Beyond 84 Charing Cross Road - Part 13
Sep. 30th, 2008 12:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
darnedchildSummary: Devsgma and Darnedchild have combined their talents to tell you the story of what has happened to our favorite pair. It starts with a few letters from one extremely grouchy potions maker to the manager of a used book store. Canon through Deathy Hallows to the point of Severus Snape's supposed death at which point it becomes AU. This fic is a collaborative effort and was originally born from an aborted RP that never quite made it off the ground.
Rating: PG13 (possible R)
A/N - Anything you recognize, I don't own. The Harry Potter-verse belongs to J.K. Rowlings.
Beyond 84 Charing Cross Road
Part 13
October 26, 2000
My dear Simon,
You did it, again.
You managed to distract me. Yes, you answered my questions about your appearance, but I had others. I had an entire list of things to ask you about your nightmares, I'd even brought my notes on the matter, and you took me up to your rooftop and took my breath away.
Then, when we reached solid ground once more and my mind finally had a chance to focus on something other than the sound of your heart beating under my ear, or the way you smelled or that pulse point under your jaw that fascinated me to the point where I wanted to - and I'm getting off topic, once more.
The point I was trying to make is that when we returned to your home and I was just about to reach for my bag and my notes, you kissed me and I'm beginning to suspect you're doing it on purpose.
I do hope you weren't offended by my insistence that it was late and I needed to leave when you suggested that we finish the last of that bottle of wine. I would have liked to have stayed, very much so, too much so. I have the feeling that you can be very persuasive if you set your mind to it, and I'd already had more to drink than I was used to, plus the excitement of the flight ... to stay would have been to ask for more than I would have been prepared to handle in the light of day, I think.
Which I probably should not have admitted to you, of all people.
I would like, assuming you would be willing to put up with my company for another evening, a chance to discuss my notes and to return the favor of the meal you made. As I have no current desire to poison you, I would be providing take-out for our dinner, and am willing to consider suggestions. I could even be persuaded to procure a bottle of wine or two.
My place, Saturday evening?
Yours,
Hermione
-~8~-
Simon spent nearly an hour trying to find an angle in the hand held mirror that would allow him to study this mysterious pulse point Hermione had mentioned in her last letter. He hadn't heard of any vampire attacks in recent years, but...
There was all that time she and the other two spent camping out in the wilds.
Giving it up as a bad job, Simon returned the mirror to the trunk where it had resided the last decade. Shrinking the luggage, he returned it to the pile in the cloak closet and shut the door firmly behind him.
"Yorick, what in the world do you think she was thinking of doing? I don't know of any potions that call for the blood of a sarcastic bat, but I have been out of touch for a few years," he mused while heading back to the desk. Picking up the letter, he sat down to read it again.
"Nightmares. Who in their right mind wants to constantly think and talk about the damned things. Isn't it enough I have to endure them?"
After Hermione had left, the remainder of the bottle of Ogden's had provided some comfort, but hadn't stopped the guilt laden dreams from rendering the rest of night decidedly broken. They were the worst they'd ever been and Simon had been desperate enough to discover a double dose of Dreamless Sleep, laced with a trace of the Draught of Living Death, was enough to give him several nights of much needed sleep.
October 26, 2000
Dear Hermione,
I must admit I find the way you're trying to persuade me to teach you that certain something a little puzzling. You spurn my advances, blame me for your own forgetfulness, infer that you have or are considering poisoning me at some point and then – then try to wiggle out of a dinner invitation by threatening to make me drink swill.
Change one of the bottles to Ogden's, obtain a decent order of sesame chicken from one of those Muggle oriental places and I might appear at your door. All that depends on one thing, of course.
Where in the bloody blue blazes do you live?
As ever,
Simon
Post Script – You didn't run into any vampires while you were gallivanting around the countryside did you?
-~8~-
October 27, 2000
My dear Simon,
Silly me, I had assumed you'd be able to find me from the letters we've exchanged. I suppose, now that I think about it, that it is slightly different for a person to find someone than an owl. Or falcon.
Unlike you, I don't keep portkeys to the flat around, just in case they might come in handy. I'm afraid you're left with three choices, my friend. One, you meet me at Marks and Sons tomorrow, and we both hope that nothing "urgent" suddenly pops up while I'm in the store. Two, I come to your place and you allow me to bring you home on a Side-Along to a location you've never been to, and I can't imagine that's a something you would be particularly comfortable with. Or three, you use the enclosed sheet of paper with my address and Muggle directions from the store to my flat to find me on your own.
You may be in luck, I believe there is a mostly full bottle of Ogden's in my kitchen cupboard, which means I won't have to break my long standing rule of not purchasing things to drink that could pull double duty as paint stripper. I think Harry left it here a year or so ago, and never mentioned wanting it back.
Since you asked, I don't believe we encountered any vampires during our travels, but I didn't think to poll everyone we encountered after dark so I could be wrong. Do you need one? I believe I met one during one of Professor Slughorn's parties my sixth year, he may be able to put you in contact with the gentleman.
Yours,
Hermione
Post Script - I did not spurn your advances, I merely required that they be postponed to a later date. If the time should ever come when I decide to fall into your bed, I want the decision to be made without the aid of alcohol.
-~8~-
"Yorick, I suspect I'm being mocked," Simon advised, while sending the falcon a raised brow. He slumped down into his stuffed chair and raised one ankle to rest on a bony knee while he contemplated the puzzle that was a woman. The ceiling was the recipient of an intense gaze while his fingers flexed against each other in a steeple.
"She offers Potter's leftover Ogden's – which is too dear to turn down no matter who paid for it – and then states she won't fall into my bed – or hers I would assume – while under the influence. Unless it means only she wouldn't imbibe – which might place me at a great disadvantage – or not. Logic can't be applied – it's all helter skelter at best."
Muttering to himself as he stood, Simon strode over to Yorick's perch and addressed the bird directly.
"I wonder if some enterprising soul has managed to figure them out and had the good sense to write it all down? But then I'd have to ask the maddening bookseller that I'm attempting to bed if there was such a book. She'd either die laughing or never speak to me again, I'd wager."
October 27,2000
Hermione,
I'll use the directions you sent if you'll kindly tell me the hour?
As ever,
Simon
Post script - Do you prefer crumpets or toasted bread for your breakfast?
-~8~-
October 27, 2000
Simon,
Seven.
Crumpets, with jam. Planning to invite me over for breakfast some morning?
Hermione
Post Script - Strictly out of idle curiosity, which do you prefer?
-~8~-
October 27, 2000
Hermione,
Seven it will be.
In a manner of speaking, I am.
Neither actually. I prefer something a bit more – delectable for my first meal of the day, which I'm sure I'll have no difficulty locating as long as you're there.
Until tomorrow,
Simon
-~8~-
You are in over your head.
She remembered thinking that when she'd received Simon's latest letter the night before, again when she bustled through the flat straightening up earlier that day, and once as she spent an hour soaking in a bubble filled tub to relax that afternoon.
Here it was, nearly seven, and she was thinking it again. "Over my head and in danger of drowning, if I'm not careful." She cast a critical eye over her flat, trying to see it through Simon's eyes.
The furniture was sturdy and comfortable, mostly in shades of beige and tan to offset the brighter blues, greens and purples of the throws, pillows and artwork that were scattered about. Her small kitchen table was covered in her research, which meant they would be eating dinner on the sofa in the living room, Hermione hoped that he wouldn't find it too inconvenient. Although she couldn't see it from where she was standing, she knew the bedroom had been given a thorough once over and the sheets on her bed were fresh and crisp, just in case. She'd even scrubbed the tub after her earlier bath.
"I think I might be growing tired of being so careful."
-~8~-
He'd started out far too early, of course. Casting a critical eye over the exterior of the building Hermione lived in, Simon tried to pick which flat on the second floor might belong to her. It occurred to him that he could cast a Disillusionment Charm and float up to peer in each one, but discarded it as soon as he thought of it.
I have my doubts about being able to forget the sights I would probably pay dearly not to see, he reasoned wisely before starting to walk briskly away. There was almost half an hour before he was due on her doorstep, and while he could now Apparate there at will, he wouldn't be totally comfortable doing so until a more discreet location was found.
A narrow alley behind Violet's Violets seemed to be an ideal location. There was a small alcove built into the side of the building that was hidden from view. Fixing it into his mind, Simon started back in the direction of Hermione's building when he stopped and glared back at the flower shoppe. A niggling little voice was telling him it was rude to arrive empty handed when one had been invited for dinner and as she was supplying the food and beverage, unless he wanted to try and locate a sweet shoppe at this late hour, flowers were his only option.
The clerk was entirely too cheerful and kept beaming a great smile which reminded Simon of Lockhart. The endless questions, about what the gentleman preferred and what the occasion was, were met with terse answers. When asked if he wanted real or silk flowers, Simon couldn't hold his tongue any longer.
"If I wanted something made of silk, I'd have visited a clothing store, not a bloody florist. You're wasting my time as well as my patience, you idiot! Do you have a small bouquet of flowers suitable for the middle of a dining table or not?" he asked while scowling. "If so, present it and allow me to leave."
A suitable arrangement was quickly found, money exchanged hands and Simon was out the door before the small amount of change he was owed was counted out. He was now officially late and not at all happy.
-~8~-
"He's not coming."
Crookshanks turned his head to give her one of his "looks" - the one that never failed to make her feel as if he thought she was over-reacting – before returning to the serious matter of grooming his hind end.
"Fat lot of help you are," Hermione muttered.
If he was coming, he was late, and Simon had never struck her as the kind of man who would be anything but punctual. He'd even started his classes right at the stroke of the hour, like clockwork.
"It's only five minutes. He might have had difficulty finding the place, or got caught in traffic, or been ambushed by a pack of rogue Death Eaters intent on revenge. Or he might simply have changed his mind, and Yorick may be on his way here at this moment with a 'Dear Hermione' letter."
She felt the tiniest bit guilty for hoping, given the last two choices, that Death Eaters might be involved.
"Bugger this, I'm opening the wine."
-~8~-
Taking the stairs to Hermione's flat two at time, Simon arrived before the golden 2H only slightly out of breath. After adjusting the lopsided floral arrangement, he was preparing to knock when a small creak from a door slightly down and across the hall drew his attention. The bright blue eye peeking out of the crack made an eyebrow and his hackles rise.
"Is there something you require?" Simon asked in one of his deadliest tones. A small noise of distress was the only answer he received before the door was firmly closed.
Feeling as thought he'd fought several battles just to get this far, Simon raised his fist and knocked briskly on the door.
-~8~-
The knock – half-expected though it was – startled her, and Hermione very nearly choked on her wine. She set the glass down on the coffee table in front of the sofa and crossed the room to peek through the spy hole in the door.
One could never be too careful, even in Muggle London.
Don't mention that he's late, it will seem like you've been watching the clock. Don't criticize. Harry says guys hate that. Let him get settled before you start in with the questions. And above all else, do not jump the poor man before he's had a chance to eat dinner, he'll need his strength.
Pep talk concluded, Hermione opened the door. "Hi."
Her gaze fell to the flowers in his hand, and she blinked. Simon brought me flowers. Flowers. From Simon. The non-romantic. Oh good gravy, so over my head. Dinner first!
The door was held open wide for him as she gestured that he should come in. "I really hope you're hungry."
-~8~-
The shocked expression on Hermione's face when she spied the flowers didn't help. Simon's eyes looked the arrangement over as he stepped inside and turned as Hermione closed the door.
Bugger. Did the bastard sell me a funeral arrangement? If he did, I'll be sure and send one to his – soon.
The events of the evening, coupled with his earlier inability to determine what the best course of action to take to get his bookseller into any bed, made him thrust the flowers into Hermione's hands as he crowded her personal space. His, being free, moved to retrieve the pins denying her hair its full glory. Tossing them onto the small table by the door, Simon almost glared down at Hermione.
"Hungry – yes – for food – no!"" he stated emphatically. Using the door as a brace, Simon lifted Hermione enough he didn't have to bend in order to feast on her mouth.
-~8~-
Somehow Hermione had ended up with a handful of flowers and Simon glaring at her. Before she'd had a chance to ask what she'd done this time – she didn't think it was the hairpins, as he seemed to enjoy destroying all the effort she put in to taming the mess almost as much as she enjoyed him doing it – he had her off balance and pressed against her front door.
By then, of course, asking questions had dropped down to the bottom of her to-do list, far under "Kissing Simon senseless" and "Being kissed senseless by Simon" – while the two were not mutually exclusive, Hermione felt that they were both important enough to be listed separately.
The arm that ended in a bouquet of flowers was wrapped around his neck, carnations pressing against his back in a way that would surely leave bits of greenery stuck to his jumper. That left her other hand free to cup the back of his head, fingers sliding through surprisingly soft hair in encouragement.
Hermione wasn't sure how, exactly, they'd gone from opening the door to this, but she wasn't going to complain. Dinner could wait a bit longer, after all.
-~8~-
In Simon's opinion the day was taking a drastic upswing. It had gone from tolerable, down to irritating, bottomed out at terrible and was now quickly streaking toward extremely satisfying.
He took the hand on the back of his head, which was sending shock waves along nerves he never knew he had, as permission to seek out new and unexplored territory. The blouse tucked into her waistband was loosened and his hand was delighted to discover the skin under it was just as soft as her leg had been. The change in texture between it and the lacy bra she wore tantalized his thumb into stroking the bottom side of what appeared to be a very full breast. This in turn encouraged Simon's vocal cords to send Hermione a message of exactly how much he wanted her.
He'd experienced the sensation of blood pounding hard enough to hear it in his own ears before, but the slight vibration running through the door made Simon realize the light noise he'd been hearing wasn't coming from him.
Bugger that! Maybe she won't notice, he decided while trying to ensure she wouldn't.
-~8~-
There had been the vaguest of thoughts that she should protest when his hand slid under her blouse. We barely know each other, had quickly been canceled out by, Over the last year I've probably learned more about him than any other man I've ever even considered sleeping with.
Technically, this was only their second – not a date, surely? Hermione didn't think that what she and Simon had at the moment could be defined as "dating" by any definition of the term. Even if it was, and they were, wasn't it the proper thing to wait until the third date before allowing him to take such liberties with her person?
Bollocks to that.
Simon's thumb came very close to shutting down Hermione's thought processes entirely, at least for a moment. It was the noise he made, however, that really drove her out of her mind.
Somehow she managed to wrap one of her legs around the back of his lower thigh, her sensible flat threatening to fall off if she arched her foot any more. The hand not still wrapped tightly around the increasingly damaged stems of the flowers dropped from Simon's hair to seek entrance under his jumper. His hand felt so good against her skin, she needed to know if the reverse would be true.
It was.
She didn't whimper – Hermione Granger did not whimper – but it was close enough that someone could be forgiven for mistaking the sounds she made with something similar to a whimper. Her leg tightened around his, and she wondered if he were ever going to move his bloody hand and touch her, or if she were going to have to move it for him.
The door behind her head seemed to vibrate, and the sensation wasn't terribly pleasant. She briefly wondered which of them was causing it, and if it would be enough to bother her neighbors, and perhaps it would be a good idea to suggest moving someplace else. Someplace a bit more comfortable, like the sofa or the armchair or the bed or the kitchen table, Hermione wasn't feeling particularly picky at the moment.
"Simon?"
-~8~-
When she broke the kiss enough to say his name, Simon was sure she'd heard the blasted knocking on the door. However, the look she was sending him didn't appear to say she had.
"Hermione?"
What to dooooo!! was sending his mind scurrying in different directions to keep her unaware there was a very rude intruder asking for entry. Hermione's leg wrapped around his seemed to be part of the answer. Sliding both hands under her arse, Simon pulled them away from the interfering door. Turning and walking a few steps, he found a sturdy chair and brought his fragrant burden to rest upon his lap.
Catching sight of her pulse point when her hair fell back, Simon suddenly knew what Hermione meant in her letter. He had to touch it, taste it and see if his lips and tongue could feel the heartbeat as well as his eyes could see the flutter. One hand went up to tangle itself in the glorious mop on her head, to bring the tantalizing little bit of flesh closer, while the other slipped back under her blouse and found its own reward.
The power of that little flutter astounded him while the weight of her breast delivered delight. She was so warm, so – alive and in his arms. Simon found an earlobe that was decidedly tasty, and since he was in the immediate area, he whispered, "Bed, couch or floor?" in what he hoped was a sexy tone and not the whimpering plea his libido was telling him to use.
-~8~-
Bed, couch or floor?
Any of those were good. All of them was better.
She squirmed, searching for and finding a more comfortable position on his lap. "Yes," Hermione breathed, answering his question to the best of her ability.
She leaned back, coincidentally pressing certain parts of herself against certain parts of Simon in a way that greatly encouraged her hopes for winning an intimate trifecta that evening.
The soft knocking that had teased her ears before turned into something more insistent. Hermione turned her head toward the door, reluctant to distract Simon from what his mouth had been doing to her earlobe, and groaned as the voice of her older neighbor slid around the door as if it were some sort of noxious fume.
"Hermione? Hermione, dear, are you alright? Can you hear me?"
"That's Mrs Carmichael," Hermione whispered. She leaned forward to press her forehead against Simon's. "She knows I'm home. Let me up, if I don't let her in she'll start to think I'm unconscious or dead, and we'll end up with the police in our laps. God, this must be what it feels like to get caught necking on your parents' couch."
-~8~-
As he'd never entertained the idea of kissing anyone under his parents' roof, let alone on their furniture, Simon was at a loss for a reference. He merely sighed deeply and reluctantly removed his hand from under her blouse. It joined its mate on the either side of her face where they pulled her mouth down to his. Kissing her soundly, he then said, "Banish her quickly. If you have difficulties, I will gladly lend my assistance."
-~8~-
Simon's assistance would most likely end in some uncomfortable questions coming from the Muggle police and a pack of Aurors, therefore, Hermione thought it would be best to handle the situation without it.
She reluctantly slid off his lap, and attempted to smooth down her clothing as she called out her neighbor. "I'm coming, Mrs Carmichael, no need to beat down the door."
Giving up the tucking of her blouse into her skirt as a lost cause, Hermione sent a perturbed look over her shoulder at Simon and pulled the tails the rest of the way free. Her hair was probably a fright, but there wasn't time to deal with it.
There was a smile pasted on her face when she finally opened the door. "Yes, ma'am?"
"Hermione, dear, I was just wondering if I could borrow a cup of flour? I was in the middle of baking and realized I was short and – Oh, I'm not interrupting, am I?" Judging from the way the older woman had been craning her neck from the moment the door opened in an effort to look over Hermione's shoulder and into the living room, she obviously knew she was.
"No, not at all. I was just on my way to put these into a vase when I heard you knock." She ignored the confused look that Mrs Carmichael gave the sad-looking bouquet, and turned toward the kitchen.
"Simon, this is Mrs Carmichael. She watches over Crookshanks for me, when I have to go out of town. Mrs Carmichael, this is Simon. I was just about to serve dinner, so if you want to get that flour..."
"Dinner? You didn't try to cook, did you, dear?"
Before Mrs Carmichael could open her mouth to say anything further, be it an offer of assistance with the meal or to tell Simon one of her amusing anecdotes from the time she had tried to teach Hermione how to bake a cake, Hermione cut her off.
"I'll get your flour." She gave Simon a wide-eyed look and disappeared into the kitchen.
-~8~-
When Hermione looked back at him over her shoulder, the picture she presented was enough to make him rise and take one step in pursuit of his prize. To Simon, she looked thoroughly kissed and decidedly beautiful. The memory of how soft her skin was, along with the fullness of the breast he'd been briefly allowed to caress, made him impatient to see her unclothed. Glancing at the electric lights ablaze in the room, he wondered if she had any candles or lamps, as he'd much rather see her skin for the first time bathed in their softer, warmer light.
All his hopes and tentative plans for the next hour or two were dashed when the owner of the bright blue eye he'd seen earlier basically forced herself into Hermione's home. Glancing down, Simon secreted his lower body behind the chair he'd been sitting in as it was blatantly obvious what the bloody Mrs Carmichael had interrupted.
Nodding once as the ancient cow was introduced, Simon's eyes narrowed at the implied slight on Hermione's cooking skills. They narrowed further when Hermione abandoned the room and left him with her pushy neighbor who proceeded to walk toward him while chattering away.
"I'm so sorry to interrupt your dinner, but Hermione hardly ever has any visitors. She's always at work or when I occasionally visit, she's got her nose stuck in one of those books she's always reading. Of course there was that black haired young man that's visited a few times and I'd hoped they were going to be making a match of it, but unfortunately he got married. I've tried to introduce her to my niece's youngest, Hershival, but the timing just never seems to work out. I just know they'd be perfect for each other. He's one of those bookish sorts too, that likes to spend all their time reading, don't you know."
Mrs Carmichael seemed to finally run out of air and then Simon watched – almost horrified – as the woman filled her lungs for the next onslaught.
"Of course there was that nice young man that lived down on the first floor in the back, but I heard after he moved out that he was gay. I don't think Hermione had her cap set in his direction, but you never know. Are you a friend of her parents' passing through? You look old enough to be her uncle. Would that be on her mother's side or her father's? It's a shame they don't get over to see her more, or her them, but Hermione is so sweet and kind I'm sure she'll take you sightseeing if she has time."
The glare Simon sent in her direction was guaranteed to stop a Seventh Year Slytherin in their tracks and fall down unconscious, but it didn't seem to faze Mrs Carmichael.
"Madam! I am not acquainted with Miss Granger's parents, nor am I an uncle in any way, shape or form," Simon hissed.
He was fingering the end of his wand when Hermione finally returned.
-~8~-
"Flour!"
Mrs Carmichael may not have been aware of just how close she came to being verbally eviscerated, but Hermione was. She was familiar with the tone, and while the face had changed somewhat, she could still recognize the basic architecture of the very glare that used to make Neville shake in his boots.
Hermione began to herd her well-meaning neighbor out the door, physically placing herself between Simon and the older woman until the door was shut with one last, "Don't worry about returning the cup tonight, I'll swing by to pick it up tomorrow. No, it's no trouble at all. Good night, Mrs Carmichael."
She turned and leaned back against the door with a sigh, then jerked upright when she remembered how ending up in a similar position had delayed dinner in the first place.
"Sorry about that. She likes to keep an eye on me, on everyone in the building really, but she really does have my best interest at heart. I think. I mean, I'm pretty sure she does. Most of the time, anyway."
And I'm babbling.
Five minutes ago, she had been well on her way to what was promising to be a blissful and throughly enjoyable evening, and now... Now she was thinking, again.
She still wanted Simon, that hadn't changed, not at all. But now that she'd caught her breath and managed to cool her blood somewhat, she wanted to talk to him, spend time with him, then snog the stuffing out of him and possibly drag him off to her bed.
"I took the liberty of removing the warming charm on the sesame chicken while I was in the kitchen. My table is covered in the notes I wanted to talk to you about tonight, but I could clear it off if you'd rather eat there instead of on the sofa."
Nerves played havoc with her tummy, and caused her to shift her weight from one foot to the other, both hands fussing with the wrinkled hem of her blouse. Would Simon be willing to wait, to eat with her like this was a normal date – for want of a better word, or would he try to rush her into bed?
Assuming, of course, that Mrs Carmichael hadn't chased him off entirely.
Part 1 / Part 14
Rating: PG13 (possible R)
A/N - Anything you recognize, I don't own. The Harry Potter-verse belongs to J.K. Rowlings.
Part 13
October 26, 2000
My dear Simon,
You did it, again.
You managed to distract me. Yes, you answered my questions about your appearance, but I had others. I had an entire list of things to ask you about your nightmares, I'd even brought my notes on the matter, and you took me up to your rooftop and took my breath away.
Then, when we reached solid ground once more and my mind finally had a chance to focus on something other than the sound of your heart beating under my ear, or the way you smelled or that pulse point under your jaw that fascinated me to the point where I wanted to - and I'm getting off topic, once more.
The point I was trying to make is that when we returned to your home and I was just about to reach for my bag and my notes, you kissed me and I'm beginning to suspect you're doing it on purpose.
I do hope you weren't offended by my insistence that it was late and I needed to leave when you suggested that we finish the last of that bottle of wine. I would have liked to have stayed, very much so, too much so. I have the feeling that you can be very persuasive if you set your mind to it, and I'd already had more to drink than I was used to, plus the excitement of the flight ... to stay would have been to ask for more than I would have been prepared to handle in the light of day, I think.
Which I probably should not have admitted to you, of all people.
I would like, assuming you would be willing to put up with my company for another evening, a chance to discuss my notes and to return the favor of the meal you made. As I have no current desire to poison you, I would be providing take-out for our dinner, and am willing to consider suggestions. I could even be persuaded to procure a bottle of wine or two.
My place, Saturday evening?
Yours,
Hermione
Simon spent nearly an hour trying to find an angle in the hand held mirror that would allow him to study this mysterious pulse point Hermione had mentioned in her last letter. He hadn't heard of any vampire attacks in recent years, but...
There was all that time she and the other two spent camping out in the wilds.
Giving it up as a bad job, Simon returned the mirror to the trunk where it had resided the last decade. Shrinking the luggage, he returned it to the pile in the cloak closet and shut the door firmly behind him.
"Yorick, what in the world do you think she was thinking of doing? I don't know of any potions that call for the blood of a sarcastic bat, but I have been out of touch for a few years," he mused while heading back to the desk. Picking up the letter, he sat down to read it again.
"Nightmares. Who in their right mind wants to constantly think and talk about the damned things. Isn't it enough I have to endure them?"
After Hermione had left, the remainder of the bottle of Ogden's had provided some comfort, but hadn't stopped the guilt laden dreams from rendering the rest of night decidedly broken. They were the worst they'd ever been and Simon had been desperate enough to discover a double dose of Dreamless Sleep, laced with a trace of the Draught of Living Death, was enough to give him several nights of much needed sleep.
October 26, 2000
Dear Hermione,
I must admit I find the way you're trying to persuade me to teach you that certain something a little puzzling. You spurn my advances, blame me for your own forgetfulness, infer that you have or are considering poisoning me at some point and then – then try to wiggle out of a dinner invitation by threatening to make me drink swill.
Change one of the bottles to Ogden's, obtain a decent order of sesame chicken from one of those Muggle oriental places and I might appear at your door. All that depends on one thing, of course.
Where in the bloody blue blazes do you live?
As ever,
Simon
Post Script – You didn't run into any vampires while you were gallivanting around the countryside did you?
October 27, 2000
My dear Simon,
Silly me, I had assumed you'd be able to find me from the letters we've exchanged. I suppose, now that I think about it, that it is slightly different for a person to find someone than an owl. Or falcon.
Unlike you, I don't keep portkeys to the flat around, just in case they might come in handy. I'm afraid you're left with three choices, my friend. One, you meet me at Marks and Sons tomorrow, and we both hope that nothing "urgent" suddenly pops up while I'm in the store. Two, I come to your place and you allow me to bring you home on a Side-Along to a location you've never been to, and I can't imagine that's a something you would be particularly comfortable with. Or three, you use the enclosed sheet of paper with my address and Muggle directions from the store to my flat to find me on your own.
You may be in luck, I believe there is a mostly full bottle of Ogden's in my kitchen cupboard, which means I won't have to break my long standing rule of not purchasing things to drink that could pull double duty as paint stripper. I think Harry left it here a year or so ago, and never mentioned wanting it back.
Since you asked, I don't believe we encountered any vampires during our travels, but I didn't think to poll everyone we encountered after dark so I could be wrong. Do you need one? I believe I met one during one of Professor Slughorn's parties my sixth year, he may be able to put you in contact with the gentleman.
Yours,
Hermione
Post Script - I did not spurn your advances, I merely required that they be postponed to a later date. If the time should ever come when I decide to fall into your bed, I want the decision to be made without the aid of alcohol.
"Yorick, I suspect I'm being mocked," Simon advised, while sending the falcon a raised brow. He slumped down into his stuffed chair and raised one ankle to rest on a bony knee while he contemplated the puzzle that was a woman. The ceiling was the recipient of an intense gaze while his fingers flexed against each other in a steeple.
"She offers Potter's leftover Ogden's – which is too dear to turn down no matter who paid for it – and then states she won't fall into my bed – or hers I would assume – while under the influence. Unless it means only she wouldn't imbibe – which might place me at a great disadvantage – or not. Logic can't be applied – it's all helter skelter at best."
Muttering to himself as he stood, Simon strode over to Yorick's perch and addressed the bird directly.
"I wonder if some enterprising soul has managed to figure them out and had the good sense to write it all down? But then I'd have to ask the maddening bookseller that I'm attempting to bed if there was such a book. She'd either die laughing or never speak to me again, I'd wager."
October 27,2000
Hermione,
I'll use the directions you sent if you'll kindly tell me the hour?
As ever,
Simon
Post script - Do you prefer crumpets or toasted bread for your breakfast?
October 27, 2000
Simon,
Seven.
Crumpets, with jam. Planning to invite me over for breakfast some morning?
Hermione
Post Script - Strictly out of idle curiosity, which do you prefer?
October 27, 2000
Hermione,
Seven it will be.
In a manner of speaking, I am.
Neither actually. I prefer something a bit more – delectable for my first meal of the day, which I'm sure I'll have no difficulty locating as long as you're there.
Until tomorrow,
Simon
You are in over your head.
She remembered thinking that when she'd received Simon's latest letter the night before, again when she bustled through the flat straightening up earlier that day, and once as she spent an hour soaking in a bubble filled tub to relax that afternoon.
Here it was, nearly seven, and she was thinking it again. "Over my head and in danger of drowning, if I'm not careful." She cast a critical eye over her flat, trying to see it through Simon's eyes.
The furniture was sturdy and comfortable, mostly in shades of beige and tan to offset the brighter blues, greens and purples of the throws, pillows and artwork that were scattered about. Her small kitchen table was covered in her research, which meant they would be eating dinner on the sofa in the living room, Hermione hoped that he wouldn't find it too inconvenient. Although she couldn't see it from where she was standing, she knew the bedroom had been given a thorough once over and the sheets on her bed were fresh and crisp, just in case. She'd even scrubbed the tub after her earlier bath.
"I think I might be growing tired of being so careful."
He'd started out far too early, of course. Casting a critical eye over the exterior of the building Hermione lived in, Simon tried to pick which flat on the second floor might belong to her. It occurred to him that he could cast a Disillusionment Charm and float up to peer in each one, but discarded it as soon as he thought of it.
I have my doubts about being able to forget the sights I would probably pay dearly not to see, he reasoned wisely before starting to walk briskly away. There was almost half an hour before he was due on her doorstep, and while he could now Apparate there at will, he wouldn't be totally comfortable doing so until a more discreet location was found.
A narrow alley behind Violet's Violets seemed to be an ideal location. There was a small alcove built into the side of the building that was hidden from view. Fixing it into his mind, Simon started back in the direction of Hermione's building when he stopped and glared back at the flower shoppe. A niggling little voice was telling him it was rude to arrive empty handed when one had been invited for dinner and as she was supplying the food and beverage, unless he wanted to try and locate a sweet shoppe at this late hour, flowers were his only option.
The clerk was entirely too cheerful and kept beaming a great smile which reminded Simon of Lockhart. The endless questions, about what the gentleman preferred and what the occasion was, were met with terse answers. When asked if he wanted real or silk flowers, Simon couldn't hold his tongue any longer.
"If I wanted something made of silk, I'd have visited a clothing store, not a bloody florist. You're wasting my time as well as my patience, you idiot! Do you have a small bouquet of flowers suitable for the middle of a dining table or not?" he asked while scowling. "If so, present it and allow me to leave."
A suitable arrangement was quickly found, money exchanged hands and Simon was out the door before the small amount of change he was owed was counted out. He was now officially late and not at all happy.
"He's not coming."
Crookshanks turned his head to give her one of his "looks" - the one that never failed to make her feel as if he thought she was over-reacting – before returning to the serious matter of grooming his hind end.
"Fat lot of help you are," Hermione muttered.
If he was coming, he was late, and Simon had never struck her as the kind of man who would be anything but punctual. He'd even started his classes right at the stroke of the hour, like clockwork.
"It's only five minutes. He might have had difficulty finding the place, or got caught in traffic, or been ambushed by a pack of rogue Death Eaters intent on revenge. Or he might simply have changed his mind, and Yorick may be on his way here at this moment with a 'Dear Hermione' letter."
She felt the tiniest bit guilty for hoping, given the last two choices, that Death Eaters might be involved.
"Bugger this, I'm opening the wine."
Taking the stairs to Hermione's flat two at time, Simon arrived before the golden 2H only slightly out of breath. After adjusting the lopsided floral arrangement, he was preparing to knock when a small creak from a door slightly down and across the hall drew his attention. The bright blue eye peeking out of the crack made an eyebrow and his hackles rise.
"Is there something you require?" Simon asked in one of his deadliest tones. A small noise of distress was the only answer he received before the door was firmly closed.
Feeling as thought he'd fought several battles just to get this far, Simon raised his fist and knocked briskly on the door.
The knock – half-expected though it was – startled her, and Hermione very nearly choked on her wine. She set the glass down on the coffee table in front of the sofa and crossed the room to peek through the spy hole in the door.
One could never be too careful, even in Muggle London.
Don't mention that he's late, it will seem like you've been watching the clock. Don't criticize. Harry says guys hate that. Let him get settled before you start in with the questions. And above all else, do not jump the poor man before he's had a chance to eat dinner, he'll need his strength.
Pep talk concluded, Hermione opened the door. "Hi."
Her gaze fell to the flowers in his hand, and she blinked. Simon brought me flowers. Flowers. From Simon. The non-romantic. Oh good gravy, so over my head. Dinner first!
The door was held open wide for him as she gestured that he should come in. "I really hope you're hungry."
The shocked expression on Hermione's face when she spied the flowers didn't help. Simon's eyes looked the arrangement over as he stepped inside and turned as Hermione closed the door.
Bugger. Did the bastard sell me a funeral arrangement? If he did, I'll be sure and send one to his – soon.
The events of the evening, coupled with his earlier inability to determine what the best course of action to take to get his bookseller into any bed, made him thrust the flowers into Hermione's hands as he crowded her personal space. His, being free, moved to retrieve the pins denying her hair its full glory. Tossing them onto the small table by the door, Simon almost glared down at Hermione.
"Hungry – yes – for food – no!"" he stated emphatically. Using the door as a brace, Simon lifted Hermione enough he didn't have to bend in order to feast on her mouth.
Somehow Hermione had ended up with a handful of flowers and Simon glaring at her. Before she'd had a chance to ask what she'd done this time – she didn't think it was the hairpins, as he seemed to enjoy destroying all the effort she put in to taming the mess almost as much as she enjoyed him doing it – he had her off balance and pressed against her front door.
By then, of course, asking questions had dropped down to the bottom of her to-do list, far under "Kissing Simon senseless" and "Being kissed senseless by Simon" – while the two were not mutually exclusive, Hermione felt that they were both important enough to be listed separately.
The arm that ended in a bouquet of flowers was wrapped around his neck, carnations pressing against his back in a way that would surely leave bits of greenery stuck to his jumper. That left her other hand free to cup the back of his head, fingers sliding through surprisingly soft hair in encouragement.
Hermione wasn't sure how, exactly, they'd gone from opening the door to this, but she wasn't going to complain. Dinner could wait a bit longer, after all.
In Simon's opinion the day was taking a drastic upswing. It had gone from tolerable, down to irritating, bottomed out at terrible and was now quickly streaking toward extremely satisfying.
He took the hand on the back of his head, which was sending shock waves along nerves he never knew he had, as permission to seek out new and unexplored territory. The blouse tucked into her waistband was loosened and his hand was delighted to discover the skin under it was just as soft as her leg had been. The change in texture between it and the lacy bra she wore tantalized his thumb into stroking the bottom side of what appeared to be a very full breast. This in turn encouraged Simon's vocal cords to send Hermione a message of exactly how much he wanted her.
He'd experienced the sensation of blood pounding hard enough to hear it in his own ears before, but the slight vibration running through the door made Simon realize the light noise he'd been hearing wasn't coming from him.
Bugger that! Maybe she won't notice, he decided while trying to ensure she wouldn't.
There had been the vaguest of thoughts that she should protest when his hand slid under her blouse. We barely know each other, had quickly been canceled out by, Over the last year I've probably learned more about him than any other man I've ever even considered sleeping with.
Technically, this was only their second – not a date, surely? Hermione didn't think that what she and Simon had at the moment could be defined as "dating" by any definition of the term. Even if it was, and they were, wasn't it the proper thing to wait until the third date before allowing him to take such liberties with her person?
Bollocks to that.
Simon's thumb came very close to shutting down Hermione's thought processes entirely, at least for a moment. It was the noise he made, however, that really drove her out of her mind.
Somehow she managed to wrap one of her legs around the back of his lower thigh, her sensible flat threatening to fall off if she arched her foot any more. The hand not still wrapped tightly around the increasingly damaged stems of the flowers dropped from Simon's hair to seek entrance under his jumper. His hand felt so good against her skin, she needed to know if the reverse would be true.
It was.
She didn't whimper – Hermione Granger did not whimper – but it was close enough that someone could be forgiven for mistaking the sounds she made with something similar to a whimper. Her leg tightened around his, and she wondered if he were ever going to move his bloody hand and touch her, or if she were going to have to move it for him.
The door behind her head seemed to vibrate, and the sensation wasn't terribly pleasant. She briefly wondered which of them was causing it, and if it would be enough to bother her neighbors, and perhaps it would be a good idea to suggest moving someplace else. Someplace a bit more comfortable, like the sofa or the armchair or the bed or the kitchen table, Hermione wasn't feeling particularly picky at the moment.
"Simon?"
When she broke the kiss enough to say his name, Simon was sure she'd heard the blasted knocking on the door. However, the look she was sending him didn't appear to say she had.
"Hermione?"
What to dooooo!! was sending his mind scurrying in different directions to keep her unaware there was a very rude intruder asking for entry. Hermione's leg wrapped around his seemed to be part of the answer. Sliding both hands under her arse, Simon pulled them away from the interfering door. Turning and walking a few steps, he found a sturdy chair and brought his fragrant burden to rest upon his lap.
Catching sight of her pulse point when her hair fell back, Simon suddenly knew what Hermione meant in her letter. He had to touch it, taste it and see if his lips and tongue could feel the heartbeat as well as his eyes could see the flutter. One hand went up to tangle itself in the glorious mop on her head, to bring the tantalizing little bit of flesh closer, while the other slipped back under her blouse and found its own reward.
The power of that little flutter astounded him while the weight of her breast delivered delight. She was so warm, so – alive and in his arms. Simon found an earlobe that was decidedly tasty, and since he was in the immediate area, he whispered, "Bed, couch or floor?" in what he hoped was a sexy tone and not the whimpering plea his libido was telling him to use.
Bed, couch or floor?
Any of those were good. All of them was better.
She squirmed, searching for and finding a more comfortable position on his lap. "Yes," Hermione breathed, answering his question to the best of her ability.
She leaned back, coincidentally pressing certain parts of herself against certain parts of Simon in a way that greatly encouraged her hopes for winning an intimate trifecta that evening.
The soft knocking that had teased her ears before turned into something more insistent. Hermione turned her head toward the door, reluctant to distract Simon from what his mouth had been doing to her earlobe, and groaned as the voice of her older neighbor slid around the door as if it were some sort of noxious fume.
"Hermione? Hermione, dear, are you alright? Can you hear me?"
"That's Mrs Carmichael," Hermione whispered. She leaned forward to press her forehead against Simon's. "She knows I'm home. Let me up, if I don't let her in she'll start to think I'm unconscious or dead, and we'll end up with the police in our laps. God, this must be what it feels like to get caught necking on your parents' couch."
As he'd never entertained the idea of kissing anyone under his parents' roof, let alone on their furniture, Simon was at a loss for a reference. He merely sighed deeply and reluctantly removed his hand from under her blouse. It joined its mate on the either side of her face where they pulled her mouth down to his. Kissing her soundly, he then said, "Banish her quickly. If you have difficulties, I will gladly lend my assistance."
Simon's assistance would most likely end in some uncomfortable questions coming from the Muggle police and a pack of Aurors, therefore, Hermione thought it would be best to handle the situation without it.
She reluctantly slid off his lap, and attempted to smooth down her clothing as she called out her neighbor. "I'm coming, Mrs Carmichael, no need to beat down the door."
Giving up the tucking of her blouse into her skirt as a lost cause, Hermione sent a perturbed look over her shoulder at Simon and pulled the tails the rest of the way free. Her hair was probably a fright, but there wasn't time to deal with it.
There was a smile pasted on her face when she finally opened the door. "Yes, ma'am?"
"Hermione, dear, I was just wondering if I could borrow a cup of flour? I was in the middle of baking and realized I was short and – Oh, I'm not interrupting, am I?" Judging from the way the older woman had been craning her neck from the moment the door opened in an effort to look over Hermione's shoulder and into the living room, she obviously knew she was.
"No, not at all. I was just on my way to put these into a vase when I heard you knock." She ignored the confused look that Mrs Carmichael gave the sad-looking bouquet, and turned toward the kitchen.
"Simon, this is Mrs Carmichael. She watches over Crookshanks for me, when I have to go out of town. Mrs Carmichael, this is Simon. I was just about to serve dinner, so if you want to get that flour..."
"Dinner? You didn't try to cook, did you, dear?"
Before Mrs Carmichael could open her mouth to say anything further, be it an offer of assistance with the meal or to tell Simon one of her amusing anecdotes from the time she had tried to teach Hermione how to bake a cake, Hermione cut her off.
"I'll get your flour." She gave Simon a wide-eyed look and disappeared into the kitchen.
When Hermione looked back at him over her shoulder, the picture she presented was enough to make him rise and take one step in pursuit of his prize. To Simon, she looked thoroughly kissed and decidedly beautiful. The memory of how soft her skin was, along with the fullness of the breast he'd been briefly allowed to caress, made him impatient to see her unclothed. Glancing at the electric lights ablaze in the room, he wondered if she had any candles or lamps, as he'd much rather see her skin for the first time bathed in their softer, warmer light.
All his hopes and tentative plans for the next hour or two were dashed when the owner of the bright blue eye he'd seen earlier basically forced herself into Hermione's home. Glancing down, Simon secreted his lower body behind the chair he'd been sitting in as it was blatantly obvious what the bloody Mrs Carmichael had interrupted.
Nodding once as the ancient cow was introduced, Simon's eyes narrowed at the implied slight on Hermione's cooking skills. They narrowed further when Hermione abandoned the room and left him with her pushy neighbor who proceeded to walk toward him while chattering away.
"I'm so sorry to interrupt your dinner, but Hermione hardly ever has any visitors. She's always at work or when I occasionally visit, she's got her nose stuck in one of those books she's always reading. Of course there was that black haired young man that's visited a few times and I'd hoped they were going to be making a match of it, but unfortunately he got married. I've tried to introduce her to my niece's youngest, Hershival, but the timing just never seems to work out. I just know they'd be perfect for each other. He's one of those bookish sorts too, that likes to spend all their time reading, don't you know."
Mrs Carmichael seemed to finally run out of air and then Simon watched – almost horrified – as the woman filled her lungs for the next onslaught.
"Of course there was that nice young man that lived down on the first floor in the back, but I heard after he moved out that he was gay. I don't think Hermione had her cap set in his direction, but you never know. Are you a friend of her parents' passing through? You look old enough to be her uncle. Would that be on her mother's side or her father's? It's a shame they don't get over to see her more, or her them, but Hermione is so sweet and kind I'm sure she'll take you sightseeing if she has time."
The glare Simon sent in her direction was guaranteed to stop a Seventh Year Slytherin in their tracks and fall down unconscious, but it didn't seem to faze Mrs Carmichael.
"Madam! I am not acquainted with Miss Granger's parents, nor am I an uncle in any way, shape or form," Simon hissed.
He was fingering the end of his wand when Hermione finally returned.
"Flour!"
Mrs Carmichael may not have been aware of just how close she came to being verbally eviscerated, but Hermione was. She was familiar with the tone, and while the face had changed somewhat, she could still recognize the basic architecture of the very glare that used to make Neville shake in his boots.
Hermione began to herd her well-meaning neighbor out the door, physically placing herself between Simon and the older woman until the door was shut with one last, "Don't worry about returning the cup tonight, I'll swing by to pick it up tomorrow. No, it's no trouble at all. Good night, Mrs Carmichael."
She turned and leaned back against the door with a sigh, then jerked upright when she remembered how ending up in a similar position had delayed dinner in the first place.
"Sorry about that. She likes to keep an eye on me, on everyone in the building really, but she really does have my best interest at heart. I think. I mean, I'm pretty sure she does. Most of the time, anyway."
And I'm babbling.
Five minutes ago, she had been well on her way to what was promising to be a blissful and throughly enjoyable evening, and now... Now she was thinking, again.
She still wanted Simon, that hadn't changed, not at all. But now that she'd caught her breath and managed to cool her blood somewhat, she wanted to talk to him, spend time with him, then snog the stuffing out of him and possibly drag him off to her bed.
"I took the liberty of removing the warming charm on the sesame chicken while I was in the kitchen. My table is covered in the notes I wanted to talk to you about tonight, but I could clear it off if you'd rather eat there instead of on the sofa."
Nerves played havoc with her tummy, and caused her to shift her weight from one foot to the other, both hands fussing with the wrinkled hem of her blouse. Would Simon be willing to wait, to eat with her like this was a normal date – for want of a better word, or would he try to rush her into bed?
Assuming, of course, that Mrs Carmichael hadn't chased him off entirely.
Part 1 / Part 14