FicWad

The Secret Admirer

by Walter the Wizard

Romance is like an assassin that can strike at any moment, including breakfast; as a matter of fact, a large number of people have been assassinated as they indulged their matutinal gluttony. Hermione Granger, being a voracious consumer of facts, was well aware of that, but the note that arrived with the morning post on the second Tuesday of her sixth year at Hogwarts came as a complete surprise, proving once again that no amount of knowledge is a substitute for experience.

It came in a narrow pink envelope that a post owl dropped on top of her Daily Prophet. Hermione picked it up with a frown, almost positive that she had received it by mistake. But written on it in a neat, somewhat feminine hand that looked vaguely familiar was her own name, “Hermione Granger”. That, and nothing else; the sender had to be at Hogwarts.

“You’ve got mail, Hermione?” asked Harry, glancing her way.

“Apparently,” said Hermione with a shrug as she tore the envelope open and extracted the letter. It was a single sheet of fine pink parchment that smelled faintly of perfume. Hermione unfolded it and read:

Your eyes are
bottomless pools
of dark hot chocolate.
Your hair is
a silky web
enshrouding untold mysteries.
Your body is
an ever-changing hieroglyph
of divine bliss.
Whether you are a goddess,
or a succubus,
My body and soul belong to you
Forever and ever.

“Who’s it from?” asked Ron, looking at her quizzically, a sandwich suspended halfway to his mouth.

“It’s – it’s nothing – it’s from a – from an acquaintance,” stammered Hermione, blushing furiously. She had hoped for a moment that the letter was from Ron, but that hope had evaporated by the time she got to the third line. Ron couldn’t write something like that to save his life. Of course, objectively speaking, the quality of the poem left a lot to be desired, but to Hermione it seemed like the most beautiful thing she had ever read. It was a love poem, with actual symbolism, and it was addressed to her. Nobody had sent her a love poem before. It stirred the urges that her teenage body had been getting more and more frequently of late, and that she secretly (and vainly) hoped Ron might decide to satisfy. Not that she was consciously aware of those urges at the moment: her mental censor, the sly little devil that it was, transformed them into the somewhat more respectable feeling of pleasure at being appreciated. Nonetheless, it felt very good.

“What acquaintance? Viktor?” Ron asked with suspicion.

“Oh, no, it isn’t from Viktor – ” Hermione said hastily, making to put the letter into her bag, but Ron quickly reached out with a greasy hand, snatched the letter from her fingers and read it, ignoring Hermione’s squeals of indignation. His scowl grew more and more pronounced as he read the note. He might not understand certain words, like “hieroglyph”, or “succubus”, but he caught the general drift, and he didn’t like it at all. Ron had urges, too, you see, although his fear of rejection on the one hand, and the weakening of said urges due to constant self-stimulation on (and by) the other hand prevented him from acting on them. Nevertheless, Ron didn’t care at all for the possibility of somebody else satisfying his urges with Hermione.

“It is from Viktor!” he said accusingly. “Who else would write something like that to you?”

“Give that back to me!” Hermione said shrilly, snatching the letter out of Ron’s hands. “How dare you read my personal letter without my permission!”

“Why did you lie to me?” retorted Ron.

“I didn’t lie to you, the letter is not from Viktor, because there’s no address on the envelope, just my name, which means whoever sent this is at Hogwarts, but that’s not the point,” Hermione said angrily. “You have no right to read other people’s letters, Ron, that’s absolutely disgusting!”

“She’s right, you know,” said Harry, craning his neck a little in an attempt to read the letter Hermione was still clutching in her hand.

“Hey, I was only making sure you weren’t in trouble!” said Ron.

“Well, are you satisfied now?” snapped Hermione.

“I don’t know. Who would write something like that?”

“Someone who likes me, perhaps?” Hermione suggested sarcastically, tucking the letter away.

“It could be a trick – ”

“Oh, so you think no one could possibly write me a love letter and mean it? Is that what you’re saying, Ron?” Hermione looked scandalized.

“No, I – ”

But Hermione grabbed her bag and stormed out of the Great Hall in a huff, drawing curious glances.

“Women,” sighed Ron with the air of a man who knew a lot about the opposite sex. Then he noticed that Hermione had left the envelope behind and picked it up to examine it.

“Who’d you reckon wrote that letter?” he asked Harry, who shrugged. He had urges, too, but Hermione was not their object. She could date half the school, for all he cared, as long as it wasn’t someone from Slytherin. Harry was a very tolerant person, but that kind of behavior just might warrant the use of the Cruciatus curse. Harry felt kind of excited at the thought, actually.

“Say, the handwriting looks kind of familiar,” said Ron, squinting at the envelope. “Here, take a look”.

Harry took the envelope and peered at it.

“Yeah, I think I’ve seen it before, though I wouldn’t bet my Firebolt on it,” he said, tossing the envelope onto the table. “Look, Ron, if you don’t like the thought of someone else hooking up with her, why don’t you make your own move instead of acting like a prat?”

“Um, well, I…” Ron shifted uncomfortably in his seat, embarrassed at having his urges unmasked. He hadn’t thought he was that obvious. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. How d’you think I should go about it?”

“You could apologize, for starters,” said Harry. “Beyond that, I don’t know. I haven’t exactly had much experience in that field. Try some presents, or maybe a date in Hogsmeade. Just don’t go to Madam Puddifoot’s, it’s bound to be embarrassing.”

“Presents, yeah,” murmured Ron, scratching his chin. “I’d still like to know who wrote that letter, though,” he added darkly.

Later that day he did apologize to Hermione, severely bruising his oversensitive ego. She accepted his apology out of sheer surprise. Ron didn’t dare to press his advantage, though, and Hermione’s thoughts soon returned to the letter and the mysterious stranger who had sent it. She was very excited at the prospect of romance and everything that went with it. She had very much enjoyed the taste of it that Viktor had given her two years before, but Viktor was no longer at hand. Not that his presence would have made any difference: sixteen was way too old for his refined tastes that would eventually get him in trouble, but that is a different story. As it was, Hermione had trouble falling asleep that night because her mind kept going over theories on the identity of her admirer, and her body longed for its urges to be satisfied. In the end, however, fatigue overcame her as it always does. Her dreams that night were far from unpleasant, giving her body at least a shadow of what it desired.

She woke up early, as usual. With a yawn, she pulled the bedroom curtains aside and froze with her mouth still open, staring at the enormous bunch of red roses in an elegant vase that had taken residence on her bedside table and was exuding a strong intoxicating aroma. Hermione tentatively reached out and touched one of the flowers, expecting the whole thing to vanish like a mirage, but it didn’t. Instead, the bunch of roses shivered at her touch with a faint melodious tinkle, and something rose into the air out of their midst – another note written in the same vaguely familiar hand. Hermione took it and read:

Would that the beauty of these flowers could approach even a shadow of your own.

Drawn underneath the words was a heart pierced by an arrow.

Words are ill-fit to describe all the emotions that overwhelmed Hermione. Suffice to say that her mental censor was nearly washed away by the most powerful urge surge it had ever had to deal with. Hermione read the note over and over again, drinking in each letter. She could hardly believe that somebody had such feelings for her, or the capacity to express them in such an elegant manner – the handwriting alone was a marvel of calligraphy. But who was her secret admirer? She didn’t think it was a Gryffindor – sending elegant love letters and enchanted bunches of roses just wasn’t the Gryffindor way; it had to be someone from another House. Here was a chance, then, not only of romance, but – Hermione’s heart beat even faster at the thought - of strengthening the ties between the Houses of Hogwarts, which was a pet idea of hers. Hermione’s mental censor struggled with all its might to suppress the images her subconscious was coming up with, offering a wide variety of ways and positions best suited to strengthening said ties.

“Oh, wow!”

Lavender Brown had awoken and was gaping at the bunch of roses on Hermione’s bedside table.

“It was here when I woke up,” Hermione said, beaming.

Lavender got out of her bed and walked up to Hermione, bending to inhale the aroma of the roses.

“They’re beautiful, Hermione! Are they from the same person who sent you the letter?”

The whole school knew about the letter, of course, and Hermione had shown it to Lavender and Parvati.

“Yes,” said Hermione. “He sent another note, look.”

“Wow,” breathed Lavender as she read it, bitter envy clawing at her heart. “This guy must really like you, Hermione.”

“I suppose so,” said Hermione with a coy shrug.

“But how did he manage to get these into our dormitory? He can’t have done it himself, can he?”

“No. I suppose he asked a house elf to do it,” said Hermione. “That’s the only way I can think of.”

“Yeah,” nodded Lavender. “But who do you think it could be?”

“I have no idea,” said Hermione truthfully. “Something tells me, though, that he’s not from Gryffindor.”

At that moment, Parvati woke up at the sound of their voices, and it was her turn to marvel at the beautiful roses, read the note, and feel bitterly jealous of Hermione’s unexpected luck. They speculated for a while on the identity of Hermione’s admirer, and then it was time for them to go down to breakfast.

“Listen, girls,” said Hermione as they were about to leave, “could you please not tell anyone about this just yet? The whole school must be gossiping about me already, and I don’t want it to get any worse.”

In truth, Hermione wasn’t so much worried about the “whole school” as she was about Ron’s reaction. Unfortunately for her, Lavender understood this (behind that girl’s moderately attractive face lay a veritable abyss of intelligence, even though she drew upon it rather selectively), and within ten minutes of having solemnly promised to Hermione that her secret was safe with her, she was already telling it to everyone who would listen. It should not come as a big surprise at this point that Lavender had urges of her own, and Ron, for reasons that are too complex to explain here, stirred them like no other boy at Hogwarts. Truly, romance is a war where you have no allies.

The news had reached Ron by lunch, and he was fuming as much as the mashed potatoes as he took his seat at the Gryffindor table. Now he understood why Hermione looked so cheerful. Ron knew, or at least suspected, that making a girl cheerful took you a long way toward satisfying your urges. He also knew that he had never been able to make Hermione this cheerful, and that the idea of sending flowers up to her dormitory would never have occurred to him. He knew he had to neutralize his mysterious rival if he was to have any success with Hermione.

“Hermione,” he said, addressing her across the table, “I think you ought to be careful.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” asked Hermione, snapping out of her happy daze.

“I mean that the guy who sent you those flowers may be up to something.”

Hermione looked shocked. Although many people had been glancing and even pointing at her since morning, she hadn’t noticed it because of her dreamy state.

“How did you – oh, well, it’s obvious how you found out,” she said, throwing a dirty look at Parvati and Lavender. “Anyway, what do you mean, he’s up to something? Of course he is up to something, and that’s pleasing me!”

“That’s not what I mean,” Ron said darkly. “It may be a trick to lure you into a trap.”

“That’s ridiculous! Who’d want to lure me into a trap?”

“Maybe Malfoy. You remember what Harry told us he said on the train.”

“Ron, I don’t think Malfoy’s target, if he has one at all, is Hermione,” said Harry. “If anything, he would target me.”

“But don’t you think it looks suspicious?” said Ron, looking pleadingly at his friend.

“That’s enough!” snapped Hermione before Harry could answer. “Ron, I will not hear any more of your ludicrous conspiracy theories, you understand me? I will not have you insulting a person who seems to care so much about me!”

“But Hermione, I only – ”

“I said enough!” growled Hermione, making Ron shut up. Lavender Brown, who had observed the whole exchange, smiled contentedly. Of course, if she had employed a bit more of her intelligence, she would have understood that making Hermione hate Ron would only increase his desire for her, but after all, she was still an inexperienced teenager.

“How d’you reckon he had those flowers delivered up to the girls’ dormitory?” Ron asked Harry after they had finished lunch and set off for their next class. Harry shrugged noncommitally, determined not to get involved in this affair if he could help it.

“C’mon, you must have some ideas,” Ron pressed on. Harry rolled his eyes.

“Well, he might have used a house elf,” he said resignedly. Ron’s face lit up.

“Yeah, he might have! I didn’t think of that. But then…then we could go down to the kitchens and ask them who it was!” he said excitedly.

“You could go down to the kitchens and ask them who it was,” Harry corrected him. “I don’t really care. Besides, shouldn’t you rather direct your efforts at making yourself attractive to Hermione? Especially seeing as you’ve only managed to piss her off so far?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t hurt to know who the enemy is, does it?”

“No, I suppose not,” conceded Harry.

Ron could hardly wait for their classes to be over, and as soon as they were free, he told Harry he’d meet up with him later in the common room and was off to the kitchens. Before long he was already tickling the pear on a certain painting. The pear wriggled and giggled like a naughty schoolgirl before turning into a doorhandle. Ron opened the not-so-secret door and stepped into the kitchen. The house elves bowed frantically as they caught sight of him.

“Master Weasley!” cried a familiar voice, and Dobby came running toward Ron. “Such an honour to see you down here, kind sir! Do you desire food, as usual? Dinner is still being prepared, but some dishes are ready, and -”

“Thanks, Dobby,” said Ron, “but I’m not here for food. I mean, not specifically,” he added. In Ron’s opinion, one could never have enough food. “I came because I’ve got a question. A question for all of you.” He raised his voice to make sure every house elf was listening.

“We’ll be happy to answer any question you ask, Master Weasley!” squeaked Dobby as the other elves nodded vigorously. Ron’s heart beat faster in anticipation: in just a few seconds he would know the name of his rival. Just what he would do after he learned it, he wasn’t exactly sure – his ability to think ahead was confined to chess – but in his mind, the knowledge alone would somehow bring him closer to his ultimate goal.

“Did one of you deliver flowers to Hermione Granger last night?” he asked. The elves exchanged confused glances, some of them obviously uncomfortable at the very idea of delivering flowers to Hermione Granger. One by one, they shook their heads at Ron.

“What, you mean you didn’t do it?” said Ron, puzzled. “But…but it had to be one of you! Are all of you here?”

“We is all here, sir,” said one of the elves, “but none of us delivered flowers to Hermione Granger last night.” He shuddered slightly. Ron’s face sagged as disappointment washed over him.

“Are you sure?” he asked, searching the faces of the house elves who nodded again.

“We is sorry we couldn’t be of help, Master Weasley,” said Dobby.

“Do you know of any other way someone might have had those flowers delivered?” asked Ron.

“Well…maybe they used a house elf of their own,” said Dobby, frowning. “Other than that…I not know.”

Ron’s spirits sank even lower. Apparently, his rival was either rich (if he owned a house elf), or knew some really advanced magic (if he had found a way to have the flowers delivered without using one), neither of which Ron himself could boast. He couldn’t think of anything he could do about this sorry state of affairs, except…

“All right, give me something to eat,” he said.

Hermione remained in high spirits for the rest of the day, despite the fact that the whole school was now gossipping about her, and Ron’s ridiculous suspicions. As a matter of fact, she did not entirely resent all the glancing, pointing and whispering that now accompanied her almost everywhere, adding pride to lust, as if the latter wasn’t enough to condemn her soul to eternal suffering in hell (provided, of course, that there is a hell, which is highly debatable and irrelevant to the story). The part that she particularly did not resent was the interested looks she started getting from boys, including attractive ones, and the interesting responses those looks produced in her teenage body. She was determined, however, not to welcome anybody’s advances, should they take place, until she found out who her secret admirer was. After all, it would not be fair to rudely reject and make use of that person’s attention by hooking up with another boy – at least, not until his further antics had imbued her with enough mystique and popularity not to depend on them any longer (Hermione’s mental censor cut out that part). Like Ron, she did think about going to the kitchens and asking the house elves about the flowers, but she did not act on it, partly because she was enjoying the intrigue and didn’t want to ruin it, partly because something told her that it wouldn’t do any good.

Next morning upon awakening Hermione did not immediately pull aside the curtains, although she was sorely tempted to do so. She lay in her bed, savoring the anticipation the way she’d used to as a child on Christmas mornings. Finally, unable to wait any longer, she moved the curtain aside. The bunch of roses was still on her bedside table, the flowers looking as fresh as they had last morning, but there appeared to be no new presents waiting for her. Still hopeful, Hermione touched one of the roses; the flowers shivered and tinkled, but nothing else happened. Hermione was disappointed, but found consolation in the fact that she still had the roses to admire and remind her of the urges she was able to arouse in a member of the opposite sex. Besides, she told herself, it was really a bit selfish of her to expect a present every morning, especially when one considered the theoretical difficulty of getting one delivered directly to her dormitory. Then she contradicted herself by thinking hopefully that the day had only just begun and might bring new pleasant surprises (the mental censor made her overlook the duplicity).

The secret admirer, however, did not contact her again either on that day or the next. By Friday evening Hermione had begun to suspect that Ron might be right, that it had all been a joke of some kind. After all, when one thought about it, how could anyone become so infatuated with her? Admittedly, she had a nice body (well, her stomach was not as flat as she would like it to be, but it couldn’t be seen under her robes, anyway), and her face was prettier than some (she was positively a beauty compared to Pansy Parkinson), but there were many girls who were more attractive than her, Parvati and Lavender included. So why would she suddenly inflame such passion in a male? It was all a joke, her inner demons whispered, and her mental censor made no attempt to silence their voices (not surprising, considering the fact that it was an imp itself). Hermione had to use her own willpower to fight those dark thoughts. Ron, on the other hand, was growing increasingly hopeful. It appeared that what he had said to Hermione might, in fact, be more or less true, and the “secret admirer” was nothing but a practical joker. The joke was rather odd, of course, but some people found amusement in the strangest things. This would give Ron a double advantage: Hermione would be distressed and thus vulnerable, and she would trust and at the same time feel guilty toward him, who would turn out to have been right all along. Turning consolation into something more shouldn’t be too difficult. Not that Ron consciously formulated all of this, but he intuitively understood these basics of manipulating a weaker person just as well as any human being.

Saturday morning brought no surprises for Hermione. After breakfast she spent some time with Ron and Harry in the common room, discussing the war and reprimanding Harry for using the Half-Blood Prince’s book. Oddly enough, Ron seemed less enthusiastic about the latter than before, objecting only half-heartedly to her arguments. Finally, the conversation died down, and Harry and Ron started playing chess. After watching the game for a while, Hermione decided to go to the library and get started on her homework.

The library was mostly deserted, with only a few hardcore students like herself present. Hermione couldn’t help wondering if her secret admirer was among them – after all, it was hardly a secret that she spent most of her time in the library, and he would probably like to watch the object of his passion. In fact, the library might be the very place where he had become infatuated with her, watching her day after day (“we start by coveting what we see every day”, she remembered hearing in a muggle movie). Hermione hoped that was not the case, because none of the three boys that haunted the library like herself was in any way stimulating. She didn’t even know what would be worse: the secret admirer turning out to be a practical joker, or one of those three. She had never noticed any of them looking at her, however, and even now all she got from them was a glance and a nod, as usual.

Having collected all the books she needed, Hermione started working and soon became absorbed, forgetting about romance. Two hours went by, and then something finally happened. Hermione picked up a book on charms that was part of their assignment from Professor Flitwick and opened the chapter they were supposed to read. To her amazement, the text in the book vanished before her eyes, and the following message appeared:

My dear Hermione,

I hope you enjoyed the flowers. You seemed a bit down yesterday, and I was extremely frustrated by being unable to walk up to you and ask you if you were all right, because that would have been too revealing, just as I am frustrated by being unable to be around you more often. I savor every glimpse of you, and every utterance of your voice, my love. I’ve got something for you that I hope will cheer you up. It is hidden in this very book; someone as smart as you will undoubtedly know how to filter out its essence. I only wish I could give you something more befitting your grace.

Her heart beating madly, Hermione surreptitiously looked around. Everyone in the library appeared just as engrossed in their work as before, oblivious to the sudden surge of emotional and hormonal activity that had just taken place. After making sure that no one was looking or likely to look in her direction, Hermione pulled out her wand. “Someone as smart as you will undoubtedly know how to filter out its essence”…if the letter meant what Hermione thought it meant, the admirer had melded the book and his gift, spreading the latter’s essence evenly throughout the former and transforming its materials into the materials of the book. It was a rather complex bit of Transfiguration that Hermione knew was mostly used by Dark wizards trying to conceal illegal artifacts or substances. She would have to somehow separate the alien essence before attempting to untransfigure it. This was a challenge, then; Hermione loved challenges. Hiding behind stacks of books as best she could, she cast a Revealspell on the charms volume. To her immense satisfaction, the book became covered in evenly spaced tiny glowing dots which had to be the alien material. Now she had to untransfigure it, but how was she supposed to target all the dots at once? Her mind worked furiously on a solution, an activity that always filled her with intense excitement that bore a curious resemblance to the urges described above (a certain muggle from Vienna would have said that they were the same thing, and perhaps it was with this thought in mind that the secret admirer had designed the riddle). Finally, it occurred to her that, since the object was effectively shattered, repairing it might work. Excitedly, she cast Reparo on a random dot. It worked: the dots disappeared, and something like a ring made of paper and bits of leather appeared on top of the page. Hermione untransfigured it and beheld a ring of extremely fine craftsmanship: it appeared to be made of two interlaced strips of silver etched with tiny, yet perfectly distinct runes. Hermione attempted to decipher what they said, but it made no sense, so she decided they were there simply as a decoration (it was actually an encrypted and rather racily worded ownership claim, but Hermione was not destined to find that out). Even so, the ring was beautiful, and Hermione kept turning it over in her fingers to admire it from every angle. The reward was more than commensurate with the challenge, and the secret admirer had grown even more in Hermione’s eyes. However, there was something she was unsure about, namely, whether or not she ought to wear the ring. On the one hand, a ring was supposed to be worn, and she was pleasantly excited by the idea of accidentally-on-purpose showing it off, earning the envy of girls and the interest of boys. On the other hand, that would look uncomfortably like a betrothal – at any rate, it would be a sign to the secret admirer that his advances were welcome. Hermione pondered this and finally decided that accepting a gift carried no obligations – gifts, after all, were supposed to be given with no thought of reward or gain. Before she put it on, however, she decided to determine its magical properties; urges notwithstanding, Hermione was not stupid. Her tests revealed that the ring possessed some weak magic, which probably kept it from tarnishing. It was definitely not strong enough to have any considerable effect on the wearer. Satisfied, Hermione slipped the ring on the middle finger of her left hand. It fit perfectly, both in terms of size and of style. Hermione felt so happy that she simply sat there admiring the ring, her homework forgotten.

After some time her thoughts returned to the question of who her admirer might be. The message in the charms book had disappeared after Hermione had extracted the ring, but she could remember it more or less accurately. It confirmed her theory that the admirer was not from Gryffindor, as he wrote about not being able to be around her more often. A Gryffindor, even if he wasn’t from her year, would have plenty of opportunity to be around her in the common room. He would also have to be at least a fifth year to be able to perform such complex magic, and his choice of gifts and his writing style spoke of refinement. There was also the matter of his handwriting that still seemed vaguely familiar to Hermione. And he had known that she would need that charms book for her homework and obviously keyed the enchantment to her touch. The last fact was probably the most telling. The admirer had been aware of her homework assignment, at least, where Charms were concerned. The sixth-year Gryffindors didn’t share their Charms lessons with other Houses, but Hermione assumed that Flitwick issued the same homework to the whole year. Using Occam’s razor, Hermione came to the conclusion that the admirer was a sixth-year like herself. A talented, refined sixth-year who could fall in love with a muggle-born witch…the only person who fit the bill was Anthony Goldstein. She absentmindedly twirled the ring on her finger as she considered this. Yes, that well-bred, studious kabbalist was potentially capable of pulling off the whole secret admirer thing. He had never struck Hermione as a person prone to romance, but then, she didn’t really know him. Whenever they talked, it was mostly about their studies, although he had once confessed to her with a self-conscious titter that his dearest ambition was to part the Black Lake with his wand (she wasn’t sure if he had been joking). Hermione pictured him in her mind: a slender boy with a pale face, his clothes always impeccable, his sleek black hair parted to the left. He was cute in a way, but sadly, he did not stimulate her urges (those types never do). Still, his skillful advances did him credit, and dating him would not be looked upon as something unnatural and could be used to raise her value on the urge satisfaction market. Of course, if she dated him, she would have to somehow deal with his attempts to satisfy his own urges, but Hermione figured that a person as shy and civil as Anthony could be held at bay almost indefinitely, especially if she threw him a bone now and again by allowing him to hold her hand, for instance. Hermione smiled to herself. She may not have gotten the best deal, but it was definitely not the worst. She wondered how long it would be before Anthony revealed himself as her admirer, and what other presents he had in store for her. It would certainly be fun to watch him for signs of his true feelings that might slip out from beneath his mask of indifference. If the game started to take too long, though, Hermione intended to take matters into her own hands. After all, Anthony was supposed to be but a means of hooking up with the boys she felt really attracted to, and the sooner that happened, the better. Ron, incidentally, no longer belonged to that group. Now that she had been shown some proper courtship, she felt entitled to much more than that admittedly witty (on occasion) and reasonably masculine, but extremely immature, tactless and unsophisticated boy.

Her musings were interrupted by the appearance of none other than Anthony Goldstein himself. He wasn’t quite such a library freak as Hermione, but he was nonetheless a frequent guest there. Hermione was now sure that she had become the object of his desires in the library. She was even a little surprised that he hadn’t shown up earlier, knowing that she would be there, but then she reasoned that he wanted to keep up the pretense. So far he was doing very good: he had nodded to her in greeting, his face betraying no emotion, and disappeared among the bookshelves. He hadn’t even glanced at her hands, although he must have been dying to know if his present had been accepted. Hermione smirked slightly: this was going to be an interesting game.

She worked until it was time for dinner, whereupon she put her things in her bag, returned the books to their shelves and left the library (Anthony had left a bit earlier without so much as a glance in her direction). Harry and Ron were already at the table when she got to the Great Hall, and she went to join them as usual.

“Evening, Hermione,” said Harry as she sat down. “Had a good time at the library?”

“As always,” said Hermione with a smile as she poured herself pumpkin juice.

“What’s this?” asked Harry as he caught sight of the ring on her left hand.

“A gift,” Hermione replied nonchalantly, taking a swig from her glass.

“A gift?” said Harry as Ron craned his neck to take a look at the ring. “Is it from that…admirer of yours?”

“Yeah,” said Hermione, taking a knife and a fork and starting to cut her steak.

“You mean he actually gave it to you?” asked Ron, sounding very tense for some reason.

“No, he left it for me in a book, along with a message,” said Hermione. “Pass me the salt, would you, Harry?”

“And you put it on just like that?” said Ron in a scandalized voice. “Hermione, are you mental? It could be –”

“It’s not,” Hermione cut across him, salting her meal. “I checked it for magic, Ron. I’m not stupid, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“I – well – that’s not what I meant,” spluttered Ron. “I only wanted – you know – ”

“I appreciate your concern, Ron,” said Hermione, “but as I told you, the ring isn’t cursed. And it’s beautiful, so I see no reason why I shouldn’t wear it.”

Ron looked like he could see a pretty good reason for Hermione not to wear the ring, but he couldn’t seem to put it into words.

“It is finely made,” said Harry, squinting at the ring. Hermione lifted her hand so he could see it closely. “Hmm, it’s carved with runes. Have you tried translating them?”

“I have, but it seems they are there just for decoration.”

“Well, it is a beautiful ring, Hermione,” said Harry. “And it suits you, too.”

“Thanks, Harry,” said Hermione with a grin as Ron glared at his friend.

“Do you still have no idea who that admirer of yours is?” he asked.

“Actually, I now have a pretty good idea,” said Hermione.

“And?” Ron asked impatiently after a few seconds, for she had said nothing else and continued eating. “Who is it?”

“I’ll tell you when I know for sure,” she answered.

“C’mon, all your good ideas always turn out to be right, anyway,” insisted Ron. Hermione smiled. A few days before such flattery would have worked (and in fact, if Ron had but employed it more often, he might have been already satisfying his urges), but unfortunately for Ron, her self-esteem had soared out of its range since then.

“Then you agree that Harry ought to get rid of that Potions book?” she asked slyly.

“Well, er, um…” mumbled Ron as his urges fought a desperate battle with his loyalty to Harry, whose eyes told him that consistency in this particular case was not welcome. “I mean, ah, well, maybe we ought to – you know – be more careful with it. Not – not that we should get rid of it just like that,” he added quickly as Harry’s expression became downright menacing. “Just – you know - ”

Hermione stopped listening to Ron’s babbling and surveyed the Ravenclaw table. She couldn’t actually see much of it, because it was behind the Hufflepuff table, but she did manage to locate Anthony Goldstein, who was sitting with his back to her. The boy had to have an iron will if what he had written about savoring every glimpse of her was true. Apparently, he was afraid that his eyes would betray the feelings that he was determined to reveal at the time of his own choosing. Hermione got rather excited at the thought of his desire for her being so intense that he had to resort to such ruthless measures to conceal it. The awareness of the theoretical possibility of arousing desires of similar intensity in a male who would in turn produce such desires in her triggered a chain of various biochemical reactions in Hermione’s teenage body, and her mental censor had to deal with an onslaught of the resulting mental images, some of which it put aside to examine them at its leisure (that was one of its chief sources of entertainment).

The whole exchange between Harry, Ron and Hermione had not gone unnoticed, of course, and by the time dinner was over all of Gryffindor House knew that Hermione had received a ring as a present. Many girls came up to her that evening asking to see it, which she magnanimously allowed them to do, and many boys kept stealing glances at her, even a certain handsome seventh-year that she’d had her eye upon for some time. She went to bed in understandably high spirits, which couldn’t be said about Ron, whose plans had been brutally dashed. Oh, how he hated that secret admirer! He knew he had to discover his identity and stop him if he was to have any success with Hermione. Ron lay awake in his bed even after everyone else had gone to sleep, thinking about how he could identify his enemy. He didn’t harbor much hope of fishing it out of Hermione, remembering his unsuccessful attempts to find out who she was going to the Yule Ball with in their fourth year. All he had to go on was the first letter and, of course, the presents. He still had the envelope from the letter, and presently he retrieved it and studied the inscription “Hermione Granger” in the light of his wand. The handwriting was so calligraphic it left little room for individuality, yet something about the shape of certain letters struck him as familiar. It was elusive, but it was there. Ron was certain it wasn’t just his imagination; besides, Harry had also found the writing familiar. But where could he have seen it? Ron screwed up his face as he thought. He didn’t actually see the writing of his fellow students that often, if one didn’t count Harry and Hermione. The notice board in the common room, of course, contained a good selection of the handwriting of Gryffindor students, and Ron intended to study it next morning, but he wasn’t too hopeful about that, either, knowing that Hermione thought her admirer was from another House. Ron would have come to that conclusion on his own, because his enemy’s behavior just didn’t smack of Gryffindor. This stumped Ron, because he didn’t routinely look at anything written by students from other Houses. He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. Maybe he and Harry had imagined it, after all.

And then, suddenly, he knew where he had seen the writing of many students from other Houses, probably including the enemy’s, and where he could see it again if the source still existed. Of course, recovering it might present a problem, but Ron thought he knew a way to accomplish this. After all, he thought with a smile, what were friends for?

Sunday was uneventful. At meals Hermione tried to watch Anthony Goldstein, but he was either hidden from view or sitting with his back to her again. Ron, too, watched the senior male students from other Houses, suspecting all who might be considered even vaguely attractive of being Hermione’s secret admirer and mentally executing them in horrible ways. Both he and Hermione wondered when the admirer would make his next move.

Hermione had been looking forward to Monday, because on Monday she had Ancient Runes, which she shared with Anthony Goldstein. She was sure that he was bound to try and steal at least a single glance at her; his iron will notwithstanding, he was unlikely to miss such an opportunity. Watching him for such a slip in his pretense should be extremely fun. So it was with a feeling of anticipation that Hermione arrived at the Runes classroom on Monday. Several students were already waiting outside, Anthony among them. He was studying a sheet of parchment, but looked up as Hermione approached.

“Hi,” she said.

“Oh, hi,” said Anthony, nothing in his attitude betraying his fiery passion. “I’m re-reading my translation,” he added, waving the parchment in his hand. “That text was really difficult, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it sure was,” said Hermione. “Took me about two hours to translate. And here I was, thinking I know how to read runes.”

“Same here,” chuckled Anthony. “Just goes to show that you can never presume to know everything about a subject, doesn’t it?”

“Very true,” said Hermione with a nod.

“By the way, may I see that ring of yours?” asked Anthony, pointing at Hermione’s ring. “I’ve heard there’s some kind of runic inscription on it.”

“Oh, it’s not really an inscription,” said Hermione as she lifted her hand and Anthony bent over it to examine the ring. “It seems those runes are just there for decoration, but it still looks beautiful, doesn’t it?”

“That it does,” agreed Anthony, squinting at the ring. “Very fine craftsmanship. Whoever gave you this has taste.”

“I think so, too,” said Hermione, intently studying Anthony’s face, but the only thing she could see there was curiosity.

“Do you actually know who he is?” Anthony asked casually.

“No,” she replied.

“Well, I hope he’ll be in your taste, as well,” said Anthony, straightening up. “As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be a Ravenclaw.”

“Me neither. In fact, I’m pretty sure he is from Ravenclaw,” said Hermione, looking him straight in the eye.

“Well…as I said, I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Anthony with a shrug. “Now please excuse me, I want to finish revising my translation.”

“Of course,” said Hermione and went to stand several feet away from Anthony, feeling rather bewildered. Anthony was either the best actor alive, or he wasn’t her secret admirer, because he had appeared completely relaxed and no more interested in Hermione than before. During the lesson that followed he didn’t glance at her once, although, admittedly, he had been sitting in front of her, and looking back would have been rather conspicuous. Hermione left the Runes classroom plagued with doubt. Had she been wrong all along? But if not Anthony, who? After some consideration she decided to stick with the Anthony theory, the real reason for this being that she liked it (her mental censor gleefully shoved the contradictory arguments into the back of her mind).

Hermione expected that Anthony would next contact her on Tuesday, the day he sent her his first love message. Tuesday morning proved her right: when she drew aside the bed hangings, there was a vial full of colorless liquid waiting on her bedside table. Underneath the vial was a note, and Hermione eagerly extracted it and read:

My sweet, sweet Hermione,

Words couldn’t possibly describe the happiness I felt when I saw you wearing my ring. I could hardly believe that my goddess had actually accepted my unworthy gift, that I had managed to please her. Oh, if you only knew how I love you, my Hermione!

I have another present for you: it is a perfume composed of very rare ingredients. I do hope you will like the scent. It took me a long time to pick one that I think suits your personality.

Now, you must be wondering who I might be. Indeed, I am sure that you think you have a pretty good idea, just as I am sure that you suspect the wrong person. Please don’t get me wrong: I don’t doubt your powers of deduction – I know you are the smartest person in this school, with the possible exception of Dumbledore – but you are in all probability basing your theory on a false presupposition. You will know who I am soon enough, and you may be shocked when you do. All I am asking of you is to keep an open mind, and to remember that love knows no boundaries.

Reading the note left Hermione understandably pleased, but also a little apprehensive. Her doubts about the secret admirer’s identity had resurfaced, and this time her mental censor was unable to suppress them. Basing your theory on a false presupposition…you may be shocked…why would she be shocked if she discovered that her admirer was Anthony Goldstein, even if she hadn’t suspected him? It would be surprising, perhaps, but not really shocking. And Anthony, if he was the admirer, would know she suspected him, he couldn’t have missed the hints she’d dropped during their conversation the day before. Yet the admirer obviously thought she suspected the wrong person. No, it simply couldn’t be Anthony (Hermione’s mental censor gnashed its teeth in powerless anger as it let that thought pass; it had no more chance of stopping it than a man has of stopping a train with his bare hands).

Hermione sighed: she was back to where she had started. Well, at least, the admirer had left her another present. She picked up the vial, uncorked it and sniffed. The scent of the perfume was very subtle, almost imperceptible, yet Hermione’s teenage body responded to it very enthusiastically: her pulse quickened, her pupils dilated, and certain other somatic reactions occurred that we won’t describe here in detail. Hermione enjoyed it so much that she immediately hurried to the bathroom, where, after taking a shower and going through all the other morning toiletries, she applied the perfume to her teenage body (had she known what exactly it consisted of, she would have thought twice about it, so the secret admirer had shown wisdom in not enumerating the perfume’s components). Its fragrance lent her mental censor sufficient strength to quell most of the doubts and fears concerning the identity of her admirer. In fact, she thought as she left the bathroom, it might very well be somebody a lot better than Anthony Goldstein.

“Morning!” Hermione called cheerfully as she entered the common room and spotted Harry and Ron.

“Morning, Hermione,” said Harry. “In a good mood today, are we?”

“Mm-hm,” said Hermione. “I got another present from my admirer.”

Ron didn’t seem very pleased at the news, for some reason.

“That’s great,” said Harry. “What is it?”

“Smell me,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Come on, do it.”

Looking mystified, Harry bent toward her and sniffed, and Ron followed his example.

“Hmm,” said Harry. “That’s not your usual perfume.”

“Yeah, it smells rather weird,” added Ron.

“Weird? What do you mean, weird?” asked Hermione, feeling slightly affronted. “Don’t you like it?”

“I dunno,” said Ron. “It’s just…strange.”

“Yeah, it is,” said Harry. “Is that what your admirer gave you? A perfume?”

“Yes, and I think it smells great, and so do Lavender and Parvati, I don’t know why you don’t like it.”

“I think it’s dodgy, don’t you, Harry?” said Ron.

“Hermione, I think Ron is right,” said Harry with a frown. “Did you check that perfume?”

“Yes, I did,” Hermione lied irritably. “It’s perfectly all right. You two just don’t know a good scent when you come across one.”

“Well, maybe we don’t,” said Harry in a placating tone. “All right, why don’t we go to breakfast?”

“Good idea,” said Hermione and headed toward the portrait hole without waiting for them. This gave Ron the opportunity to whisper to Harry, “You’ve got to do it today, mate.”

“Do what today?” asked Harry, confused.

“You know…the thing I asked you to do,” answered Ron, glancing nervously toward the portrait hole through which Hermione was now climbing.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Ron!” said Harry, rolling his eyes.

“Please, Harry, it’s really important to me.”

“And how am I supposed to do it? It would be one thing if I came to Dumbledore’s office at his invitation and mentioned it casually, but if I showed up specifically for that reason, it’d look suspicious, don’t you think? And you can’t lie to Dumbledore.”

“Oh, come on, he’d do anything for you even if he knew you were lying,” insisted Ron. “He knows you only lie for noble reasons.”

“And if you use it for not-so-noble ends, how will that make me look?”

“Dumbledore is very forgiving. Look, just do it, okay?”

They continued debating as they left the common room. By the time they got to the Great Hall, Harry had given in to Ron’s supplications just to get rid of him. When they arrived at their destination, however, they saw that the Headmaster’s chair at the staff table was empty.

“See? He’s not even here,” Harry said to Ron. “It’ll have to wait until he returns from wherever he is.”

Ron obviously didn’t think much of this turn of events, but there was no arguing with Harry’s words.

Dumbledore did not appear at the staff table either on that day, or the next. Ron was beginning to feel slightly panicky and even had thoughts about breaking into the Headmaster’s office and searching it himself, but he wasn’t quite that insane yet. Hermione, on the other hand, was in high spirits and very much looking forward to meeting her secret admirer, because her urges were stronger than ever before. She didn’t connect this fact with the new perfume she was using. It is hard to say whether it would have made any difference if she had. Let this remain one of the great mysteries the Universe holds.

On Thursday Dumbledore appeared at lunch, and of course, Ron wasted no time in reminding Harry of his promise. Harry tried to worm his way out of it again, but Ron was adamant, so after their classes were over, he set off for the Headmaster’s office. Ron eagerly awaited his return in the dormitory, and when Harry finally entered, he rushed toward him.

“Well?” he asked excitedly.

Without saying a word, Harry pulled a roll of parchment out of his pocket and handed it to Ron.

“You got it!” said Ron in delight, greedily grabbing the parchment. “I owe you one, mate. How did it go?”

“Surprisingly easy,” said Harry. “He didn’t seem the least bit surprised when I showed up and asked for it. Handed it over without question.”

“See, it wasn’t that difficult,” said Ron. “Well, at last we’re going to find out who that ‘secret admirer’ is.”

He strode to his bed and took the envelope with Hermione’s name on it from under his pillow. Holding it in his hand, he spread the parchment on his knees and scanned it intently, his eyes darting to the envelope now and again. Harry, who was feeling slightly curious by now, joined him. Ron stared at each male name on the list of the members of Dumbledore’s Army as if his life depended on it, but nowhere did he see handwriting that resembled the admirer’s.

“I don’t see it,” he murmured after several minutes. “Do you, Harry?”

“Nope,” said Harry.

“Dammit!” swore Ron. “I was sure it would be here. Where else could I have seen this handwriting? It does seem familiar, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, glancing at the envelope again. He felt at once disappointed and relieved. On the one hand, his bold foray into Dumbledore’s office had proved fruitless; on the other hand, who knew what Ron might have done if he had uncovered his rival’s identity.

On Friday both Ron and Hermione found it hard to concentrate on the lessons. Ron kept dwelling on the identity of his rival and fretting about Hermione hooking up with him, and Hermione was distracted by her urges. She really hoped the admirer would get a move on, because otherwise she wouldn’t be able to satisfy the needs that occupied the higher strata of Maslow’s pyramid. However, the admirer appeared to have abandoned her in a time of need, and that night she even had to resort – for the first time in her life – to self-stimulation, an experience that she found enjoyable, but which left her wanting for more.

She was, therefore, greatly relieved to find another note from the admirer on her bedside table the next morning. It went as follows:

My love,

The time has come to reveal myself to you. Tonight I will proclaim my feelings to you in person – provided that you will deign to come and meet me. If you are interested, come to the entrance to the Astronomy tower at 8’o’clock.

It seemed the whole affair was finally getting somewhere. Hermione felt restless the whole day, the most part of which she spent in the library pretending to study and dreaming about her imminent meeting with the secret admirer, whom she pictured as tall, dark and handsome (oddly enough, the image looked a lot like young Lord Voldemort, as anyone who had known him would have attested, but the profound implications of this should be discussed elsewhere). Her mental censor, meanwhile, was having a field day stamping out doubts, misgivings and pesky logical arguments. Finally, when eight’o’clock was already in sight – or would have been if one could actually see through time – Hermione went to the prefects’ bathroom and took a hot bath, thoroughly washing her teenage body. She took extra care in brushing her teeth and combing her bushy hair, applied some make-up and, of course, the admirer’s perfume. After studying her reflection in the mirror with a critical eye, she remained satisfied with the results of her inspection. Finally, she put on fresh lingerie and other necessary articles of clothing, and then she was ready to go. Her heart beating more rapidly than usual due to her excitement, she left the prefects’ bathroom and made her way through the torchlit and mostly deserted corridors to the place where her admirer was supposed to meet her. She arrived at the door which led to the Astronomy Tower at five minutes to eight. There was no one in sight, so she waited, getting increasingly nervous. Eight’o’clock had come and gone – according to her magical watch, at least – and still there was no sign of the admirer. Hermione thought that maybe he wouldn’t show up when a glowing orb the size of a walnut suddenly appeared in midair in front of her. Curious, Hermione stepped toward it, but as she did, the orb vanished and reappeared several feet to the left. Understanding its purpose, Hermione followed.

In the meantime, Ron was sitting in the common room not knowing what to occupy himself with. Harry had just left for another lesson with Dumbledore, and Hermione had gone to the prefects’ bathroom almost an hour before to take a “good long bath”, as she had put it. Ron sighed as he pictured her emerging from the bath clothed in nothing but foam (“Like Aphrodite,” he would have thought if he had known who Aphrodite was). He wished he had Harry’s invisibility cloak, because that would allow him to sneak into the bathroom and spy on her. And then an idea occurred to him: he would go and wait for her at the bathroom door and then escort her back to the common room. Hermione was bound to appreciate such a gallant gesture. And if he complimented her on her looks while they were on their way to the common room – why, there was no telling where that might lead. With that encouraging thought in mind Ron climbed through the portrait hole and directed his steps toward the prefects’ bathroom. When he arrived, he saw that the crystal above the door was glowing green, which meant the bathroom was unoccupied. This puzzled him. He had taken the shortest route from the Gryffindor common room to the bathroom, so even if Hermione had already left, he should have run into her, unless she had gotten sidetracked – but why would she? Ron had a look inside the bathroom, just in case, but it was really empty. Feeling a little alarmed, he hurried back to the common room.

Meanwhile, Hermione kept following the hovering ball of light, which always stayed about seven feet ahead of her. A couple of times a ghost floated across her path, and she noticed that both times the light went out, reappearing only after the ghosts had passed out of sight. The admirer was provident, if nothing else, but where was the light leading her? That question was answered when she reached a door that had been left open a crack. The light jumped into the gap between wall and door, where it glowed very brightly for a few seconds before going out.

Hermione stood there, confused. That door, she knew, led to Professor Flitwick’s office – an odd place for a date. Yet the admirer obviously wanted her to enter. She hesitated for a minute, but curiosity and urges finally got the better of her, and she tentatively placed her hand on the doorhandle, pulled the door open and stepped inside.

She had never been in Flitwick’s office before and was somewhat mystified by its appearance. It was a circular tower room with three tall vaulted windows, its ceiling lost in darkness (there was only one candle burning). In the center of the room stood Flitwick’s desk, about half as high as the average writing desk. Several chairs, a couple of filing cabinets and a couch lined the circular wall, from which stacks of shelves containing books, scrolls and sundry artifacts protruded every three feet or so, stretching upwards as high as the eye could see. The most bizarre feature of the room, however, were numerous chains of varying length that were suspended from the ceiling, some of them supporting metal bars that looked like perches and a circular platform that was so high up it was barely visible in the gloom. Hermione couldn’t think what they were for.

“Hello?” she said, taking a tentative step forward.

She heard a soft click as the door closed shut behind her. At the same moment more candles ignited around the room, and Hermione saw roses blossoming out of the very walls, a sight that was obviously supposed to be beautiful, but struck her as slightly disturbing. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move high amidst the chains. Looking up quickly, she saw a small shape which she almost immediately identified as Professor Flitwick jumping from chain to chain with the dexterity of a monkey. She had time to think that he must use the chains to access his countless shelves, and for exercise, before he had launched himself off the end of one of the chains and landed, with a double somersault, right in front of her.

“My queen,” he squeaked, bowing deeply. Hermione saw that he was wearing a kind of white jumpsuit with a ruffled collar and cuffs, and his white hair and beard were meticulously combed.

“I – er – what?” she stammered.

“My love, I am so happy that you came,” said Flitwick, looking up at her with adoring eyes.

“It – it is you?” asked Hermione, her eyes widening with realization.

“I see you are shocked, my precious,” said Flitwick in his squeaky voice, taking a step toward her. “Please don’t be. I assure you that age doesn’t matter at all when it comes to true love.”

“But – but I – ” Hermione couldn’t think straight, and the heavy aroma of roses wasn’t helping.

“I know that you long for love as much as I do,” said Flitwick, who was now standing very close to her. “You wouldn’t have come if you didn’t. Please, Hermione…let me show you what it can be like…”

And, without waiting for her consent, Flitwick quickly climbed up the front of her robes, and Hermione found herself face to face with her Charms teacher. She didn’t know what to do: on the one hand, she knew this was very wrong, but on the other hand, the feel of Professor Flitwick’s warm body against hers made her urges flare with an intensity she had never experienced before. Flitwick took advantage of her indecision and kissed her passionately on the mouth, hugging her tightly with his arms and legs. The kiss brought Hermione’s mental processes to a complete halt, and before she knew it, she was responding, her tongue meeting Flitwick’s, her hands gripping his behind. This wasn’t like anything she had experienced with Viktor. That had been the weak flame of a candle; this was dragonfire that consumed everything in its path. That had been a trickle from a faucet in one of Hogwarts’ toilets; this was a tsunami that wiped Third World cities off the face of the Earth. Such was the extent of the passion that had taken over Hermione and her elderly dwarfish teacher.

Ron climbed through the portrait hole and scanned the common room. Hermione was nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, Parvati!” he called. “Have you seen Hermione in the last fifteen minutes?”

“No, I haven’t,” said Parvati, looking away from the notice board she had been studying.

Ron was now thoroughly alarmed. What if something had happened to Hermione? He bit his lip, trying to think of what to do. And then it hit him: the Marauder’s Map. He sprinted across the common room and up the staircase that led to the boys’ dormitories. The only person in their dormitory was Neville, and he was asleep, so it didn’t surprise him when Ron started rummaging in Harry’s trunk. It didn’t take Ron long to locate the map, and he began scanning it frantically. Nearly all the students were in their common rooms at this late hour, which made Ron’s task easier. After a couple of minutes of intense search his attention was drawn by a strange labelled dot: it seemed slightly larger than the others, and its name appeared indecipherable. Looking closer, Ron realized that it was not one, but two dots that were so close together that their names overlapped. One of the names was longer than the other and ended in “nger”. Once he saw that, Ron had no difficulty making out the rest of Hermione’s name. She and the other person were in Flitwick’s office, and the other name, he saw, was indeed “Filius Flitwick”. He stared at the map in confusion. What was Hermione doing in Flitwick’s office at this time?

And then it came crashing down on him: he realized at once why his rival’s handwriting had seemed familiar (it may seem strange that he or Hermione hadn’t identified it, but their minds had been so trained on the student body that they had ignored the evidence of the senses – a regretfully common occurrence), why he hadn’t found him on the list of DA members, and why Hermione and Flitwick’s dots were so close together.

“Flitwick,” whispered Ron, staring at the two overlapping dots with such intensity it was a wonder his gaze didn’t burn a hole in the Marauder’s Map. “I’m going to kill you, Professor Flitwick.”

Professor Flitwick was crawling all over Hermione like a huge spider, but he felt a lot better than a spider, of course, more like Crookshanks, except that Crookshanks never affected Hermione’s urges in that way. She caressed his small body when she could reach it, and her own when she couldn’t. They were not enough, those caresses, and they both knew it; they had said A, and now it was time to move on to B. And move they did, Flitwick hopping onto the floor and leading Hermione forward by the hand. He waved his wand, and everything was swept from his desk, leaving it bare; he waved it again, and this time it was Hermione who was left bare, her clothes landing in a heap beside her (the thought that she needn’t have bothered with the lingerie slipped past her mental censor, who by that time had been transformed into a huge raging demon). Hermione lay down upon the desk, and Flitwick, who had already disposed of his clothes in a similar fashion, climbed atop her. She moaned as he sucked on her erect nipples, interspersing this activity with incoherent but undoubtedly passionate proclamations of love made in a squeaky voice, and when he made a U-turn and switched to her wet and silky crevice, she arched her body, gripping the edges of the desktop. It is hard to say which of them was getting more enjoyment, because their feelings were to a certain degree incommensurable due to the differences in their physiology; to a casual observer, however, they would have appeared equally enraptured. But they both knew, of course, that this was but a prelude, that Flitwick’s tongue, however skillful, was but a herald of another appendage, one that was currently pressing against Hermione’s stomach. And Flitwick acted on that knowledge, making another U-turn and standing up, his feet placed on Hermione’s thighs so that he resembled the Colossus of Rhodes, except that the Colossus had never sported a pencil-sized erection (and a short pencil it was, at that).

“Do you really want this, my love?” he squeaked.

“Yes,” moaned Hermione, who, in all fairness, had never seen an erect penis in her life and had nothing to compare Flitwick’s with. “Yes, Professor, I want you inside me.”

Flitwick’s eyes shone triumphantly, but the romantic moment was ruined by the office door flying open with a bang, and a wand-wielding Ronald Weasley, who looked like a vengeful spirit, or, at least, like a very angry teenager, storming inside. Flitwick and Hermione froze, staring at Ron in as much shock as he felt upon seeing them.

“You,” said Ron, fixing Flitwick with a completely demented gaze. “You.”

Flitwick attempted to say something, but his voice failed him. Not that anything he might have said would have saved him, for a deadly decision had already formed in Ron’s head. He had a wand in his hand, but he felt it would be too impersonal, so he gave a wild roar and ran at Flitwick, who saw his whole life pass before his eyes, superimposed on the image of Ron charging at him like an enraged bull. The next moment, Ron had administered a kick any muggle football player would be proud of to Flitwick’s body, sending him flying straight through the window with a great crashing of glass.

Harry Potter, who was at that moment sitting in Dumbledore’s study talking to the Headmaster, leapt to his feet.

“What’s the matter, Harry?” asked Dumbledore.

“I – I think I just saw Professor Flitwick’s naked body falling past the window!” said Harry, pointing uncertainly behind Dumbledore.

“Yes, I’m sure you did,” the Headmaster said calmly.

“I – what?” said Harry, looking at Dumbledore in confusion.

“Well, Harry,” said Dumbledore, steepling his fingers, “I’m sure you are aware by now of certain urges that a person normally begins to feel when they reach puberty.”

“Er – well – yes, I am, but what does that have to do with – ”

“Please, Harry, you ought to know by now that I never say anything irrelevant, except when I do,” said Dumbledore, somewhat truistically. “Now, you must also be aware that normally those urges fade with age. However, it is not always so. I have long known that Professor Flitwick experienced such urges from time to time, and even have my theories as to why his virility proved so persisting, but I won’t burden you with those. Suffice to say that I have hinted to him, very tactfully, of course, but clearly enough for someone of his intelligence to understand, that the actual satisfaction of his urges with the female students of Hogwarts may result in a backlash, not only on the part of the parents, but, first and foremost, on the part of the male students, because the frustration of said urges caused by another male creates a tremendous potential difference, which in his case would be greatly magnified due to difference in age, social status, physical appearance and so on. And, as you will have learned in your magical theory class, a potential difference of great magnitude almost invariably results in a discharge of energy, often of a destructive nature. Are you following me?”

“Uh, I think so,” said Harry. “But sir, shouldn’t we go and help Professor Flitwick?”

“My dear boy, do you really think that anyone could possibly survive such a fall?” asked Dumbledore, an amused twinkle in his eye.

“Well, probably not,” said Harry, “but still, we ought to do something.”

“We will after I finish my explanation,” said Dumbledore. “It won’t take long, and I doubt anything will happen to Filius’ body in such a short time. Anyway, to get to the point, it is now beyond any doubt that after many years of prudence Filius decided to throw caution to the winds and court none other than your friend Hermione Granger.”

“What?!” exclaimed Harry. “You mean, her secret admirer is – was – ”

“Filius, yes,” said Dumbledore with a nod. “And, unless I’m much mistaken, tonight he invited her to a date in his office and managed to satisfy his urges with her – to what extent, I do not know – and then they were discovered by Ronald Weasley, possibly aided by your unique map. Mr.Weasley’s reaction to what he saw can be inferred from the fact that Filius is lying somewhere on the castle grounds, naked, most certainly considerably flattened, and quite dead.”

“But that’s horrible!” said Harry. “What will happen to Ron now?”

“The best course of action, I think, would be to Obliviate him and Miss Granger, as well as any other witnesses,” said the Headmaster. “I don’t – and neither do you, I’m sure – want him to be sent to Azkaban, least of all for something that was caused by forces quite outside his control – I’m talking about the potential difference I mentioned earlier. We can give out the story that Filius fell out the window while practicing his usual acrobatics – yes, Filius would have been a great success in a circus,” he added in response to Harry’s uncomprehending look. “It would be quite plausible. In fact, I have warned him of the danger of performing such feats in the proximity of a window.”

Dumbledore rose from his chair and went to stand at the window of his own office. Harry joined him.

“What lesson can we learn from this incident?” Dumbledore asked pensively, staring into the darkness beyond the window. “What do you think, Harry?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry with a shrug, also gazing out the window. “There are so many implications.”

“True, but there must be some crucial element on which everything else hinges.”

Harry frowned as he thought deeply.

“If Professor Flitwick had followed your advice, none of this would have happened,” he murmured finally. “You knew what was best for him. You always know best.”

They looked at each other, and Harry saw that the Headmaster was smiling.

“That’s my boy,” said Dumbledore. “Have a lemon drop.”