Love and Understanding

I never thought I'd fancy her, you know. God, I didn't even think I'd know her. Not properly, anyway. The first time I heard of her was when Harry first joined our team as Seeker. I did a little bit of scouting - everyone knew Harry Potter, of course, but as team captain it was my job to get to know my team members, and make sure they didn't have any problems that might affect their playing. Problems like a girlfriend. Pretty much everyone I asked said the same thing - no girlfriend, but he does spend a lot of time with one girl, Hermione Granger.

That was it, really, for a long time. I'd see her every now and then, usually after Harry had got himself almost killed. She seemed nice enough. Brainy, apparently. Head in a book, most of the time. Very serious, with absolutely no knowledge of Quidditch. The first thing she ever said to me was, "Honestly, I don't know why you boys get so worked up over stupid Quidditch. It's just a game." I almost killed her. Quidditch, after all, was my life. Still is, in a way.

Anyway, the only thing we had in common was Harry. Not exactly the greatest basis for a relationship, as I'm sure you'll agree. We very nearly didn't have a relationship, actually. It was that one incident in third year that started it all - when she ran out onto the pitch and damn near saved our collective arse with that handy little spell of hers. I think I might have pledged my soul to her in that moment.

It was she who came and dragged me out of the showers after our defeat. I stood there, dripping wet and trying to cover my private bits as much as possible while she gave me a fierce lecture on how I should pull myself together because Harry was feeling guilty enough as it was and he didn't need me giving him the impression that he'd let us down, and would I for God's sake get dressed and go and see him.

We developed a kind of grudging respect for each other after that. I understood that she didn't give a flying monkey's arse about Quidditch - her only concern was keeping Harry alive. She understood that even though I tended to get worked up about the sport, I still cared very much for my team-mates, and if push came to shove, I'd choose their safety over a Quidditch Cup any day, no matter what I said to the contrary.

Harry and I talked about her sometimes. I'd have lunch with him every once in a while, just to keep myself up to date with how he was. Her name might crop up once, twice... "Hermione said this..." or "I bet Hermione would think that..."

Maybe he had feelings for her, I don't know. I don't think so. Then again - three years of friendship that had survived all kinds of weird things... who knows how they felt? At the time, I wasn't much bothered. As long as he wasn't becoming physically exhausted the night before a match, it was nothing to do with me.

We won the Quidditch Cup that year, and I signed a contract to play with Puddlemere just two days before term ended. The team was happy for me, but I felt compelled to tell someone else, too.

I found her in the library - now there's a shocker. She looked up at me, surprised. "Oliver. Shouldn't you be preparing for the graduation ceremony?"

I sat down across from her. "I just signed a five year contract with Puddlemere."

The surprised look faded. I wondered if she'd already heard the news. "Is it what you wanted?" she asked.

I frowned. I'd been hoping for something a bit different - enthusiasm, at least. "Well... yes, I suppose. I mean, obviously I'd love to play for England, but that's not going to happen right away."

"Why not?"

"Well, they haven't spotted me yet. I'm not sure they'd want me even if they did."

"Of course they would," she said matter-of-factly. "Why wouldn't they? Look, Puddlemere are, what, fourth in the League? Fifth? England'll be watching them like hawks for new talent. And you... you're a shoo-in."

I raised my eyebrows. "I thought you were a Quidditch dummy."

"I was," she replied. "Then I met you."

I left Hogwarts a happy man.

* * *

I didn't have to wait long to meet Hermione again - we saw each other briefly at the Quidditch World Cup. She grinned and waved; I winked in an almost saucy way. We only managed to exchange hellos before we were dragged off by our companions, but the encounter served to remind me of our newly-formed friendship, and subconsciously I decided to preserve it, if that was possible.

I owled her a couple of times that year - once to tell her the good news about my being selected for the England reserve squad, and again to ask if the Daily Prophet rumours about her triangular love life were true. She was rather severe about that last one - I think I may have offended her. I barely cared; I was just relieved that it was a pack of lies. I suppose that relief should have been my first clue...

It's not as though I didn't date, either. I did, from time to time. Pretty girls, always eager for a date with a professional Quidditch player. But they lacked a certain something. Dates with them were bland and prosthetic - like trying to eat wax display fruit instead of the real thing. Eventually I stopped trying.

Later that year I was selected as England's new Keeper, something which bolstered my spirits in ways that reminded me of a particular bookworm.... It was as a single, somewhat famous man that I discovered this bookworm two years later. She was buying her sixth year textbooks, it seemed, in Diagon Alley. I'd actually dropped in to visit Fred and George, but I forgot all about that when I saw her familiar face perusing the Arithmancy section with interest. "Hermione Granger!"

She whirled round in surprise. "Oliver!"

I hugged her warmly. "How are you?"

"Good, thanks. Yourself?"

"Oh, you know. So-so."

"Just so-so?" she raised an eyebrow. "Right, then. You're coming with me. No excuses." And just like that, she abducted me for an ice-cream sundae in Florean Fortescue's. Once we had procured our ice-creams, she turned to me and said, "Tell me all about it."

And I did. I told her all about my training, and how it seemed to be getting even more difficult by the day, and how there was all this pressure to do well, and everyone was so fake once you were a bit famous. "It's not that I'm not grateful, and you know I've always wanted to reach the top, but I just didn't think it'd be this awful, you know? I keep finding little bits in the tabloids about who I'm dating, and why I might have been in Hogsmeade last week, or whatever, and what business is it of theirs, anyway?" I rambled on and on and on - it was just such a relief to get it all out. My team-mates weren't much bothered about my inner turmoil, and Fred and George... well, the day they take anything seriously is the day Dumbledore announces his allegiance to You-Know-Who.

Hermione, though... she was different.

She listened to me until I ran out of steam, and when I finally shut up, she took the blunt approach. "Oliver, I really don't know what you expected. Fame is... fame is horrible. Believe me, I've been friends with Harry Potter for five years. I've seen the tabloid articles. He says it's worse to be famous when you don't want to be; I'm not sure. I think it's worse to go looking for fame and then discover that it's not all it's cracked up to be. I know, I know - all you care about is the sport. That's OK. But as long as you're on top, the press are going to follow you like a pack of rabid dogs. What you have to decide is whether or not you're going to let them get to you. You're better than this, Oliver. I know you." She frowned. "Well... actually, I don't know you. Not really. I don't know what your favourite colour is, or what you do when you're not playing Quidditch, or-"

"Oliver? Is that you?"

I turned around, slightly irritated at having the conversation cut short. Harry and Ron were hovering a couple of inches away, glancing from me, to Hermione, and back to me again. "Hi, lads," I greeted them. "How's tricks?"

Ron grinned. "Ask the twins. That's their speciality."

"Shit," I muttered, checking my watch. "I'm late. Better go. Thanks for the chat, sweetheart. I'll drop you an owl next week." And I legged it out of the shop before I could be interrogated further.

Fred and George pushed for more details when I said I'd been talking to an old friend. They were convinced that the old friend in question must have been female or I wouldn't have been so late. I suppose I could have just explained that it was Hermione; God only knows why I didn't. Perhaps if I had, there wouldn't have been so much trouble.