Coming of Age

COMING OF AGE

by Lady Jane

Hermione glared at Harry and Ron. 'You are joking, aren't you?' she asked tartly. Harry and Ron glanced nervously at each other. 'No,' they said in unison. They were sitting across from Hermione at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall having just finished breakfast; they'd been able to take their time this morning as there were no classes, it being a Saturday.

Hermione made a great show of sighing and shaking her head before leaning her arms on the table and fixing them with her "now-listen-to-me-because-I-know-better" look.

'Now, Ron, Harry-'

'Wait a minute Hermione!' cried Harry, holding up both hands, palms out, as if to shield himself from that look. Ron had turned his head and was gaping at him, impressed. He'd dared to interrupt Hermione when she was launching one of her verbal missions? Bloody hell! Stupid or brave? Bit of both, Ron decided.

The momentary shock Hermione was suffering at being interrupted rendered her temporarily speechless and gave Harry a chance to speak.

'We know we're not the most organised people, we admit,' Ron made a muffled snorting noise at this comment, 'but we are your best friends Hermione and best friends don't let other best friends organise their own birthday parties. And that's that.' Harry sat back and folded his arms, looking across the table at Hermione, his green eyes full of determination.

This little speech kept her silent for just a little longer, long enough for Harry to start feeling a little nervous about having made a stand. Ron simply sat and waited grimly for all hell to break loose.

Then unexpectedly, Hermione sat back and smiled at them. Just a little smile, but a smile nonetheless.

'Do you know, Harry, you're right,' she told him.

Ron promptly fell backwards off his seat, a yelp of pain escaping him as he hit the floor.

Harry's mouth dropped open and he stared at her.

'Oh, Ron, for goodness' sake, get up off the floor. Harry, close you're mouth, it's not a good look. And blink.'

Of course, they did as they were told.

'Now, Ron, Harry, I have to admit that my initial reaction was, naturally, that I should organise my own coming-of-age party as I'm the best person qualified for the job.' She waited to see if they would smile at her little quip but, since being completely stunned prevents smile muscles from working, they couldn't. Hermione shrugged philosophically and continued, 'But, you have a point - one shouldn't organise one's own birthday party and if I don't let you two do more for yourselves, you won't be able to, if you know what I mean.' She waited and they managed to nod at her. 'So, you may go ahead and organise my party for me. The only thing I'd like to say is that my birthday falls on a Monday this year so you should probably arrange to have it the Saturday before which means you have two weeks from today.' Hermione stood up. 'I leave it in your capable hands, Harry, Ron. I'm looking forward to it already.' She gave them a wink and a smile over her shoulder as she walked off.

Harry and Ron looked at each other, then at Hermione's retreating back. 'She winked at us,' said Ron.

'She did,' said Harry, watching Hermione's hair swinging gently across her back as she walked.

Ron swallowed audibly. 'She said we could do it.'

'She did,' said Harry, his eyes drifting to the enticing curve of her waist and her hips and what he liked to think of as her delicious derriere.

'We have two weeks.'

'We do,' said Harry, hypnotised by the smooth fluid movement of her legs which were encased in tight fitting blue jeans.

'Bloody hell!' exclaimed Ron.

'Yep,' sighed Harry.

Ron waved his hand in front of Harry's eyes: no response. He rolled his eyes. Merlin help me if I ever fall in love and become so pathetic! he thought disgustedly.

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Hermione made her way back to Gryffindor tower with the intention of finishing the Transfiguration essay that was due Monday week; as always, she liked to keep ahead with her homework. Retrieving the necessary books, parchment and quills from her dormitory, she settled herself at the small table by the window, not far from the fire, Crookshanks settling himself in the empty chair opposite her.

She'd filled two pieces of parchment with her close, neat script when she heard the Fat Lady's portrait swing open and looked up to see Harry and Ron making their way towards her.

Ron gently, although somewhat unceremoniously, pushed Crookshanks off his comfortable perch and sat himself down, not noticing the frown Hermione directed at him. Crookshanks gave him a look of pure disgust and headed for the hearth while Harry pulled himself up onto the window ledge behind Ron. They both looked at Hermione.

Putting her quill down, she sat back, crossed her arms and waited expectantly. Harry swallowed, suddenly realising that his vantage point on the window ledge gave him a tantalising glimpse of Hermione's cleavage; she was wearing a dusky blue sleeveless t-shirt with a round, scooped neckline.

'Hermione,' said Ron, sounding a little jittery at the prospect of organising Hermione, the most organised person he'd ever known.

'Yes, Ron?' she prompted, looking at him intently.

Ron stalled under that gaze as he usually did and looked up at Harry for help.

Harry, his hands in his pockets, his legs swinging gently, reluctantly moved his gaze to Ron, rolling his eyes at him as he said, 'What Ron wants to ask you is whether there are any specific things you know you want or that you don't want at your party. Any special requests, in other words.' Harry smiled to himself. Hermione can always make Ron speechless with a stare, a glare or just a raised eyebrow! At least she doesn't paralyse my vocal chords...she just turns my insides to jelly!

'So glad you asked,' replied Hermione, beaming up at him. 'I just happen to have a list here that I wrote for myself before I handed the party reins to you two. Here, you can have it,' she said, holding out a rolled parchment to Ron. Harry slid off the window ledge, his guilt at sneaking peeks at Hermione's fascinating cleavage playing serious havoc with his enjoyment of the view.

Ron took it, looking at Hermione. 'You're a little scary, sometimes, you know that?'

Hermione laughed. 'You've said that to me before, Ron.'

'Because it's true!' he retorted. 'You have some scary qualities!'

'Rubbish! Being organised isn't scary, Ron.'

'Says you,' he muttered.

'Prat!'

'Ron,' said Harry in a mock-serious voice, 'you're wasting time. We only have a fortnight and we're gonna need every one of those fourteen days. Let's go.'

'Too true, too true,' lamented Ron as he stood up, then jumped back, startled by Crookshanks who had left the hearth and had sprung suddenly back onto the seat as soon as Ron had vacated it. 'Bloody cat,' he cursed. Crookshanks just looked at him.

Hermione, who had picked up her quill and was already writing again, said archly, 'He was there first, you know, Ron.'

Harry grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the portrait hole. 'Come on mate, we need to get organised!'

Ron groaned. 'Dreadful word, "organised", bloody dreadful!'

Ron continued to complain as they walked along the corridor towards the kitchens until Harry told him to shut it for Merlin's sake. Moaning and complaining was pointless, useless and totally non-productive, Harry told him sagely. Ron's mood definitely improved as they got closer to the kitchen and when Harry tickled the pear to turn it into a doorknob so they could enter, he was positively glowing. You could never escape the Hogwarts' kitchens without a few little samples from the eager-to-please house elves, bless their long floppy ears.

Half an hour later they left the kitchens with a couple of bag loads of goodies and the party food all organised, Dobby of course doing the honours (he would never let anyone but himself look after Harry Potter or his Wheezy!). They headed back to their common room, planning on sitting down together and going through Hermione's list to see what else they'd need to organise. ('Once this party's over I don't want to hear that word again!' groaned Ron.) Harry looked around automatically to see if Hermione was still sitting at the same table working on her essay and was stopped in his tracks. Hermione was still there all right, but she definitely wasn't working on her essay. She was sitting with Crookshanks on her lap, absentmindedly stroking him, as she laughed at something said by the occupant of the other chair. Which was all very well except that it was the way she was laughing. Harry couldn't find the words he needed to describe it, but at a gut level he knew exactly what was happening. He felt devastated. Hermione was flirting...

To be continued...