaux Mouches swim closer. The West Rose window exalted the tips of the nearby trees, whilst the portals of the Virgin, Last Judgement, and St Anne could be seen below the branches. Hermione recalled visiting Notre-Dame yesterday with Harry. The weather was comfortable and nearing sunset, the sky washed in pink and yellow. After admiring the Point Zéro des Routes de France reference, they climbed the three hundred and eighty-seven steps of the north tower, enclosed in a tight, stone stairwell. They took a narrow walkway to the south tower and up a corkscrew staircase to the viewing platform atop it.
They didn't say much at the time, the mere presence of the other more than enough to fill the silences. Uneventful as it may have been, it was one of Hermione's favourite memories of her time with Harry. It felt strangely domesticated, like they were any normal English couple visiting the infamous tourist attractions of Paris, the added avoirdupois Harry's reputation usually carried momentarily suspended. The simplicity of it all was attractive, sensing that he felt the same. It was intimate, a time when her feelings for Harry spiked precipitously. Though she was lacking in the department of relationship experience, Julien being the only blip on that defunct radar, she had never felt closer to anyone else than she did then, and it was on top of Notre-Dame that it had happened. Depending on the outcome of the Quidditch World Cup, it was likely there would be plenty of parties clamouring for Harry's attention without delay.
"Don't suppose you've picked up the latest edition of Witch Weekly, have you?" Hermione asked him.
"What's the gimmick this time around, asking their readers whether they think Jaffa cakes are actually biscuits in disguise?"
"Everyone knows that they're cakes, even if Her Majesty's Customs and Excise thought the opposite."
"Despite the department's dissolution last year, I don't think McVitie's would've welcomed the VAT they were supposed to levy if they were deemed one instead of the other," Harry said, the corners of his mouth quirking upward. "Why the sudden interest in Witch Weekly?"
"A couple of tarts were giggling a little too loudly inside Flourish and Blotts last week," Hermione replied. "I was tempted to cast the Bat-Bogey Hex at the lot of them. Ginny told me it was her specialty."
"Let's just say that she put it to good use with some of the more unpleasant people at Hogwarts."
"The article in question wondered whether you were immune to love potions, namely Amortentia."
Harry rolled his eyes and said, "I can't wait until someone else comes along so that they can be front-page news for that Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly fodder. Maybe I'll be able to get a bit of privacy then." He shifted in his seat and curled his arm around Hermione's shoulders again, drawing her closer to him. Without warning, he kissed the side of her head, letting his soft lips linger on the spot. When he did, her body tingled as if wasps of electricity stung her all over. Her heart blazed under the arches of the Château de Chenonceau, the waters of the River Cher kindled by the starry night up above. Her temple where he had kissed was forever marked as private property. It was a blanket on a cold night, tucking her in and protecting her from the bitter wind. When she looked over at him, his eyes were alight as they often were nowadays, green torches that burned against the Paris skyline behind him. "So far, you're the only person those sausage wrappers haven't gotten any information on. It won't stay that way for long, but it's been a nice departure in the meantime."
"You don't think it'll last?"
"No," he said, seeming to be sure of himself.
"Why?"
"Because if England wins the Quidditch World Cup, the first thing I'm going to do is snog you in front of the entire stadium."
Hermione giggled, something she rarely did, if at all. The elderly couple was still in front of them and every so often, she saw the woman regarding them on the edge of her periphery, that is when she wasn't fussing with the pearls wrapped around her neck. Hermione supposed the woman thought she was being clever, but she really wasn't. It was more of a nuisance than anything else.
"What if England loses?" she asked, intrigued.
There was no delay when Harry said, "If England loses the Quidditch World Cup, the first thing I'm going to do is snog you in front of the entire stadium."
The smile was still on her face when she replied, "So what you're saying is that no matter if England wins or loses, you're going to kiss me regardless?"
"Not kiss, snog," he corrected.
"What's the difference between the two?"
"This is a kiss," he said, taking her by surprise when he demonstrated what a Harry Potter kiss was like. Quick though it was, Hermione felt a little lightheaded when it was over. Dare she say their kiss was better than the first, sweeter even with the treacle tart they had consumed just before?
"And a snog?" she asked next, feeling ticklish.
He grinned and answered, "It's a little more involved."
"You don't need to practice any?"
Harry glanced around and said, "Probably best not to."
"Why?" was Hermione's response, trying not to feel disappointed.
He leaned close and whispered, "Because the woman in front of us looks ready to throw us overboard any second now, no matter her age."
"You don't think a stadium-full of people will be different, especially for those that are supporting Bulgaria?"
"It'll be too bad for them because I won't care one way or the other."
"A bit rebellious, are you?"
"I can when I need to be."
Excitement from fellow passengers drew their attention to the Eiffel Tower, an empyrean campanile which the locals refer to as la Dame de Fer, Harry's favourite collection of French words since they were the only ones he knew. A thunderstorm of cameras flashed as a plump woman led an unnecessarily large stampede to one side of the Bateaux Mouches to get a better shot. Whilst other stood on chairs to get a glimpse of the iconic structure, Harry and Hermione kept to their seats.
Hermione had seen it several times before, taking a lift to the top on her previous visits, but was left unimpressed by it all. She didn't know why she felt like this and figured the Eiffel Tower fell under the once was enough category. She knew Parisians felt the same and wondered how many thought to go to the Eiffel Tower in the first place. Sure, it was a staple of France and renowned the world over, but even she thought that there were better aspects of Paris than that of a single monument, one that was simply a magnet for tourists. Her parents thought the same and conceptualised in their heads that all of Paris was one massive tourist trap, believing the best parts of France dwelled outside the capital city where many never ventured. This was the reason her dad had purchased a guidebook that explored the deeper pockets of L'Hexagone. Their travels to such places as Annecy, Eguisheim, and Lourmarin were memories Hermione cherished above everything else. Of course, there was Mont Saint-Michel as well, a medieval marvel whose towers and turrets soared over the tides to give off the impression of a castle in a fairy tale of old. Maybe that was why she favoured the quietness of Godric's Hollow to the London turmoil.
"For what it's worth, I think you'll do great," Hermione said.
Harry was quiet before he replied, "Good enough to win?"
"That's difficult to answer considering I don't know how well Viktor Krum plays."
"We're pretty even," he said, "but he's got more experience than me, having been to two Quidditch World Cups already."
The Eiffel Tower was slowly slipping by them, the cameras still flashing noisily. Hermione saw the elderly couple elbow their way to the front of the group that were taking pictures, the woman having the audacity to step on the toes of a small child that happened to be in her way. A blood-curling scream was emitted directly afterwards, making those nearby cover their ears. Hermione briefly remembered the riotous peacock in the atrium the morning she was late to work. For her part, the woman snapped several images before simpering back to her husband, who chose to tend to the child, rubbing his back in comforting circles. She all but dragged him away, taking a detour to distance herself from Harry and Hermione. Her husband's complaints that she was yanking his shoulder out of its socket fell on deaf ears, paying him little attention as she sat down pleasantly, dusting off her clothes as if there was dirt on it.
"I don't think she likes us very much," Harry commented, stretching out his legs in front of him. His shirt hiked up a bit and Hermione fleetingly caught a glimpse of his grey boxer shorts, mostly hidden under a pair of black jeans. Pity that he hadn't thought to put on his navy-blue ones.
"We're likely to never see her again."
"Maybe she'll be at the Quidditch World Cup whilst her husband's recovering in hospital from his shoulder injury. She might even have a seat directly in front of you."
Hermione snorted, "In that case, the Bat-Bogey Hex might come into good use."
"We may have been too loud."
"That's rich! It's not like everyone else is being quiet."
It was true. There was a collection of conversations around them, many in languages Hermione had never heard before. She figured it would probably be the same at the Quidditch World Cup. Not only were English and Bulgarian fans converging on the Dordogne Valley tomorrow, but witches and wizards from all over the world would be there as well. Quidditch was a universal medium that rendered communication barriers trivial as it was played the same in one country after another. Though Hermione didn't understand why Quidditch was loved by so many people, the truth of the matter was that she didn't have to. Bob's your uncle, Fanny's your granny, and all of that other rubbish.
Without a doubt, there was a lot more to it as the British and Irish Quidditch League Complex was of the utmost importance to the British and Irish Quidditch League. Hermione also had a stake to claim with Harry promising to snog her in front of the entire stadium if England won or Harry promising to snog her in front of the entire stadium if England lost. Obviously, she preferred the former option than the latter, particularly because of Oliver Wood's vow. The captain of the English National Quidditch team told them that in the event that they come up short, they should prepare for a nice little holiday at St Mungo's. But Harry snogging her was a win-win situation, no matter how she looked at it.
The Bateaux Mouches continued on, the waters of the Seine flowing underneath it. Harry let Hermione burrow her head into the crook of his neck like a missing puzzle piece that fit perfectly in place. She supposed others aboard might think that they were lovers. In a way, they were. In another way, they weren't, at least, not yet. They had only known each other for a couple of months. It was too short of a time to have made a decision on love. But her feelings for Harry were there, existing in the same space as his feelings for her. For now, she was content to let it be.
Tout est bien qui finit bien.
All's well that ends well.
A/N: I would just like to say that the treacle tart recipe in the previous chapter is real! However, I haven't given it a go. I hope you enjoyed this latest installment. Thanks for reading.