Naturally by effectivelyabsent

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 08/06/2003
Last Updated: 13/06/2003
Status: In Progress

Hermione's set up a guideline to dictate her relationship with Harry, who's not going to
stand for it much longer. Post-Hogwarts, Harry POV, ProfessionalQuidditch!Harry, and the Trio
sharing a flat.




1. Golf and Quidditch
---------------------

Here’s some post-Hogwarts, relatively fluffy goodness for ya. This first chapter is an amalgam
of a few different ideas I had bouncing around in my head and just had to get out. They were all
sort of separately formed and rather distinct, but I wanted to put them all somewhere and they
ended up here, so you’ll have to excuse me if this beginning is a little long-winded and random.
I’ll try and be less sporadic in the future. I swear. Oh and I don’t know/understand the British
currency system, wizarding or muggle, so if the bit in the middle is wrong/doesn’t make sense, drop
me an e-mail and I’ll fix it. I tried with the Brit speak, so as to avoid being Brit-picked (which
is oddly fun), but I’m sure I messed that up too. My brain goes to the bathroom, not the loo, I can
only override it when I catch it. :o)

-- jamie (with a shiny new livejournal courtesy of my brother’s code - http://www.livejournal.com/users/jamieabsent.
Something else to play with! Wooohooo!)

disclaimer. . .nope, it’s not me. They’re not mine.

-------------------

Golf is for wankers.

Seriously, this is the stupidest activity I’ve ever had the displeasure of participating in. And
from what I can glean, this isn’t even actual “golf,” this is practice.

“Oi! Can we go now? This is a bloody awful way to spend an afternoon.”

I hear Hermione swing and connect solidly in the next stall over and turn to glare at her,
*she* seems to be enjoying herself as much as Ron. Righting herself after her swing, she rests
her forearm on the top of her club and rolls her eyes at me, “You’re only in such a foul mood
because you’re no good at it.”

“That’s not true. I’m in a foul mood because –”

“Wicked!” Ron shouts, interrupting me, cupping his hand over the top of his eyebrows as he tries
to follow his ball’s progress.

“Did you guys see that? That was with my 7 steel!”


“Your 7 IRON, Ron. Iron.” Hermione corrects him, grinning, and turns to put her own club back in
her bag. “Other than confusing the terminology, you’re doing fantastic! You’ll be ready for this
meeting before you know it!”

Ah, yes, the meeting. The reason I’m in this veritable hell.

Ron, acting on behalf of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, has been sent to buy land from a muggle. The
muggle, an older man with thick gray hair, had inherited a prime piece of property in the middle of
wizard London from his great aunt Edna. Why a witch would leave magical land to a distant muggle
relative is beyond me. The Weasley’s have decided they want to put their newest shop on that exact
piece of real estate and Ron was sent to do business with him.

The man insisted they hold their meeting on a golf course, explaining that his Thursday
afternoons were ALWAYS spent on the golf course and if Ron wanted to see him, well, then, he’d have
to be on the golf course, too.

Blasted muggles.

Ron was frantic, having no idea what golf was. But Hermione, the daughter of muggle dentists and
apparently avid golfers, had patiently said that she had played as a child and would be happy to
teach him enough so as not to embarrass himself and potentially spoil the deal.

And that brings us here. To the “driving range.”

Yes, to the drive-you-absolutely-bonkers-with-its-dullness range.

Hermione and Ron seem to be having a good enough time.

I am not.

So far I’ve “whiffed” (Hermione and her tutorials, how in god’s name could Ron possibly forget
anything to do with golf-speak after the grueling lesson we had over breakfast? Eagles and birdies
are for procuring quills from, they are NOT relevant as scores under ‘par’) about 37 times. The
club has slipped out of my hands no less than 8 times, actually going farther than the ball 6
times. The only thing I’ve legitimately hit is a bug that was flying around and all that got me was
a remark from Hermione about hurting “innocent creatures.”

This game can sod the hell off.

“I’m going to find something to drink, either of you want anything?”

“Whatever you’re having is fine,” Ron said, sending another ball whizzing through the air.

“I’ll have a pop, if you don’t mind.” Hermione answered and I nodded, heading toward the
building we’d purchased the balls from.

Going round the front, I saw three young boys sitting at a table with a sign on it that said
“Lemonade – 5 sickles,” sickles had been hastily crossed out and replaced with “shillings.”

I eyed them for a minute, did a quick check for muggles, and walked up to the table, “Are you
still taking sickles as well?”

The littlest boy’s eyes got very wide, while the older two started whispering hurriedly to each
other, those two looked to be about 11, and the younger one about 6. The one on the end, with the
blonde hair, pulled back from the other boy, looked at me and said rather anxiously, “We, uh, we
don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I grinned at them, pulling a galleon from my pocket and casually tossing it up and down in the
air. The little boy with the wide eyes made a muffled squeak and the blonde followed the galleon
with his head for a bit before speaking again, “Well, er, that coin, uh, whatever it is, because
it’s not anything I’ve ever seen before, um, EVER, looks pretty valuable, and since we’re saving
up, er, we could, um, probably take it.”

This was fun, much better than that monstrosity of a sport being played not too far away, these
poor kids looked really nervous.

“Oh, you’re saving up? For what?”

The other of the older boys blurted out, “He’s saving up for a broomstick!” and then promptly
clamped his hands over his mouth, looking horrified. The blonde elbowed him hard and sputtered,
“Yeah, a broomstick, I, uh, I like cleaning a lot.”

“It’s for cleaning? You’re sure it’s not for flying?”

The littlest boy seemed to be appraising me, he looked me up and down, and nodded his head as if
he’d decided something. “Of course it’s for flying. Billy’s gonna play quidditch.”

‘Billy’ went pale, and hissed “Shut it.”

But the little one was on a roll, “No, YOU shut it, Billy. Look at his shirt, that’s a
Puddlemere whaddyacallit, er, logo.”

I smiled, proud of the little guy.

Billy and the middle boy perked up, “Hi, uh, sir, I’m Billy, this is Louis, and that runt down
there is Derek.” Derek stuck his tongue out.

I laughed at being called ‘sir,’ “Nice to meet you. So, quidditch huh? Are you at Hogwarts?”

“Not yet, we’ll be first years in September,” Louis answered.

“First years? Pretty hard to make your house team as a first year.”

Billy sat up straighter in his chair, “Sure, hard, but not impossible. Harry Potter did it and
I’m a MUCH better flyer than Harry Potter.”

I casually brought my hand up to my forehead and brushed hair down over my scar, hiding it, “You
are, are you?”

“Sure am, my dad said I was born to ride a broom, ‘sides, Harry Potter played seeker, I’m gonna
be a chaser. Much harder to handle the quaffle the whole game, than just circle around above it,
looking for the snitch.”

Trying not to smile, I said, “Doesn’t Potter play for Puddlemere now?”

“Yeah, he does, he’s no where near as good as their last seeker though. The Cannons could
probably beat them now.”

Well, that smarted a little. The Cannons most certainly could NOT beat us.

“You think so? I don’t know, I reckon Potter’s holding his own.”

“No way,” Billy was really getting into it now, “he’s too wild. My dad says he’s ‘raw.’ He never
catches the snitch easily, it’s always a battle.”

“Well, catching the snitch isn’t easy,” I said defensively.

“Eh, I don’t know. Seems a lot easier than getting the quaffle through the hoop. There’s no
keeper protecting the snitch.”

“But it’s wicked fast and damn near impossible to catch,” my Wood impression lost on the
kids.

“I guess. Look mister, we’ve got to be home before sundown and we’re out of lemonade, so I guess
we should get going. It was nice talking to you.”

I suddenly very much wanted to contribute to this kid’s broom fund, any 11 year old that would
openly critique the ‘youngest seeker in a century’ at least deserved a go at making the house
team.

“Well, how about I buy those paper cups from you? That way we’d each get something and you’d be
closer to your broom.”

“The cups? What do you want with those?”

I sighed, slightly exasperated, “I don’t know. Er, uh, I used the last of the cups at my house
this morning and my flatmates get mad if I don’t replace them.”

Louis piped up, “Is it your girlfriend that gets mad? My brother’s girlfriend always yells at
him for not putting things back where they belong.”

I thought of all the times Hermione had yelled at me for leaving dishes in the sink or not
refilling the napkin dispenser. And she was a girl. And a friend. I was already deceiving the kids
about who I was, why not add a little wishful thinking in? Besides, it was close to being the
truth.

“Yeah, my girlfriend.”

“What’s her name?”

“Hermione.”

“Is she-”

Billy butted in, “All right, we’ll sell you the cups.” He looked around shiftily and then at the
pocket I had put the galleon away in, “Those are more than 5 sickles though. And we don’t have
change.”

I laughed, unable to comprehend that an 11 year old was capable of such devious thinking, “Well,
a galleon should cover it, right?”

Billy tried, failingly, for casual, “Er, yeah, that should.”

I pulled the galleon out of my pocket and flipped it to them, grabbing my cups off the
table.

I almost turned to go, but decided to mess with them just one more time, bending down,
ostensibly to re-tie my shoe, my forehead was at their eye level and I brought a hand up like I was
swatting at a bug that had landed in my hair. A few more swats at the ‘bug’ and my hair was
standing on end, leaving my scar in plain sight.

I heard Derek suck in a breath and looked up to see Billy turning a delightful shade of red, I
bid them good evening and walked back to the range, hearing murmurs of “Do you know who that was?”
and “I can’t believe you called him a bad player!” at my back.

-_-_-_-_-

“Harry! Where have you been? I was getting worried.”

“And I was getting thirsty,” Ron said.

“Er, sorry guys, I forgot to get drinks, I can go now if you’d like.”

“No, that’s fine, we’re just finishing up anyhow. What are those cups in your hand? Are those
the cups from the little boys out front? Harry, what did you do to those boys?”

“Why do you assume I did anything to those boys? Besides, the blonde one was disparaging my
life’s work.”

“He was disparaging killing Voldemort? Was he a death eater?” I loved Ron like a brother, but
sometimes he was a little out there.

“He was 11.”

“So?”

“No, he wasn’t disparaging the victory over Voldemort, he was making fun of my quidditch
skills.”

“And that gives you the right to steal his cups?”

“I didn’t steal his cups. I bought them. Thank you very much for your faith in my integrity,
Hermione.”

“Why did you buy cups?”

“Because they were out of lemonade,” realizing how inane that sounded, I threw in, “and besides,
look at the size of them, they’re perfect for Floo Shots.”

“Good call, mate! Angie loves those!”

Ah, yes, Angie. Undoubtedly Ron’s better half. I really thought he started dating her just to
break up with her. Wait, that didn’t make much sense, I’ll explain. Hermione and I had vowed, upon
our all moving in together, that we would educate Ron in the fantastic music muggles had to offer.
He was resistant at first, insisting that anything muggles did, wizards could do ten times better,
but we persisted and finally broke him. He was really getting into the Rolling Stones when he met
Angie and I swore up and down that he started dating her just so he could sing that song and break
up with her. I was wrong, they’ve been together for 10 months now, but he does sing the song,
twisting the words to fit his whims, and belting out “Aaaangie” in the shower at all hours of the
morning.

“Yes, we know, Ron.” Hermione said, obviously recalling the last time Angie had been around Floo
Shots and the stumbling, drunk duet of the aforementioned song that followed. And the stumbling,
drunk moans that came from Ron’s room shortly thereafter.

I always blush at that memory, though from the look of Hermione right now, she doesn’t remember
what else went on that night.

We almost kissed.

This close. Seriously.

Quick back story - at the end of seventh year I sat her down in the common room and told her I
loved her. Do you know what her response was to that? ‘Ok.’ She fucking said ‘ok.’ She then
proceeded to explain how we were now taking the first step toward her gift to me. I thought she’d
gone mad, she was alluding and being vague like crazy, but here’s what it comes down to: Hermione
wanted to give me normal. She thought I hadn’t had enough ‘normal’ in my life and she was going to
have our relationship be ‘normal.’ We were going to let it happen naturally. As if seven years of
friendship turning into a romantic relationship wasn’t natural. We weren’t going to actively pursue
it, we were just going to let it happen. Naturally.

‘Naturally’ has taken an entire fucking year.

We weren’t going anywhere, until that night two weeks ago. Ron and Angie had finally quieted
down and Hermione and I were cleaning up the flat after the havoc the two of them had wreaked on
it. She bent for the same cup I did and we turned to speak and our lips were so close and I could
feel her breath on my face and I was thinking, “If this isn’t ‘natural,’ I don’t what is,” and she
moved in and I tilted my head and then there was huge THUD. We sprang apart, the moment lost.

Ron had fallen out of bed.

At least it was progress. And now I had the whole off-season to build on it, without road trips
and rowdy beaters and horny bi-sexual chasers to deal with.

All right, I’m going to detour a bit here and explain the workings of a quidditch team, or at
least, the workings of Puddlemere United, off the field. You are expected to socialize with your
team. You are expected to accompany them to whatever pub the town you’re in this week has to offer.
You are expected to be as lewd and crass as the rest of the lot. You are expected to shag like
crazy.

These expectations are not exactly fitting for one in love with their best friend.

So, here’s how to get around it, or rather, how *I* got around it.

My first game with Puddlemere was a road game. I didn’t know a single person on the whole team
or in the town, including the roommate I was assigned for the week. Roommate, whose name I found
out was Pete, sauntered out of the shower at 7:30 in the evening, scrubbing his hair with a towel
and told me I “better hurry up if I wanted to be ready on time.” Stupidly, I asked what I was to be
ready for, practice was long over and the game wasn’t actually for two days. “Ready for the real
world of professional quidditch, of course. Beer and broads.” Not wanting to alienate myself from
my team so early on, I did as told and got ready, figuring I could have a couple of beers, get to
know my teammates a bit and go home.

Didn’t quite work out like that.

Turns out, when I’m nervous and in a pub, I drink. A lot.

I ended up more drunk than I’d ever been in my entire life (which wasn’t saying much,
considering I’d only been good and truly drunk twice – graduation and after Voldemort’s fall). I
found myself on the makeshift dance floor dancing with a witch whose name I didn’t even know, but
who smelled good. I remember seeing Pete out of the corner of my eye give me a thumbs-up and go
back to dancing with the plump girl whose father owned the pub. I think she kissed me after that.
Or I kissed her. I remember flashes after that- her sucking on my neck, me kissing hers, which was
damp with sweat. I remember Pete calling out loudly, “That’s my roommate! That’s our seeker!” and
hooting. I have no idea how long this groping and pawing and kissing went on for, but at some point
she pulled back and said, “I think that’s enough.”

And we sort of just left each other.

Pete came up and clapped me on the back, “Ready to go back to the room, champ?” I must’ve agreed
and though I only remember the beginning of the walk back to the hotel, I have to assume I stayed
mobile throughout it. Next thing I know, I’m waking up earlier than Merlin and rushing to toss my
biscuits. After alternately staring at the ceiling, trying to settle my stomach and praying at the
loo for a few hours, Pete woke up and congratulated me on my night. “Way to go with Kelly,
mate!”

I didn’t go out for the rest of the week, but I had established myself on the team- I knew how
to have a good time.

That was it. That was all I had to do. From then on, I’d go out with them once a trip and even
though I didn’t repeat that first night in any shape, I was still a “dog” like the rest of them, at
least in their eyes. I realized a couple months later that I was going to have to do a little
better than that and made a point to at least talk to some of the girls I encountered. The team
assumed that if I was leaving with a girl, I was going to shag her. Really we were going outside to
apparate back to our own SEPARATE homes or to have a cigarette. What the team didn’t know couldn’t
hurt them and I’ve maintained the respect of the team while simultaneously pining away for
Hermione.

And now I’m away from all that and near Hermione.

And we’re still at the bloody driving range.

“You done now, Ron?”

“Yes, yes, I’m done. No need to get your knickers in a bunch just because you’re not the best at
something for a change.”

He’s grinning at me.

Why does everyone assume I hate this because I suck at it? I hate it because IT sucks.

. . . And maybe a little because I don’t do it well. No need to let them know that though.

“Oh yes, Ron, you’ve mastered golf and wizard’s chess, you’re the king of cool now.”

“Sod off.” He gave me a look that told me I’d be paying for that remark.

Hermione cleared her throat, “All right, let’s go,” and she started hoisting the bag of clubs up
on her shoulder.

‘Naturally’ I take it from her and we head off.

Ron and Hermione are chatting about putting when we come upon the boys from earlier packing up
their table, I hear them murmuring, “Is that her? Is that who he was talking about?” Derek shouts
out, “Hermione!” and when she turns to look, he’s already back talking to Billy and Louis, “Yep,
she looked! That’s Harry Potter’s girlfriend!”

I speed up, hoping Hermione didn’t hear that and we reach the apparation point before you can
say “bogie.”

-------------------

Well, that’s the end of the first chapter. Congratulations if you made it this far! Feel free to
review or e-mail me.

-- jamie



2. Smirks and Kicks
-------------------

Well, this chapter isn’t as long as the first, I didn’t have as much randomness to scatter
throughout it. I can’t believe how many reviews I got! I really thought I was going to catch flak
for jumping around.

-- jamie

-------------------

Back in the flat and blessedly away from muggles with metal sticks, I watch Ron glance at the
clock and make a noise that sounds suspiciously like, “eeek!”

“I’m supposed to meet Angie for dinner in 10 minutes!” He runs into his room and is back with
his cloak before Hermione or I can even say a word.

“You two gonna be all right on your own? I know it was my night to cook.” He reaches in his
pocket and pulls out a handful of coins, throwing them at us, “There, that should cover some
take-away or something. I’m off, have fun, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” and with a smirk in my
direction and a soft *pop*, he’s gone.

Ron and that damnable smirk.

I know exactly what it means. It means, ‘Well, here’s another shot alone with Hermione, it’s not
like anything is going to happen though, because you’re both absolutely crazy, in addition to being
crazy for each other, and you idiot, I’m going to come home tonight good and snogged and you’re
going to be sitting on the couch watching muggle satellite football, in Spanish no less, eating the
frozen yogurt Hermione insists on stocking instead of ice cream, having still not pushed your
‘naturally progressing’ relationship any further and why don’t you just sit down and talk to her
already?!”

Well, er, maybe it doesn’t mean *exactly* that, but close enough.

I guess it could also mean that he’s thought of some ridiculous way to avenge my golf/chess
comment.

If that’s the case, I best start hiding everything I own, lest he tamper with it. A few months
ago at dinner, Hermione and I made the mistake of telling Angie about the time in 5th
year that he accidentally drank veritaserum and confessed to a slight attraction to McGonagall in a
“you know, matronly, wonder-what-she-was-like-when-she-was-young sort of way.” Needless to say he
couldn’t come up with anything more embarrassing about either of us to announce to the restaurant
and he vowed revenge.

He got it.

In the most innocuous of places.

Our shaving foam.

Due, doubtless, to the influence his brothers were having on his sense of humor, he put a spell
on Hermione’s to actually grow hair instead of helping to get rid of it. She told me with every
swipe of the razor, her legs got harrier and harrier. She couldn’t wear a skirt for a week.

He put some sort of make-up potion in mine. I started lathering up and felt my skin tingling and
watched as the foam slithered higher up my face, eventually covering it. When I wiped it off, my
entire face was coated in make up- eye shadow, lipstick, some shimmery crap, the whole bit, I spent
the day looking like Ziggy fucking Stardust. When it wore off, I refused to shave for an entire two
weeks, fearful of a repeat performance. I had a pretty thick beard going until Hermione dragged me
to the shop on the corner, purchased brand-new (and therefore, untouched by Ron) shaving foam and
perched on the sink, watching me, until I’d shaved the whole “hideously wretched” thing off. Some
Prophet reporter had taken a picture of me with it and I guess Remus saw it in the paper, because a
few days after Hermione’s attack on my beard, I received an owl carrying a razor, foam, and a piece
of parchment that simply said, “I will not have you looking like your godfather. . . Merlin knows
his facial hair is unsightly enough for the both of you.”

Anyway, regardless of what Ron meant with that infuriating look, it probably wasn’t good for
me.

I look over to see Hermione collecting the coins Ron had hastily provided us, she picks up the
last one and offers the handful to me, “So what’ll it be? The Szechwan place down the street?
Pizza?”

“Pizza’s fine. Can we get pepperoni this time? After that disaster of a pizza that was the
‘Granger Special,’ I don’t think you should be allowed to choose the toppings ever again.”

“How was I supposed to know you wouldn’t like olives with pineapple? Lots of other people like
it. *You* thought you’d like it!”

“Yeah, well, be that as it may, I’m ordering JUST pepperoni this time. I *know* I like
that.”

“Oooo, is someone still a bit upset over their failure at golf this afternoon?”

“I was not a failure. In order to fail you have to at least try, I wasn’t trying. I was just out
there lending moral support to Ron.”

Liar, liar, liar.

“Ok, Harry, sure.” She’s smirking at me too now. I hope everyone’s faces just freeze like that,
that’d teach ‘em.

I’m contemplating getting my wand and **making** it freeze when she breaks the silence with,
“So I’m your girlfriend now, am I?”

Oh shit.

“Er, uh, hang on, all right? I’m going to go order the pizza first and we’ll talk about this.
Why don’t you wait on the couch or something?” and I hightail it to the kitchen.

Shit shit shit shit.

Ok, Potter, order the pizza and then you can deal with this.

Well, that took all of 45 seconds and now Hermione’s on the couch waiting for an explanation as
to why three young wizards are laboring under the notion that she’s my girlfriend, despite our
agreement otherwise.

Options. Think of your options.

I could lie. Yeah, lie! Tell her she must’ve missed the latest Rita Skeeter article, the one
proclaiming her as my significant other.

I could tell her the pizza place refuses to deliver after the last time we ordered, when Ron
answered the door in a towel, and that I have to go pick it up. Maybe she’ll forget about this by
the time I get back. Which could be a long time from now, especially if I just *happen* to get
lost on the way there. And on the way back.

I could also just tell the goddamn truth.

Hmmm, the truth. . .

You know what? That sounds fine to me. And I wouldn’t have to remember it later. If anything
that’s my downfall, I’ll convince myself that the truth will only cause trouble, tell some
spectacularly believable lie and then forget it. Someone’ll ask me about it later and I won’t
remember having said that and I just shoot myself in the foot.

So, yeah. . .the truth. . .much easier to remember. At the very least it’d prove Ron’s smirk
wrong, our relationship would’ve been pushed. Maybe in the wrong direction, but pushed
nonetheless.

I steel myself and head back out to the living room.

She’s sitting on the far end, looking expectant.

I sit down on the other side and open my mouth to speak, only I can’t figure out how to
start.

Quiet. It’s too quiet in the flat. We need some background noise. I grab the TV remote and flip
it on and would you look at that, a football game is on. And the announcer is rapidly speaking
Spanish.

“Why do you watch the games like this, Harry? You know we get this same channel in English.”

“Because it’s more fun this way, I have no idea what the announcers are saying so I pay
attention to the game and not their commentary. Besides, I love it when they yell “GOOOAAAL!”

We both stare at the players running around for a moment and I get an idea.

“Look, Hermione, it’s like this, I did tell those boys you were my girlfriend, because by all
rights, you should be.” She looks about to speak, but I put a hand up to stop her.

“I know you think we should let this, this us, this relationship, just happen, normally,
naturally. And I appreciate the gesture, really I do, but I think we need to help it along. A
year’s gone by and we’ve only had one aborted attempt at a kiss. Here, look at the TV, once a
player kicks the ball, it just ‘naturally’ sails through the air. In whatever direction he aimed
it. But the thing is, he needs to KICK IT first. That ball’s not going to move on its own. It’s not
going to go anywhere.”

. . . And there sure as hell isn’t going to be any scoring.

“I guess what I’m saying is we need to kick our ball. We need to set it in motion before
anything can happen ‘naturally.’”

She looks thoughtful and I am ON FIRE, who knew I had this in me? I could write a sports AND
advice column for the Prophet, they could call me ‘The Love Seeker.’

Best not voice that thought.

“That having been said, I think we should go on a date. That’s normal, right? A perfectly
normal, natural ‘kick.’ Tomorrow’s Ron’s meeting and kind of a busy day in general as I have to
start my summer training and I think I heard you mention some sort of cross-referencing assignment
for the Ministry you need to get done, but Friday, we’re both free Friday. And I think we would do
well to have a night on the town. Together. As a potential couple.”

Wow. If I didn’t already think this was a brilliant idea, that speech would’ve convinced me. She
can’t argue with that, I’m playing her game, clever use of English and metaphors even! Her eyes
turn from the screen to look at me and she smiles slowly.

“Ok.”

To think, the same word that doomed me a year ago is now causing fits of happiness all over my
body.

“All right then, Friday it is.”

We both turn back to the television and a drop ball and 2 corner kicks later, a knock on the
door signals the arrival of our pizza.

We eat in relative silence, me alternately congratulating myself and watching Hermione pensively
chew her pizza, and Hermione, well, pensively chewing her pizza.

After the mess is cleaned up (and by mess, I mean the one I made on my shirt that caused
Hermione to shake her head at my eating habits), she kicks off the funny-looking shoes she wore to
the driving range and props up her feet next to mine on the coffee table in front of us, nudging my
right foot with her left, she asks,

“So, summer training? What does that entail?”

“I guess there’s not really one set thing I’m supposed to be doing, I’m just supposed to be
keeping in shape. And I’m not allowed to touch a broom for this whole month. Coach says if the
muscles aren’t there off the broom, they’re not going to be there on it. I think I’m going to
apparate to the Burrow and do some running around the edges and maybe de-gnome the garden. Might as
well be productive if I have to work out my upper body anyway. Not like it’ll matter, Wood used to
have us on absolutely scary training programs and my bicep was never any bigger for it.”

“Well, I like lanky, er, *slender*, boys, besides, seekers are supposed to be built like
you.”

“Krum wasn’t,” that slipped out, sounding almost petulant, before I could stop it.

“Viktor wasn’t a lot of things. Namely, he wasn’t you.”

Oh.

I don’t know why I act like such a prat sometimes.

I smile at her, in a way that I hope is sheepish and warm at the same time, and turn her
question back on her, “So, cross-referencing? What does that entail?”

“I’m looking into instances of intentional wizard/muggle interaction as they relate to death
eater activity.”

“Sounds like a blast.”

“Fun like you wouldn’t believe. At least I have something to look forward to on Friday now,” and
she looks at me slyly out of the corner of her eye, making me grin goofily at her.

We watch the game for a bit longer and just as the team in red is setting up for a penalty kick,
she stands and yawns, announcing that she’s tired and going to bed now.

I almost make a remark about how “strenuous” golf is, but I refrain and offer a “g’night”
instead.

An hour and a half later finds me on the couch, a different game, though still one in Spanish,
is on, I have a bowl of chocolate vanilla swirl frozen yogurt on my lap and I hear the sound of Ron
apparating home. He ends up right in front of the set and takes in my appearance for a minute
before speaking, not without offering a smirk either, “So, how was your night?”

I just smirk back at him and say the only thing that comes to mind,

“GOOOOAAAAL!”

-------------------

Watching soccer (er, football) in Spanish is always a good time. Not sure how long this is going
to be yet, I have an idea or two for Thursday before we get to the date on Friday. Can I just say,
I’m totally having a good time writing this. In case anyone was wondering, the Harry in
make-up/Ziggy Stardust thing came from my random skimming/surfing/t00bing around LJs and stumbling
upon an alteration of the trio pic in Vanity Fair wherein Daniel Radcliffe was made up to fit right
into the movie ‘Velvet Goldmine.’ If anyone knows whose journal I stumbled on, feel free to let me
know.

-- jamie



3. Music and Boxer Shorts
-------------------------

Well, this chapter didn’t come out like I wanted it to, it’s not as smooth, and I’m not as
satisfied with it as I am the other two. But, really, how can anyone be expected to concentrate
when OotP comes out in a week? That’s only SEVEN DAYS. Wooooooohoooooo! Oh, and there’s a lot of
music in here, I think it helps if you’re familiar with the songs, so I apologize if you’re not and
it’s annoying to read.

Thanks for all the reviews, guys!

-- jamie

-------------------

He is an evil genius.

I’m afraid. I’m really afraid. Who knew he was capable of this?

He’s charmed the entire flat.

To mock me.

Using *MY* CD collection.

And not just me. The flat mocks everyone.

I bet he’s been planning this for ages, there’s no way he could’ve have come up with all this
since just yesterday. I’m sure I haven’t even witnessed half of the damage he’s done.

It’s madness.

I stepped out of the shower this morning and looked in the mirror. Harmless enough, right?

Not when Ron’s your flatmate.

The entire room was overcome with sound and The Undertones belted out “I wanna wanna be a male
model! I wanna wanna be a male model!”

I’ve never run faster than I did out of that room.

There was silence as I sat at the breakfast table, that is until Hermione sat down, then the
kitchen inexplicably turned into a Clash concert and “1-2, I’ve got a crush on you!” could be heard
over even my cursing Ron.

After Joe Strummer (and the blush painting my face) died down, Hermione asked conversationally
if I’d heard from Sirius lately. She clearly didn’t think much of Ron’s antics and was choosing not
to acknowledge them. The antics, however, were acknowledging her. Specifically her use of the word
‘Sirius,’ which set off Iggy Pop.

“Now I wanna be your dog…now I wanna be your dog.”

Trying to get into the spirit of things, thinking if I acted unfazed it would go away, I said
‘Lupin.’

“Oow-ooo, werewolves of London!”

Not so bad, I guess. Hermione and I spent the rest of the meal shouting out names and things,
most notably Malfoy, who set off “Puff, the Magic Dragon.” It was a good time.

Until we sat down on the couch to listen to watch the muggle weather report.

Hermione perched herself on an arm and as soon, we’re talking tenths of a second here, as my ass
hit the cushions, the Rolling Stones blared, louder than any song thus far.

“Let’s spend the night together, now I need you more than I ever. . .”

And where the other songs had only played clips, choruses and what not, the entire song
played.

I mean, have you *listened* to the lyrics of that song?

“I’ll satisfy your every need, and now I know you will satisfy me. . .”

I’m going to kill him.

I really am.

This thing with Hermione is precarious enough as is, I don’t need Ron or Mick Jagger’s help to
fuck it up.

I just have to find him. I know for a fact his tee time isn’t until 11:30 and it’s only
9:15.

Although, if I’d made the entire flat into a funhouse designed to embarrass my two best friends,
I wouldn’t stick around either.

Looking at Hermione, she seems to be handling this with respectable aplomb, no blush, no
fidgeting, nothing.

I, on the other hand, am the very definition of jumpy.

I reckon it’s because Hermione knows our future. She knows what’s going to happen with us, as
I’m basically going to do whatever the hell she tells me to (‘Harry?’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Jump.’ ‘How high?’).
But me, I have no clue what’s going on in her head. She could be plotting to run away with her male
personal assistant (ahem, secretary, ahem) over at the Ministry for all I know.

She breaks my musings with, “Well, at least we’ve got him listening to muggle music.”

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the reason I love her. She takes a situation that I’m just on the
edge of despairing about and flips it on its ear.

“Yes, there is that. And he *was* pretty creative.”

“Indeed. Well, I’m off to work,” (Ron strikes again, “ I don’t wanna work, I just wanna bang on
the drum all day!”), do I need to pick up any sort of new clothing for tomorrow? Something fancy or
quidditch pads or something?”

Er. . .hadn’t really thought about that. I hadn’t really thought about much beyond the part
where I have Hermione with me.

“Well, first dates aren’t usually too fancy, are they? I think the stuff in your closet will be
more than appropriate. And if you need quidditch pads, you can always borrow mine from 3rd year,
you’re about that tall right?”

She grabs a pillow and smacks me upside the head, “I was *taller than you* in 3rd
year.”

“If you say so.”

She laughs, “I don’t need you to believe me, there are pictures to prove it. Look there at that
one on the mantle.”

Sure enough, 3rd year picture Harry is on tip-toe, trying to get the hair on his head
to stand taller than Hermione’s, while she stands and looks at him with amusement.

Damn. There’s only one thing to do about that.

“Yeah? Well I’m taller NOW.” And I grab her from the end of the couch, growl and drag her down
until I’m lying prone on top of her, effectively trapping her for the tickling I’m about to start
in on.

“See? We’re face to face and your feet only reach my shins.”

Oh.

We’re face to face.

I have *got* to start thinking things through.

She smirks and shifts her hips, and I gasp, startled, a reaction she takes advantage of, rolling
me off her and the couch, onto the floor.

“Give it one more day, Potter.”

She *pops* away and I’m left sprawled awkwardly on the floor.

Shaking my head quickly, I stand and make my way over to the fireplace, grabbing a handful of
floo powder, I yell “The Burrow,” and just before I’m jolted away, I can hear Madness singing, “Our
house, in the middle of our street. . .”

As I stumble out of the fireplace, I’m greeted by the sight of Mrs. Weasley drinking a cup of
tea and reading today’s Prophet.

“Oh, hello Harry! I wasn’t sure what time you’d be dropping by. I was happy to receive your owl,
you know you’re always welcome here, especially if you’re volunteering for de-gnoming duty.”

I grin at her, “Well, thank you. How have you been? I haven’t seen you since Ginny’s graduation
and that was what, almost two weeks ago?”

“To the day. She’s upstairs now working on her application to the Ministry with Draco.”

Mm-hmm, sure they’re working on her application. And Percy’s joined the circus.

“I’ll have to make sure to say hello to them.”

“And how is my youngest son, up to no good I suppose?”

I recall the past hour with frightening vividness and decide Mrs. Weasley doesn’t need to be
hearing about all that. “Er, he’s doing all right, he wouldn’t be Ron without a little mischief now
and then. He’s actually playing golf this afternoon with a muggle businessman.”

“Oh yes, trying to get the property for the new store right? Golf, did you say? I didn’t know
Ron could golf.”

“Well, he can’t, or rather, he couldn’t, Hermione taught him the other day so that he’d be
prepared.”

“Bless her heart. And how is she?”

Before I can stop myself, I rush out, “She’s great, we’re having a date tomorrow night.”

“You are?” Mrs. Weasley has a pleased look on her face.

I can stop myself from fidgeting, “Uh, yes, I thought it was about time.”

“That’s just lovely. You make sure to be a gentleman.”

Yes, I’ll be a gentleman, just like Draco’s being upstairs right now.

“Of course. Well, I best get out and start my training before it gets too hot. Thank you for
having me.”

“It’s no problem at all, Harry. Do come find me when you’re done and I’ll fix you a pumpkin
juice.”

“Sure thing.”

I’m about to head out the back door when I hear two sets of feet rushing down the stairs,
“Harry! We thought we’d missed you, we wanted to say hello before you got all sweaty.”

Would you look at the two of them?

Ginny’s shirt is all askew and buttoned wrong and Draco’s got lipstick on his face.

I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth, trying to signal to him to wipe it off before Mrs.
Weasley notices. He catches on and rubs furiously at his lips. Not much I can do about Ginny’s
shirt, but then, maybe Mrs. Weasley won’t notice.

“Erm, yes, Pott-, Harry, wouldn’t want to be trying to talk to you with you stinking like a
pig.”

Some things never change.

“So how’ve you been, Gin?”

“I’m well, Draco’s here helping me with my application to the Ministry, giving me tips and
whatnot, since he had to do it last year. How are things with you?”

“They’re just fine, I’m glad the season’s over, I was pretty tired there during playoffs.
Speaking of which, I should start my run now, it was nice seeing you again.” I nod my head,
“Draco,” and practically sprint outside.

Ten more seconds in that house and I would’ve burst out laughing. Not only was Ginny’s shirt
improperly buttoned, her bra was sticking to the back of her skirt. Either Mrs. Weasley has really
lost her edge or she just doesn’t care anymore.

After two laps around the Burrow’s perimeter, it’s apparent that it’s much too hot for the dark
gray t-shirt I have on and shuck it off and fling it in the direction of the garden I’ll soon be
working in.

Eight laps later and I’ve figured out that it *is* possible to trip over your own two feet
and that I have no idea where I’m supposed to take Hermione tomorrow night.

First dates in the real world are much different than first dates at Hogwarts, there your
options are Hogsmeade, a ball, or, well, Hogsmeade again.

What’s that muggle expression, “Dinner and a movie?” I guess we could do dinner and a show. I
reckon I should try and stick to the normal as much as possible to be true to my speech
yesterday.

I guess we could go to the new restaurant down the street. Walking distance, casual dress, a BIG
bar. What’s not to like? And plus, we’re close to the flat, if this thing blows up in my face, I
won’t have to go too far to find a familiar wall to bang my head against.

I guess that’ll be the tentative plan, if Hermione has any better ideas, I’m sure she won’t
hesitate to speak up.

I start in on the garden and finish within the hour. I wander back into the house, hoping I
don’t smell like Malfoy said. I nod at Mrs. Weasley and she gasps and whispers to me, “Harry, dear,
I can see your underwear!”

I look down and realize I forgot to grab my t-shirt and that the dark blue shorts I wore to run
have fallen low, revealing the top of the green and white plaid of my *other* shorts. I tug
the blue ones back up, laughing to myself. That woman raised five boys and has actually washed my
boxer shorts more times than I can count and she almost looks embarrassed.

Maybe she just doesn’t want me scandalizing Ginny. Not that Malfoy’s not making quick work of
that.

“Sorry about that, Mrs. Weasley.” I’m tempted to tell her that we walk around not wearing any
shorts at all back at our flat, at Ron’s insistence, just to see what she’d do, but decide against
it, I’ll think of a better way to get back at that boy.

“Will you be staying for dinner?”

Sure, let me stick around here for another five hours, with Ginny and Malfoy upstairs probably
making your first grandchild. That’ll *totally* work out well.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly, I have to get home and shower and it’s my night to cook. Ron and
Hermione would kill me if I ate your delicious food and left them with nothing. Thanks very much
for the offer though.”

“All right then, remember though, Harry, you’re welcome anytime.”

Yes, provided you can’t see my underwear.

I smile at her, wave, and floo myself home.

-_-_-_-_-

Well, Ron did terribly at golf, but was able to come to a deal on the property.

Or at least that’s what the note tacked to the fridge says. He’s still in hiding. Hermione came
home for lunch and announced she’d be at the Ministry until late tonight and not to wait up.

Damn it, I could’ve eaten at the Weasley’s and no one would’ve cared.

And I spent the evening eating leftover pizza and trying to disarm all of Ron’s charms. It seems
like they only work once, because looking in the mirror didn’t set off anything and I actually
spoke to Sirius via floo and Iggy Pop was no where to be heard. I’m still a little afraid though,
that one on the couch only worked when both Hermione and I were on it, I reckon there’s some more
like that around.

It really is quite boring here without the two of them around, keeping me entertained.

Guess there’s nothing to do now but wait for tomorrow to come and, in my experience, the best
way to wait is to sleep. Off to bed I go.

-------------------

Ok, well, I obviously don’t own any of the music in here. It belongs, in order, to The
Undertones, The Clash, Iggy Pop (and the Stooges), Warren Zevon, Peter, Paul, and Mary, The Rolling
Stones, Todd Rundgren, and Madness. I think I got them all.



