Hermione Granger didn’t haunt me beyond high school, although I did have one scare when J.K. Rowling published the final book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, where Hermione’s middle name was revealed in the reading of Dumbledore’s will. You guessed it: Jean! My heart froze when I first read that line lying in bed one night, the paperback still shiny and un-creased. I had visions of undergraduates parading around me in the student union cafeteria calling out “And To Miss Hermione JEAN Granger, I leave my copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, in the hope that she will find it entertaining and instructive." Except every student would name a different book title, each more embarrassing and sexually suggestive than the last. The scars from high school had mostly healed, but they hadn’t faded, and even at age twenty-one they still held a power over me. In a pointless act of defence I dyed my hair, which I didn’t like and dyed it back again; and I changed my name to Jeannie, which. ‘You want to, I can feel it’. She nodded shyly, without looking up. ‘Not yet, not now’, she stepped back and held my hand. Minutes later I was back in my apartment alone, still panting and my head still dizzy with lust and the scent of her perfume, I relived my frustration once more. Our messages became increasingly frequent and littered with kisses. A few days later she insisted on taking me to a ruined temple one afternoon. She thought I would be interested in it and chatted away excitedly about its history. I barely noticed it, my eyes rarely leaving the sight of her sexy teenage ass in her tight pink jeans. When they did it was to study her silky, clingy top, the breeze making her bra teasingly visible. But opportunities to hold her hand, let alone her body, were few and snatched. Only once, as we followed a tour group, did I manage to pull her into a hidden alcove. I ignored her muffled shriek of shock and pressed her up against the old stone wall. Our lips met open, as my.
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