Beyond 84 Charing Cross Road - Part 19
Apr. 27th, 2009 06:05 pm![[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.
To those of you reading, I offer my apologies for the extremely long delay in posting. There is no real excuse. RL has tossed some doozies in my direction, including the loss of our family's beloved Jake a few weeks ago. To the rest of the world he was merely a huge dog. To us, he was – and always will be – a very large part of the family. - Devsgma
I know that Devsgma has already explained that real life has been a horrid, horrid witch over the last few months, leaving both of us with little spare time to work on Beyond. I'd like to say that things have changed and that we'll be returning to weekly updates as soon as we can, but I don't think that's going to happen any time soon. Do not worry that we're going to abandon the story or anything like that. We'll continue to write as time and circumstances allow. Thank you for bearing with us and staying with our story. - DC
Beyond 84 Charing Cross Road
Part 19
November 6, 2000
Harry,
I know I only asked you last week, and you haven't had very long to think about it, but I was on pins and needles all weekend, hoping for an owl.
Do you need more time to think, or have you already made a decision? If so, is it the kind I'm going to want to hear, or the kind that's going to force me to try my hand at Ron's wounded hound dog eyes.
I think that's something we'd all prefer to avoid, don't you?
Give Ginny my love.
Hermione
-~8~-
“I thought these kind of decisions were supposed to get easier as you got older and more mature,” Harry muttered to himself as he read Hermione’s owl again. “Do I or don’t I?”
“I don’t know, but if you don’t help me with these things we’ll be having scrambled eggs for dinner,” Ginny announced as she came in the door laden down with parcels. Harry jumped up to help, and after all the purchases were stowed away they sat down at the kitchen table with a pot of tea.
“What has my husband so out of sorts he’s talking to himself?” Ginny asked. It still gave her a thrill to say the word husband, especially since it referred to Harry. He gave her a grin before picking up Hermione’s letter.
“I still haven’t decided and she wants an answer and now she’s threatening me with her version of Ron’s hurt puppy eyes,” he replied.
“Ah, I see. Well, you didn’t give Snape your word or anything like that, so what’s the problem?” Ginny asked as she stood and took a package of biscuits out of the cupboard. Sitting back down, she opened it and offered some to Harry. Taking one, he nibbled on it before frowning.
“There’s an implied trust in something like that, Ginny. You don’t just hand over your most – your memories to just anyone you know? If he’d wanted everyone to see them, he’d have left them in a pensieve or a bottle or something and labeled. ‘To be violated in the event of my death.’ I’m sure it would have been a lot more sarcastic and scary in Snape’s – Professor Snape’s words,” Harry advised.
Pursing her lips, Ginny closed the package after taking a couple out for herself.
“That’s all nice and tidy for you isn’t it, Harry? Well, you weren’t there when Headmaster Snape was in charge of Hogwarts, were you? You didn’t see what…“ Ginny paused and shook her head. They’d been over that ground before and she really didn’t want to start again. “I say give Hermione anything she wants out of those memories and if there’s something in there that you think he wouldn’t want the Wizarding world to know – too bad. He’s gone and it won’t hurt him one teeny-tiny little bit.”
Rising, Ginny headed for the living room.
“I’m going to watch some telly while you fight your latest battle. Feel free to wave the white flag when you come to your senses and join me,” she said over her shoulder.
Harry watched his wife as she left him and his letter alone. He loved her more than life itself, but she simply didn’t understand. Snape had been more than awful to all of them, but what Harry had learned – or had tried to learn – wasn’t mere tit-for-tat.
“Greater good?”
Hermione,
Please, don’t give me the wounded hound look. I’m having enough trouble coming to a decision without that.
I won’t give Ginny your love right now, if you don’t mind. She’s all for me handing over all of them, and I just can’t do that.
If you’ll tell me what you’re looking for, I could sort them. Would that be enough?
Love,
Harry
-~8~-
“How can I tell him what I'm looking for, if I don't even know myself?"
Crooks meowed, as if to inquire if Hermione were speaking to him. When he received no reply, he stalked off to the kitchen and his food dish, tail high and twitching.
Hermione didn't even notice.
She was too busy scribbling on a pad of scratch paper, crossing out a word here and adding one there, trying to identify the most likely scenarios that might give her what she was seeking from the memories that Severus had given Harry that horrible night in the Shrieking Shack.
"Not that there is any guarantee that there will be anything to find in the first place."
It wasn't as if she could explain what she was looking for.
"Well, you see, Harry, it's a bit complicated, but I've been seeing this man – who, it turns out, is actually Severus Snape – and he's been having these nightmares for years. I think someone may have cursed him somehow. I also suspect that Albus Dumbledore either had his gnarled hands in it from the start, or the old fart caught wind of it and decided to use the curse to his advantage, but since he can't remember what Albus did to "make it better" I'm hoping there might be some clue, somewhere in the memories he gave you."
Hermione was pretty sure that wouldn't go over so well.
"Best to stick with what I told him the first time. It's technically not a lie, I really would like to write a book about what really happened during the war. Someday. Just not right now."
November 8, 2000
Harry,
I understand your hesitancy, and I wouldn't ask at all if I didn't think it were truly important.
As I mentioned before, my current research is focused on the relationship between Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape during the latter's years as a spy for the Order. Any interactions between the two, no matter how minute, would be of interest to me.
If at all possible, I would like to witness those memories in particular.
I promise to hold off on the puppy dog eyes. For now.
Love,
Hermione
-~8~-
When the Ministry had demanded Snape’s memories be turned over to them, Harry hadn’t found it the least bit difficult to refuse. He stored them where he’d placed the Elder wand, and it wasn‘t in Dumbledore‘s tomb. The idea to place the wand back with the former headmaster had been one of emotion – not of reason. While the thought that it would remain with Dumbledore forever was a pleasant one, the reality was quite a different matter. Not even Ginny knew the location, and Harry had intended them to remain undisturbed after his own death.
November 10, 2000
Hermione,
Give me a week or so to sort out what I can. I’ll arrange the use of the pensieve at Hogwarts if you like.
Love,
Harry
Post script – You do realize, I hope, that the Ministry is going to hound you for the next hundred years if they find out you’ve seen any of them.
-~8~-
“Yorick! What in the bloody blue blazes have you done with my – “
Simon’s words and growl ended abruptly when he found the quill – the only normal quill he owned – where he’d left it on the kitchen table.
“Never mind,” he mumbled as he passed Yorick’s perch. “Don’t touch it again.”
Hermione,
Tell me something, my dreamer. Are all women as fickle as those from the house of Gryffindor seem to be? If that isn’t the case and the three postponed dinners are due to overwork brought on by disorganization, I am prepared to overlook the well done roast I have been forced to dine upon for the last two days.
As always,
Simon
Post script – Refrain from feeding Yorick any more of those biscuits, if you please. He appears to be developing a pouch where no respectable chicken should have one.
-~8~-
November 12, 2000
Harry,
We'll just have to make sure the Ministry doesn't find out, won't we? At least, not until the book is finished, and by that point... Well, you know how stubborn I can be.
Hogwarts would be just fine, thank you.
And thank you, for doing this for me. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't think it were truly important.
Love,
Hermione
She carefully sealed the letter to Harry, and passed it off to Leontes for delivery before turning her thoughts to Simon's latest letter.
Three? Surely I couldn't have put him off that many times?
A quick mental count told Hermione that Simon was correct. Damn it!
Between gearing up for the holiday season at the bookstore and her efforts to convince Harry to grant her access to Severus' memories, what little free time she'd had left at night had been spent trying to relax in a hot tub...
Great. At this rate, I may find out how to help him, just in time to push him away because he'll think I've lost interest now that I've seen him naked, or something equally silly, I'm sure.
Exhaustion wore at her, but Hermione reached for her pen.
November 12, 2000
My dear Simon,
Considering the less than fresh sandwiches and take-away I've been forced to eat during my late nights at the store, I almost envy you your well done roast.
Work is... To put it bluntly, work has been a right bugger. Most nights, by the time I get home, I can barely remember my own name. More than once, I've caught myself nearly dozing off in the tub late at night as I tried to relax after another hideously long day behind my desk, and all I could think about is how nice it would be to have you wash my back, or hold me until I fell asleep, or even just to hear your voice.
I miss you, Simon, and I don't think I realized just how much until I received your letter and the dull ache I'd been carrying with me for the last week eased somewhat.
And now I'm being embarrassingly sentimental, aren't I?
I'm afraid I won't have a free moment for another week, at least, but after that, I would very much like to see you again.
Next Saturday is the eighteenth, if you don't already have other plans...
Yours,
Hermione
-~8~-
Simon wasn’t embarrassed by the sentiment Hermione had expressed in her letters, far from it. The old “fight or flight” syndrome had kicked in quite nicely by the time he’d reached the end and he couldn’t figure out why. The adrenaline released made him pace far more than he’d done in the last few months and poor Yorick’s neck was getting more than its fair share of exercise from watching him.
“She wants to see me… Apparently misses my presence – and from everything I’ve gathered that’s supposed to be a positive thing, correct?” Simon asked Yorick. “So, tell me, wise Gryffindor chicken, why am I absolutely, positively sensing a trap of some sort?”
Walking toward the window with his hands, one of which was clenched around her letter, locked behind him, Simon vented his frustration with a resounding, “Blast!”
Whipping around and waving the offending letter in the air, Simon strode back toward Yorick.
“She has no guile in her soul! No agenda hidden up her sleeve to spring upon me later! Am I so – so – tainted that I can no longer tell the difference between a trap and an invitation to a pleasant – hell, in all likelihood wonderful evening?” Simon asked coming to a standstill in front of the perch. “Not that I’ve had an abundance of the latter, but still.”
A visit to the roof did nothing to calm the warning bells going off in Simon’s gut, nor did spending three hours closeted in the lab. As he chewed on the last of the well done roast later that evening Simon came to a decision.
Hermione,
I must send my regrets. An unexpected influx of owl orders has to take priority over frivolity, as I’m sure your practical side would agree. When I can see my way clear, I’ll owl.
As always,
Simon
“There. That should take care of that. I’ll just never owl.”
Coward! seemed to come from the direction of Yorick’s perch and Simon’s head jerked around.
He sent the falcon a glare and hissed, “I think that’s quite enough out of you for this evening, unless you want to live in a coop with the other chickens.”
Simon picked up the letter, folded it and placed it in a envelope. As he was putting Hermione’s name on it, Coward! was repeated, louder than before.
“I am not a coward!” Simon bellowed as he rose and strode to the falcon’s perch. “I am not!”
Yorick returned the glare for a moment, huffed and turned his back toward his master.
“I am not a coward, you bloody, foul fowl!” Simon screamed, anger tempting him to grab the bird and toss him out the door. The light glinting off one sharp talon quickly doused that particular impulse, and Simon strode back to his desk.
“You will deliver this – tonight!” he hissed at the bird’s back and was completely caught off guard when Yorick took flight and left.
“Yorick! Return this instant!” he yelled, chasing after him with the letter waving in the air. “Now who’s the bloody coward, eh? Afraid to deliver one little note. All chickens all over the world are ashamed of you!”
Turning back around, Simon flopped into his easy chair and glared at the envelope with Hermio written on it.
“Damned bird. Now how the hell am I supposed to get out of…”
Simon’s head came to rest on the back of his chair and his eyes found their favorite discolored spot on the ceiling to study.
“I am a coward,” he mumbled to himself. “A coward who’s afraid of nothing it would seem.”
Rising and tearing the letter into shreds as he walked toward the desk, Simon shook his head.
Dear Dreamer,
The eighteenth would be agreeable. I shall endeavor not to overcook the roast this time.
As always,
Simon
Part 1 / Part 20
Rating: PG13 (possible R)
A/N - Anything you recognize, I don't own. The Harry Potter-verse belongs to J.K. Rowlings.
To those of you reading, I offer my apologies for the extremely long delay in posting. There is no real excuse. RL has tossed some doozies in my direction, including the loss of our family's beloved Jake a few weeks ago. To the rest of the world he was merely a huge dog. To us, he was – and always will be – a very large part of the family. - Devsgma
I know that Devsgma has already explained that real life has been a horrid, horrid witch over the last few months, leaving both of us with little spare time to work on Beyond. I'd like to say that things have changed and that we'll be returning to weekly updates as soon as we can, but I don't think that's going to happen any time soon. Do not worry that we're going to abandon the story or anything like that. We'll continue to write as time and circumstances allow. Thank you for bearing with us and staying with our story. - DC
Part 19
November 6, 2000
Harry,
I know I only asked you last week, and you haven't had very long to think about it, but I was on pins and needles all weekend, hoping for an owl.
Do you need more time to think, or have you already made a decision? If so, is it the kind I'm going to want to hear, or the kind that's going to force me to try my hand at Ron's wounded hound dog eyes.
I think that's something we'd all prefer to avoid, don't you?
Give Ginny my love.
Hermione
“I thought these kind of decisions were supposed to get easier as you got older and more mature,” Harry muttered to himself as he read Hermione’s owl again. “Do I or don’t I?”
“I don’t know, but if you don’t help me with these things we’ll be having scrambled eggs for dinner,” Ginny announced as she came in the door laden down with parcels. Harry jumped up to help, and after all the purchases were stowed away they sat down at the kitchen table with a pot of tea.
“What has my husband so out of sorts he’s talking to himself?” Ginny asked. It still gave her a thrill to say the word husband, especially since it referred to Harry. He gave her a grin before picking up Hermione’s letter.
“I still haven’t decided and she wants an answer and now she’s threatening me with her version of Ron’s hurt puppy eyes,” he replied.
“Ah, I see. Well, you didn’t give Snape your word or anything like that, so what’s the problem?” Ginny asked as she stood and took a package of biscuits out of the cupboard. Sitting back down, she opened it and offered some to Harry. Taking one, he nibbled on it before frowning.
“There’s an implied trust in something like that, Ginny. You don’t just hand over your most – your memories to just anyone you know? If he’d wanted everyone to see them, he’d have left them in a pensieve or a bottle or something and labeled. ‘To be violated in the event of my death.’ I’m sure it would have been a lot more sarcastic and scary in Snape’s – Professor Snape’s words,” Harry advised.
Pursing her lips, Ginny closed the package after taking a couple out for herself.
“That’s all nice and tidy for you isn’t it, Harry? Well, you weren’t there when Headmaster Snape was in charge of Hogwarts, were you? You didn’t see what…“ Ginny paused and shook her head. They’d been over that ground before and she really didn’t want to start again. “I say give Hermione anything she wants out of those memories and if there’s something in there that you think he wouldn’t want the Wizarding world to know – too bad. He’s gone and it won’t hurt him one teeny-tiny little bit.”
Rising, Ginny headed for the living room.
“I’m going to watch some telly while you fight your latest battle. Feel free to wave the white flag when you come to your senses and join me,” she said over her shoulder.
Harry watched his wife as she left him and his letter alone. He loved her more than life itself, but she simply didn’t understand. Snape had been more than awful to all of them, but what Harry had learned – or had tried to learn – wasn’t mere tit-for-tat.
“Greater good?”
Hermione,
Please, don’t give me the wounded hound look. I’m having enough trouble coming to a decision without that.
I won’t give Ginny your love right now, if you don’t mind. She’s all for me handing over all of them, and I just can’t do that.
If you’ll tell me what you’re looking for, I could sort them. Would that be enough?
Love,
Harry
“How can I tell him what I'm looking for, if I don't even know myself?"
Crooks meowed, as if to inquire if Hermione were speaking to him. When he received no reply, he stalked off to the kitchen and his food dish, tail high and twitching.
Hermione didn't even notice.
She was too busy scribbling on a pad of scratch paper, crossing out a word here and adding one there, trying to identify the most likely scenarios that might give her what she was seeking from the memories that Severus had given Harry that horrible night in the Shrieking Shack.
"Not that there is any guarantee that there will be anything to find in the first place."
It wasn't as if she could explain what she was looking for.
"Well, you see, Harry, it's a bit complicated, but I've been seeing this man – who, it turns out, is actually Severus Snape – and he's been having these nightmares for years. I think someone may have cursed him somehow. I also suspect that Albus Dumbledore either had his gnarled hands in it from the start, or the old fart caught wind of it and decided to use the curse to his advantage, but since he can't remember what Albus did to "make it better" I'm hoping there might be some clue, somewhere in the memories he gave you."
Hermione was pretty sure that wouldn't go over so well.
"Best to stick with what I told him the first time. It's technically not a lie, I really would like to write a book about what really happened during the war. Someday. Just not right now."
November 8, 2000
Harry,
I understand your hesitancy, and I wouldn't ask at all if I didn't think it were truly important.
As I mentioned before, my current research is focused on the relationship between Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape during the latter's years as a spy for the Order. Any interactions between the two, no matter how minute, would be of interest to me.
If at all possible, I would like to witness those memories in particular.
I promise to hold off on the puppy dog eyes. For now.
Love,
Hermione
When the Ministry had demanded Snape’s memories be turned over to them, Harry hadn’t found it the least bit difficult to refuse. He stored them where he’d placed the Elder wand, and it wasn‘t in Dumbledore‘s tomb. The idea to place the wand back with the former headmaster had been one of emotion – not of reason. While the thought that it would remain with Dumbledore forever was a pleasant one, the reality was quite a different matter. Not even Ginny knew the location, and Harry had intended them to remain undisturbed after his own death.
November 10, 2000
Hermione,
Give me a week or so to sort out what I can. I’ll arrange the use of the pensieve at Hogwarts if you like.
Love,
Harry
Post script – You do realize, I hope, that the Ministry is going to hound you for the next hundred years if they find out you’ve seen any of them.
“Yorick! What in the bloody blue blazes have you done with my – “
Simon’s words and growl ended abruptly when he found the quill – the only normal quill he owned – where he’d left it on the kitchen table.
“Never mind,” he mumbled as he passed Yorick’s perch. “Don’t touch it again.”
Hermione,
Tell me something, my dreamer. Are all women as fickle as those from the house of Gryffindor seem to be? If that isn’t the case and the three postponed dinners are due to overwork brought on by disorganization, I am prepared to overlook the well done roast I have been forced to dine upon for the last two days.
As always,
Simon
Post script – Refrain from feeding Yorick any more of those biscuits, if you please. He appears to be developing a pouch where no respectable chicken should have one.
November 12, 2000
Harry,
We'll just have to make sure the Ministry doesn't find out, won't we? At least, not until the book is finished, and by that point... Well, you know how stubborn I can be.
Hogwarts would be just fine, thank you.
And thank you, for doing this for me. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't think it were truly important.
Love,
Hermione
She carefully sealed the letter to Harry, and passed it off to Leontes for delivery before turning her thoughts to Simon's latest letter.
Three? Surely I couldn't have put him off that many times?
A quick mental count told Hermione that Simon was correct. Damn it!
Between gearing up for the holiday season at the bookstore and her efforts to convince Harry to grant her access to Severus' memories, what little free time she'd had left at night had been spent trying to relax in a hot tub...
Great. At this rate, I may find out how to help him, just in time to push him away because he'll think I've lost interest now that I've seen him naked, or something equally silly, I'm sure.
Exhaustion wore at her, but Hermione reached for her pen.
November 12, 2000
My dear Simon,
Considering the less than fresh sandwiches and take-away I've been forced to eat during my late nights at the store, I almost envy you your well done roast.
Work is... To put it bluntly, work has been a right bugger. Most nights, by the time I get home, I can barely remember my own name. More than once, I've caught myself nearly dozing off in the tub late at night as I tried to relax after another hideously long day behind my desk, and all I could think about is how nice it would be to have you wash my back, or hold me until I fell asleep, or even just to hear your voice.
I miss you, Simon, and I don't think I realized just how much until I received your letter and the dull ache I'd been carrying with me for the last week eased somewhat.
And now I'm being embarrassingly sentimental, aren't I?
I'm afraid I won't have a free moment for another week, at least, but after that, I would very much like to see you again.
Next Saturday is the eighteenth, if you don't already have other plans...
Yours,
Hermione
Simon wasn’t embarrassed by the sentiment Hermione had expressed in her letters, far from it. The old “fight or flight” syndrome had kicked in quite nicely by the time he’d reached the end and he couldn’t figure out why. The adrenaline released made him pace far more than he’d done in the last few months and poor Yorick’s neck was getting more than its fair share of exercise from watching him.
“She wants to see me… Apparently misses my presence – and from everything I’ve gathered that’s supposed to be a positive thing, correct?” Simon asked Yorick. “So, tell me, wise Gryffindor chicken, why am I absolutely, positively sensing a trap of some sort?”
Walking toward the window with his hands, one of which was clenched around her letter, locked behind him, Simon vented his frustration with a resounding, “Blast!”
Whipping around and waving the offending letter in the air, Simon strode back toward Yorick.
“She has no guile in her soul! No agenda hidden up her sleeve to spring upon me later! Am I so – so – tainted that I can no longer tell the difference between a trap and an invitation to a pleasant – hell, in all likelihood wonderful evening?” Simon asked coming to a standstill in front of the perch. “Not that I’ve had an abundance of the latter, but still.”
A visit to the roof did nothing to calm the warning bells going off in Simon’s gut, nor did spending three hours closeted in the lab. As he chewed on the last of the well done roast later that evening Simon came to a decision.
Hermione,
I must send my regrets. An unexpected influx of owl orders has to take priority over frivolity, as I’m sure your practical side would agree. When I can see my way clear, I’ll owl.
As always,
Simon
“There. That should take care of that. I’ll just never owl.”
Coward! seemed to come from the direction of Yorick’s perch and Simon’s head jerked around.
He sent the falcon a glare and hissed, “I think that’s quite enough out of you for this evening, unless you want to live in a coop with the other chickens.”
Simon picked up the letter, folded it and placed it in a envelope. As he was putting Hermione’s name on it, Coward! was repeated, louder than before.
“I am not a coward!” Simon bellowed as he rose and strode to the falcon’s perch. “I am not!”
Yorick returned the glare for a moment, huffed and turned his back toward his master.
“I am not a coward, you bloody, foul fowl!” Simon screamed, anger tempting him to grab the bird and toss him out the door. The light glinting off one sharp talon quickly doused that particular impulse, and Simon strode back to his desk.
“You will deliver this – tonight!” he hissed at the bird’s back and was completely caught off guard when Yorick took flight and left.
“Yorick! Return this instant!” he yelled, chasing after him with the letter waving in the air. “Now who’s the bloody coward, eh? Afraid to deliver one little note. All chickens all over the world are ashamed of you!”
Turning back around, Simon flopped into his easy chair and glared at the envelope with Hermio written on it.
“Damned bird. Now how the hell am I supposed to get out of…”
Simon’s head came to rest on the back of his chair and his eyes found their favorite discolored spot on the ceiling to study.
“I am a coward,” he mumbled to himself. “A coward who’s afraid of nothing it would seem.”
Rising and tearing the letter into shreds as he walked toward the desk, Simon shook his head.
Dear Dreamer,
The eighteenth would be agreeable. I shall endeavor not to overcook the roast this time.
As always,
Simon
Part 1 / Part 20