Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Beyond 84 Charing Cross Road	By : devsgma Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 28462 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
Part Five

AN: Thank you, Lariope! Without you, this story would never have made it here.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

You underestimate the coverage the "chums" of the boy who lived received in the papers. Who in the wizarding world doesn't know a great deal about the "trio" and their exploits?

Of course. Hadn't she suspected that very thing months ago? Simon believed he knew her, or at least enough about her to make educated guesses about her nature, because of the things he read in the papers.

"How much of his 'knowledge' is based on the lies and half-truths reported as facts and insinuations over the last ten years? No wonder he never asked me any of the usual questions, he probably believes he already knows the answers."

Her acute sense of disappointment seemed horrifically out of place, but Hermione couldn't shake it. Nor could she get rid of the strange unease that plagued her since finding out that Grandpa Simon... wasn't.

She refrained from contacting him until after her disastrous dinner with Peabody, waiting until his books had been added to the store inventory and were ready to ship.

April 22, 2000

Simon,

Three books will be delivered this afternoon; your account will be debited tomorrow barring any issues.

Since your warning about Peabody and his intentions proved valid, I shall return the favor with a warning of my own – the sensational rubbish you may have read or heard in the media about the "trio" is just that, rubbish. For every fact printed, there are half a dozen lies.

Respectfully,

Hermione Granger

-~8~-

Simon's eyes narrowed for a moment when Hermione's letter confirmed the fact Emerson Peabody was still up to his old habits. He paused for a moment while considering the wisdom of sending the other wizard a little gift.

It's too close to her visit. She might receive the blame.

One eyebrow lifted as he finished reading the short letter. He'd grown accustomed to more of a rambling letter from Hermione, containing a bit more warmth than this one contained. It wasn't hard to determine why this one seemed brusque.

She's actually concerned about what other people think of her.

How quaint.

Utterly silly.

But quaint none the less.

April 22, 2000

Hermione,

The books have arrived and are satisfactory. I plan to send Peabody a "present" in the near future – after enough time has passed so it could not be laid at your door – are there any suggestions on your part?

Your warning comes far too late I'm afraid. The true nature of the majority of those involved with the press was made clear to me many, many years ago. I suspect the number of sales far outweighs the value of truth in most publications. Truth, un-embellished of course, wouldn't sell nearly as many subscriptions now would it?

As ever,

Simon

-~8~-

One of the owls from Marks and Sons flew through the morning sky with two envelopes tied to its leg. The first carried the return address of the store.

April 30, 2000

Simon,

As it is the end of the month I wish I had more progress to report. With any luck, there will be better prospects to discuss next month.

Hermione

The second bore Hermione's name as the sender.

Simon,

There are many things I could suggest that might be of benefit to Mister Peabody, his roaming hands, his inappropriate tongue and his rampant libido; however, as I would prefer to remain employed for the foreseeable future, and as I will be meeting with him at least once more to finish negotiations for the last of the lot, it would be best if I kept them to myself.

Please don't let my silence keep you from bestowing a gift upon anyone you might choose.

I don't know what may have happened in the past to sour you against the press, but I cannot say I disagree with you. On this point, at least.

As a matter of fact, I have realized over the last few days that I don't know a great many things about you, whereas you appear to "know" much about myself. My life, as they say, has been something of an open book, and once again it has put me at a disadvantage.

The feeling unsettles me, and I'm afraid that I have let that unease color my earlier interaction with you.

Hermione

-~8~-

Having never talked on a Muggle phone, and not having had a long term correspondence with anyone before, Simon was unaware of the ease with which one fell into the comfort of "confessing" to a faceless voice or a blank sheet of parchment. He found himself telling Hermione things he'd never dreamt of telling even Dumbledore – the man who had basically owned his soul since the day Lily was murdered.

After all, she'd never know who was really penning the letters signed Simon. Right?

Hermione,

I have enough books for now. Do not fret over them too much. If they are to be found – they will be found.

I will try to tell you a little of myself, but there’s something you need to understand. My life – such as it is – has been anything but an open book. It should come as no surprise that I am somewhat guarded when it comes to the members of the press or anyone else for that matter. Stupid decisions on my part, and a bit of circumstance, forced duplicity upon me at a young age. It's become the habit of a lifetime. One I'm not even tempted to change, really.

It has allowed me to survive, and while I'm not shouting it from the rooftops – I'm still breathing. Still putting one foot in front of the other and still – still living – which is much more than too many can say.

My needs are simple. My wants, other than the list you have, are few. In a nutshell, I am a boring old fart who spends the greatest majority of his time alone with a chicken who pretends to be a falcon.

As ever,

Simon

-~8~-

"Enough books for now? Who is this man, and what has he done with Simon?" she asked her cat. Crookshanks stared at her for a moment, turned his back to her and began licking his paw.

Simon called himself a boring old fart who spent his time with his bird. Hermione spent most of her evenings attempting to converse with her cat and owl. "What does that make me? I'm too young to be an old fart, aren't I?"

Crooks finished his bathing and paused to butt his head against her knee before moving off toward the kitchen and his food dish.

"It's not that I don't have friends," she called out toward his retreating tail. "I'm just usually tired after work and don't feel like going out every night. I'm happy the way things are, really. And I'm not lonely; I talk to people all the time. I do. There's Harry and Ron, and I exchange letters with Viktor and Penelope, and I ate lunch with Mister Fitzgerald just today. He told me all about his newest grandchild and... and... Good lord, I'm dull," Hermione huffed as she fell over sideways to lay across her sofa.

She resolved that the next time one of the ladies from the store invited her to join a group of other employees for a night out, she would go. No matter what.

"Unless it's a weeknight. Or I have to get up early the next morning. Or Mrs Tonks needs a babysitter, or – Whatever the young, female equivalent of a boring old fart is, you're a definite candidate, kiddo."

Rather than dwell on the fact that she actually preferred to stay home, alone, talking to her owl or cat, instead of sitting in a bar or club surrounded by strangers all straining to have any semblance of a conversation over the pounding bass of the house band, Hermione reached for her pen and stationery.

Simon,

I hope you don't think this too forward of me; I am aware that our strange correspondence began out of a business relationship – if one would call it that – rather than any desire on either of our parts to gain a pen pal, but I find myself writing your name far more often than necessary to discuss your list. Over the last few months I have begun to look forward reading your letters. Yes, even the rude ones.

I am aware that you are much older than I, but I think that we may have more in common than one might expect. Our letters of late have been rather more than those between mere bookstore manager and customer; at least, that is the way it appears to my eyes. If I am incorrect or am misreading the situation, please feel free to tell me so, but I have come to think of you as somewhat of a friend.

If you do not mind, if it's not too inappropriate, I should like to continue to write to you – when there is something worth sharing to write about, of course, as I would not wish to waste your time or mine – from my home rather than from the store. Your twice monthly updates will still come from Marks and Sons, but as most of my work correspondence is kept on file and there have already been some things written that I would prefer be kept out of the quarterly reviews...

There are times when I wish I could remain guarded rather than telegraphing my thoughts and feelings for all the world to see – the most recent example would be the above paragraphs where I just opened myself up for what may be one hell of a nasty rebuff and a potential calling on the carpet by my employers after they hear what I've done. Which, I can assure you, is not something I've done before now; I don't just randomly accost anyone who writes Marks and Sons looking to purchase something via owl order. I'm still not sure how this came about, why I didn't just tell you to take a long walk off of a short pier upon receiving your second, and rather rude, letter. Perhaps I have a well hidden masochistic streak that even I was unaware of?

On that note, it grows late and I need to send this before I think better of it.

Your friend,

Hermione

-~8~-

Yorick became somewhat concerned after the third hour of immobility and actually flew down to land on the arm of the chair Simon was sitting in. The movement broke the morbid train of thought that had held Simon in its grasp since the latest of Hermione's letters had arrived.

"What do you make of this, my chicken?" Simon held the letter out as if Yorcik could actually read and comment on it. "She calls me – friend and pen pal. It must be a Muggle term," Simon said almost absentmindedly, fully aware he was avoiding facing the facts.

The idea was appalling. To have the Muggleborn student he'd mocked more than once consider him a friend? It just wasn't possible.

"I must be slipping or becoming soft," Simon muttered as he stood and walked toward his desk. Turning to look at Yorick, he added, "It's a bloody good thing I'm no longer in a position of authority at Hogwarts. Instead of students fleeing at my approach – they'd be offering cheerful hellos or – worse yet – searching me out in my office to unburden their teenage woes upon my poor, bewildered ears."

Sitting down at his desk, Simon pulled open a drawer and considered the two sets of files contained within. One was full of business correspondence and one held the letters from Hermione. His eyes narrowed slightly as he pulled the latter out and spread them before him. As Simon flipped through the stack, he didn't have to read them again to know what they said, but he did – each one – before gently placing them back where they'd been. After closing the drawer, Simon rose and walked away from the desk.

June 5, 2000

Hermione,

It has taken several days for me to be able to absorb and admit this. You are correct. I do consider you what could possibly be termed – friend.

Do not take offense at my wording. I have had acquaintances, colleagues, superiors, enemies and even business associates. Until now, I don't believe I've ever had a friend of any age in the last twenty or so years. I did have one once. A childhood friend who died before her time.

Before you start feeling sorry for this old fart, you should also know it was mostly by my choice. Friends invite confidences, trust and too many other stumbling blocks on the path I'd been set.

If, indeed, you did not continue to write, the days would be less bright than they've become, the nights a little longer, and though I am loath to admit it, I would miss your correspondence greatly.

Age is a perception of the young, really. I don't feel any different than I did when I was your age. I do think I've learned some harsh lessons and am finally wise enough to know I've still more to learn. Since age does not show on paper – what does it matter?

As ever – your friend,

Simon

Post Script – I have no objections to your plans to divide the updates from your personal letters.

-~8~-

"Oh, Simon." He hadn't wanted her to feel sorry for him, but she did. It was similar to the melancholic sadness that sometimes plagued her when Hermione was feeling rather sorry for herself, which – thankfully – wasn't often.

She remembered what it was like to not have friends. As comforting as books and pets could be, there were times when the one thing she needed the most was the company of a friend. Even if it was only in the form of a letter.

June 10, 2000

Simon,

Those days between the sending of my note and the arrival of yours found me in a near constant state of morbid anticipation. The longer you remained silent, the more I managed to convince myself that you were offended, were planning to take your business elsewhere, and were just taking your time to choose the perfect wording for your scathing reply that would put me in my place.

Needless to say, I am rather relieved that this was not the case. Considering the way most of my staff immediately find something else to do far across the building the moment your Yorick makes an appearance, the chances of anyone else reading such a missive would be extremely slim, thereby saving me some embarrassment, but it was still something I wasn't looking forward to.

You said age is a perception of the young, and I would have to argue with that. At the very least, it is not only the young who concern themselves with physical age and sometimes overlook emotional maturity. I can not think of a single time where I have thought to myself "I can not do this, I'm simply not old enough," but I distinctly remember being told I was too young by many of my elders. Don't even get me started on the idiocy that comes with being eighteen, somehow managing to survive that final battle at Hogwarts when so many fell, to witness so much... only to be told that I was too young to properly understand what had happened, that I needed to be coddled and reassured that nothing like this would ever happen again, that no one important had the time to listen to the words of a child when she tried to warn them that it could happen again if we weren't prepared to learn from the past. Yes, I had been through a lot, more than most, but it all came down to the fact that I was still only eighteen years old.

It would appear that I still hold a bit of bitterness in my heart for that. Perhaps I've just grown cynical in my not-so-old age.

I only meant to argue one small point, and I've managed to run off on a drawn-out tangent, haven't I?

Consider yourself lucky you only have to read my ramblings; I've been told I can get quite caught up in things when I speak.

Tell Yorick that while I don't keep mice in the flat, I have some biscuits that he may like. I was given the recipe by a customer who raises owls and other birds of prey, and Leontes adores them. If Yorick is willing to stick around on his next delivery, he is more than welcome to try one.

Hermione

-~8~-

June 13, 2000

Hermione,

I tell you this not to stir pity in your heart, but to give you the other perspective. Would it surprise you to find you are envied? Not for the trials you've suffered through, but the care and concern shown you later. The bit of bitterness in your heart at the "coddling" you received would be a mere wisp of smoke compared to the blaze I hold in my own for the lack of it.

Which would you rather have held in your heart?

Simon

Post Script - I told Yorick to stay for a biscuit, but do not offer him tea. It makes him jittery and snappish.

-~8~-

June 16, 2000

Simon,

I apologize for the briefness of the mid-month update yesterday, but we were in the midst of a store-wide inventory.

Needless to say, from the moment I stepped foot in the building until I left – two hours later than usual the last three nights alone – there has barely been a moment to sit, much less take the time to pen long, or even medium sized, notes.

Luckily, inventory is done for several months, and I'm home and able to put my feet up, finally.

Yorick seemed to like the biscuit, although I was hesitant to actually hand it to him. His beak is a bit intimidating. He didn't look too offended when I sort of put it on the table and slid it in his direction. I'm not sure he knew what to make of my cat; it was the first time he's stuck around long enough to see Crookshanks.

I suspect you have a point about the coddling I received. As much as I may bluster in irritation at the treatment, I don't know what I would have done if no one had cared or shown concern. I suspect it would have hurt far worse, at the very least I think I would have been tempted to turn my back on all of it.

And that, I think, is enough of that.

I don't want to write of sad things; I'm tired and frustrated and slightly sloshed...

Red wine or white?

Suspense or comedy? Fiction or nonfiction?

I already know you are a Potions maker, and you know I manage a bookstore, but what do you do for fun? I read, no surprise there. But I bet you didn't know that I also knit. Sometimes while I'm reading!

What I really want to do is write, though. It's something I've always wanted to do, even more than being the Prime Minister or a ballerina or a professor at Hogwarts.

What did you want to be when you grew up, Simon?

Hermione

**********
- 4
- 5
- 6
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Beyond 84 Charing Cross Road