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HP stories following Canon after Deathly Hallows >> Hermione Granger, 60 by Janner

Simple Text - To view MORE chapters use the chapter jump box to the right.
Hermione Granger let herself in to her apartment, threw her handbag and coat on the couch and headed for the bathroom. She showered, wrapped her hair in a towel and put on her robe. Back in the living room she put her coat on the hook behind the door. In the kitchen she put a ready meal in the combo oven, opened a bottle of red wine and took a glass from the cupboard. She had 25 minutes before the meal was ready. She went and sat on the couch and poured a glass. The clock on her wall showed 18.45. She stood up, glass in raised hand.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” she began, “a toast. To Hermione Granger. It’s the big six-oh. Happy birthday Hermione.”
By the time her shepherd’s pie was ready, the wine bottle was half empty, or maybe half full. She couldn’t decide. It didn’t matter. By the time she finished eating, there was no question but that the bottle was empty. Not bothering to get up, she summoned another bottle and the corkscrew from the kitchen and banished the remnants of her meal to the dustbin. An hour later that bottle was half empty, or full. Whatever. Her head was swimming pleasantly as she hummed a tune.

Something disturbed her reverie. What was that ringing noise? Her fuzzy brain slowly processed the possibilities. Phone... no, alarm clock…no. Could it be the doorbell? Nah, nobody’s pushed that button for ages. ‘Nobody has pushed any of my buttons for a long time.’ she thought, ‘And whose fault is that?’ she asked herself accusingly.
What was that damned ringing? It was the doorbell. ‘That means I’ve got to get up and answer it. Shit.’
Struggling to her feet, the belt of her robe loosened and although what Ron used to call her ‘lady lumps’ were still covered, she didn’t notice that there was an open view from her throat to her feet. Fumbling with the latch she pulled the door open and peered at the figure standing there. “Yes, what do you want?”
“Hermione?” The voice pierced the alcohol fog in her head. She knew that voice. But it couldn’t be him. Just couldn’t be. She tried to focus her eyes and they widened when she succeeded.
“Harry? What… why…”
“Hermione, I think you should close your robe. You’ll get cold.” Looking down she saw her feet and some hair.
‘I don’t have hairy feet,’ she thought. Then realising what she was looking at, hurriedly closed the gap. She started giggling; she couldn’t help it.
“Harry, did you see my pu… my hairy feet?” The giggle became a full-blown laugh.
“Hermione, I think you should ask me in. Before the laughter police arrive.” Leaving the door open she wandered back to the couch, not caring that her robe had opened again. Harry followed, closing the door behind him. He went to the still-giggling woman sitting on the couch with her left leg up on the seat. Trying not to look at the goods on display he took the glass from her hand. “You’re drunk, Hermione.”
“I’m getting there fast, Harry. Give me that.” she said reaching for the glass. He swung it out of her reach, pulled out his wand and hit her with a sobering charm. Instantly asleep, she flopped back on the couch. He had about 10 minutes before she woke. Picking up the bottle he found his way to the kitchen and tipped the remaining wine down the sink, and swallowed what was left in the glass. He looked at Hermione, not sure what to do. He should lay her on the couch properly; she didn’t look very comfortable. He made a decision. He found his way to her bedroom and in a top drawer he found what he wanted. A pair of plain cotton knickers. He easily got them up to her thighs; the rest of the way was a struggle but he managed. He straightened her out, sat down in an armchair and waited.

She groaned as she slowly opened her eyes. Harry smiled; the sobering charm he’d used did not include hangover prevention. She rolled on to her side and saw a pair of crossed legs in front of her. Someone was sitting in her armchair. Harry! She tried to sit up too quickly and groaned again. Some nutter was trying to open her head like a boiled egg. He made no attempt to help her, but eventually she made it. With her head in her hands she tried to remember what had happened. Bit by bit she put the pieces together and she groaned again. She remembered the doorbell ringing, opening it; her robe was open, and he was looking. She had an image of hairy feet but couldn’t think why. Sitting on the couch, legs wide open. Oh my God.
“I have to pee.” she said, staggering to her feet. In the bathroom she lifted her robe and sat down.
Harry was perplexed as a cry of “Harry! You bastard!” reached his ears. He waited where he was. He didn’t know what he had done and wasn’t in a hurry to find out. He could hear her muttering and cursing him six ways to oblivion.

She came back fifteen minutes later wearing a different robe. She was still angry, he could tell. She stood in front of him.
“Did you put some knickers on me?”
“Yes I did.”
“Stupid question, of course you did. Had a good look while you were doing that, did you? Liked what you saw, did you?”
“I didn’t have much choice. It would have been a lot harder if I’d kept my eyes closed, and anyway I’ve seen worse.” Don’t laugh; he told himself, she’ll kill you.
“Oooh, a compliment. Thanks for that. Well FYI, after showering for the evening, I don’t wear knickers. So when I sat down to pee you can imagine what happened. I didn’t pull them down! You moron! I panicked and tried to pull them down mid-stream, and I fell off the loo.” He couldn’t stop himself, the laughter burst out of him. He curled into a ball as she began to thump him anywhere she could reach, matching the cadence of her blows to her speech.
“It…is…not…funny! It…is…not…funny!”
“Sorry Hermione, but it’s bloody hilarious.”
“Took…me…ten…minutes…to…clean…up…the…bathroom…floor.” She finally stopped hitting him. He had to stop laughing; his whole abdomen was aching, and he had tears in his eyes. “Anyway, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be at home with your wife? How is darling Ginnybitch? Permanent morning sickness, I hope.”
“We split up eight years ago. I’m here because I remembered it’s your birthday.”
“Ah isn’t that nice. Come to celebrate with a 60-year-old, professional virgin, have you?
He stood up. “Really,” he said, “is that what you are? Can’t have that can we?” He picked her up. “This way to the bedroom I presume.” She protested until he shut the bedroom door behind them.

She awoke slowly. He still had his arm around her shoulders, her head on his chest. She felt warm, comfortable and very, very happy. Moving her head back she nibbled his ear. His eyes fluttered open.
“I hate you,” she whispered, “you made me wait 40 years for last night. Why did you do that?”
“What do you mean 40 years?” He did some quick mental arithmetic. “It’s only 22 hours since the last time.” She paid attention to her surroundings, this wasn’t her apartment. This was…Harry’s room… at the Burrow. Except that for the last month it had been their room. She looked at her new, well… new-ish now, husband.
“I have just had the weirdest dream,” she said. There was the sound of huge relief in her voice.

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