That Old Bookshop

Ever since Hermione was eight years old and in London for the first time with her parents, she loved that old bookshop in Soho, run by that nice Mr Fell. Whenever she was in London from then on, she'd spend whole afternoons in there, happily wide-eyed at the sheer variety to be found there.

She'd never bought anything, though. There were several books that she knew she would have loved to have gracing her own bookshelves, but even at eight, she could see how much Mr Fell loved his books, and as a fellow bibliophile, she couldn't bear to take one away from him. After all, she reasoned, if I don't buy it, I can still come back and read it later, and Mr Fell will still have it, but if I do buy it, I'll have deprived him of it.

Hermione was very precocious for her age. Her parents always told her so.

But when Hermione got her Hogwarts letter, she stopped going to the old Soho bookshop--it didn't have books on magic, or at least not the kind of magic that had suddenly stepped off the page of a storybook and actually become real for her, and that was what held Hermione's attention then. Flourish and Blotts became Hermione's default bookstore whenever she was in London.

It wasn't long after Hermione turned twenty that she had a sudden desire to visit the shop again, but when she hesitantly pushed open the door, she was surprised to see that old Mr Fell wasn't sitting behind the counter, and that a young man with black hair and sunglasses was manning the register instead.

He looked up when Hermione stepped into the room, and smiled, and Hermione noted with the small corner of her mind that wasn't spent looking at him that the smile was rather reminiscent of a snake's. She remembered Lucius Malfoy smiling like that, right before he--she put the memory out of her mind, and told herself firmly that whoever this young man was, he was not Lucius Malfoy.

"Hullo," Hermione said, taking another step. "Er...Mr Fell does still own this shop, doesn't he?"

The man's smile didn't go away. "Yeah," he said easily, "but Fell's a bit busy in the back room right now, so I'm covering for him. I'm Anthony Crowley."

"Hermione Granger," Hermione said. "I used to come here a lot, when I was younger. It was my favorite bookshop," she added wistfully.

"Is that so?" Anth--Crow--Mr Crowley asked. "I take it you haven't been here recently? I'm sure I would have seen you." The smile was gone, but his mouth still gave the impression of showing teeth.

"Oh." Hermione looked away. "I...haven't had much opportunity to come. Until now." She suddenly felt as tongue-tied as she had when Viktor first asked her to the Yule Ball. No more was she reminded of Malfoys. "And I was in the area, so I thought I'd drop by..."

"Would you like me to go get Fell?" Mr Crowley asked, ignoring her babbling.

"Oh!" Hermione flushed. "No, that's all right, I'll come back later when he's not busy..." Then she left, as quickly as she could without seeming like she was running away. When she glanced back, just before the door closed behind her, she could have sworn that Mr Crowley looked amused.

That was the first time she met him.

The second time was a few weeks later in the Piccadilly Circus tube station, when she was trying to get to Waterstones. She'd been told by one of the clerks at Flourish and Blotts that the big Muggle bookstore had a hidden section of wizard books on the fourth floor, and she wanted to see what their selection was like. And she was curious, too, what happened with wizard books in Muggle bookstores, and how Muggle cashiers would deal with them.

Hermione was rushing through the crowd when someone jostled her from behind, and she would have pitched forward if someone hadn't grabbed her elbow and steadied her. When she turned to thank whoever it was, she saw Anthony Crowley smiling at her, and, unaccountably, she blushed.

"Miss Granger, is it?" he asked as she regained her balance. He didn't release her elbow.

"Mr Crowley," Hermione replied, and tried to not stare at her feet.

"Oh, call me Crowley," he said, waving away the 'mister'. "Most of my friends do."

Hermione's blush deepened, and she lost the battle not to stare at her feet. "Then call me Hermione," she said. Her elbow felt warm where he was still gripping it--and then he dropped it, quickly, as if suddenly aware that he was still holding it.

"Hermione," he repeated affably, still smiling at her. Then he nodded, and continued on his way wherever he was going.

She watched him disappear into the crowd for a moment, then furiously shook her head and started walking again. Her elbow still tingled where he'd held it. You are an idiot, she told herself strongly. All right, he's cute...I freely admit that. Just...no. I'm never going to see him again--these past two times were just flukes. He'll forget about me, I'll forget about him, and it really won't matter at all that he's cute.

After that meeting in the Underground, Hermione would have been willing to swear that she would never see him again, but events would prove her wrong. She saw him no less than nine times over the next two months, and she would have thought that he was deliberately following her if he hadn't just greeted her and continued on with his day every time they met.

Don't be frustrated, she told herself at the end of the day after the ninth time. You're just another acquaintance to him. And besides, a man like that...he's got to have women practically throwing themselves at him. You don't need to degrade yourself by doing the same.

Still, when she slipped her hand beneath her panties, she couldn't help but think of strong arms, thick black hair, and eyes obscured by sunglasses but that she was sure would seem to glow if she could see them unimpeded.

*

Hermione pushed open the bookshop door, though she didn't hear the familiar jingle of the bell. Maybe it was because, she thought after a moment, there was complete silence in the shop, the kind that swallowed all sound.

There was also Crowley behind the counter again, glaring around so venomously that Hermione stopped and wondered if she could leave again without attracting his attention. She didn't wonder that the bell didn't sound--Crowley looked like he would have been able to melt it with his gaze alone.

She had just turned around and was about to leave again when--"Hermione," a voice called from behind her. She recognized Crowley's voice, though he didn't sound that angry.

She turned around again and met his gaze, noticing with surprise that all traces of his former anger seemed to have disappeared. "Hi," she said hesitantly. "I was just about to leave--it looked like you were in a bad mood--"

Crowley waved her excuses away, standing up and walking out from behind the counter. "Bit of a disagreement with Fell," he said dismissively. "Nothing you need to worry about. Can I help you with anything?"

"Oh, it's all right," Hermione said. Crowley was suddenly right beside her, and she looked up at his face, wondering why he was still wearing sunglasses while inside. "I just wanted to say hello to Mr Fell...and you," she added in a small voice, and looked down again in hopes that Crowley wouldn't see her start to blush.

"Fell's upstairs," Crowley said, "but I'll pass on your regards, shall I?" He raised an eyebrow at her, smiling quirkily. Any attempts to control her blush failed.

"Yes--thank you--" she said, and ducked out the door again before she could embarrass herself further. She started walking quickly away, putting her hands to her cheeks in hopes of cooling them down a bit, when she felt a hand on her elbow. She whirled around to see Crowley standing there, still smiling.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked. "Just when I was about to ask you to dinner with me, though I suppose, if you don't want to..."

He started turning around, and Hermione stood there for a moment, her brain not having caught up to her ears yet. But when it did--"Wait!" she said, and Crowley turned around quickly again. Hermione looked at him, and ignored the blush rising into her cheeks again. "I...I would like to have dinner with you."

"Good," he said, and his smile grew just a bit wider. "If you tell me where you live, I'll pick you up around seven o'clock, tomorrow. Is that all right?"

"Yes," she replied faintly, and wished he would take his sunglasses off so she could see his eyes. "That's just fine."

After giving him her address, she turned and walked away again, savoring the moment. If she thought, for a moment, that Crowley looked more smug than should be accounted for by being accepted, she didn't think about it. The man who had been on her mind for the greater part of the past two months wanted to have dinner with her, and that was enough.

*

The next day passed far more slowly than it should have, and even though she tried to immerse herself in Antoine de Saint Exupery, but not even The Little Prince could stop her from looking at the clock every so often, and sighing whenever she saw that only ten minutes had passed.

As seven o'clock approached, she positioned herself by the window, and told herself firmly that she wanted to watch the sun setting, and she certainly was not going to wait impatiently for a car to stop outside her flat. That was undignified.

Dignity didn't stop her from jumping to her feet and abandoning her book once someone knocked on her door at precisely seven o'clock. Slightly warm inside at a man who was actually prompt for once, she hurried to the door, smoothing down her nice skirt and blouse and making sure the Sleakeezy was keeping her hair relatively flat before opening it. Crowley stood outside, leaning against the frame, wearing a nice pair of slacks and shirt, a dinner jacket thrown casually over one shoulder, and smiling at her warmly.

"Ready to go?" he asked, and Hermione nodded quickly, grabbing her coat from the rack before stepping outside and locking the door. "I hope you don't mind no seatbelts," Crowley continued as they walked down to his car, "but they hadn't been invented yet when my Bentley was made. 1926, you know."

Hermione felt her eyes go wide when they reached the car itself. "Oh, wow," she said, stopping and just looking at it. "It still looks new...you must be really devoted to it, to keep it in that good repair." She smiled at him, and he looked pleased.

"Well," he said, walking around to the passenger door and holding it open for her--Chivalrous, too! Hermione thought, flushing slightly as she slid into her seat--"it takes effort, of course. A few years ago, I thought it was going to fall apart on me, but I held it together." He gazed at it with what looked like proprietary pride before taking his own place behind the wheel.

"You did an amazing job," Hermione said warmly, looking around the inside. "It's so clean! And I don't think I saw any dents or scratches..."

"I do my best," Crowley said modestly. "Do you like Queen? I've got a cassette or two around here..."

Hermione laughed, and sang along with Freddy Mercury to Bohemian Rhapsody and other songs all the way there.

*

Hermione was amazed for the second time that night when she saw where Crowley had taken them.

"But...this is the Ritz!" she exclaimed, twisting swiftly around to look incredulously at him as he got out of the car. "I can't afford to eat here..." She was suddenly very glad she'd put on nice clothing, as opposed to the usual denims she would have for the much less formal restaurant she thought Crowley would have taken her to--she hadn't thought someone who worked in a bookshop would have enough money for something fancy like the Ritz.

"I'm paying," Crowley said firmly. "Besides, I've been here several times before, and it's a very nice place to bring a date." He flashed a smile at her, and she blushed and decided not to argue with her. It was very flattering that Crowley apparently wanted to spend all this money on her...

The maitre'd did seem to know Crowley, and Hermione smiled at the courtesy with which the waiter treated her when he appeared. But as they settled in to wait for their food, Hermione couldn't think of a thing to say, and stared at her empty plate.

But soon enough Crowley had her in stitches over anecdotes of life with a seventy-three-year-old car, though as the waiter brought them their orders, the conversation turned towards more serious topics.

"I used to be religious," Crowley said, glass of wine in his hand. "I used to love Him and want nothing but His glory, except..." He sighed. "I couldn't stand the hypocrisy. I wondered how the history of the Church could be so corrupt when it was supposed to be full of people who wanted to go to Heaven, how fundamentalists could exist, how people could think that what was supposed to be a Lord of love and life could want them to hate and kill so much. And I wondered how He could tolerate it, and since He obviously was, wondered why. Finally I concluded that He wanted us to suffer, and then I wondered how so many people could worship a being who wanted them to suffer." He shrugged. "No longer could I love Him after that."

Hermione thought about it, and shifted uncomfortably. Her parents had raised her Anglican, and she went to services whenever she was home from Hogwarts. She hadn't been concerned with passages and quotes from the Bible such as "thou shalt not suffer a witch to live"--she'd simply assumed it had meant evil witches and wizards, like Bellatrix Lestrange and Voldemort, and moved on with her life.

But what Crowley said...it made sense. It made more sense than she would have liked. And, even when they were standing outside her door again and he was kissing her cheek in farewell, she couldn't stop thinking about it.

*

The next time Hermione went to Fell's bookshop, he was there, and Crowley wasn't. She tried to hide her disappointment--After all, she told herself, before I met Crowley, I originally came here to see Fell--and smiled as she returned his greetings.

"It's nice to see you again, Miss Granger," he said, folding away the newspaper he'd been reading.

"It's nice to see you too, Mr Fell. Oh, and do call me Hermione," she added. She'd always liked him, and didn't think he needed to be so formal with her. "Crowley's not here today?" she asked, and immediately winced--she'd been trying not to mention him, as the last she knew, Crowley and Fell had had an argument.

Fell put down his newspaper with a snap, and Hermione wished she could take back the words. "No," he said crisply, "Crowley's got...other things to do today. But business is being quite slow--would you like to take tea with me?"

"Oh, yes, please," Hermione said, following him to the kitchen upstairs after he turned the sign on the door to "Closed". Even as a child, she'd trusted him immediately--he just radiated kindness and honesty and some sort of goodness, and Hermione trusted that. She'd known people who felt almost the same way, but were really rather slimy on the inside, but Fell, she thought, wasn't like that, and she'd gotten to be quite a good judge of character, if she did say so herself.

"Anything with your tea?" he asked, pouring hot water into two cups from the kettle and getting out a couple tea bags of Earl Grey. She wondered absently how he'd known that was her favorite.

"Sugar, please," she said. "Two lumps." Then she sighed in tea-lovers' delight as he brought her her cup--Fell's tea was already most likely the most refreshing she'd ever had, and she hadn't done more than smell it yet. Then she took a sip, and closed her eyes in true contentment; it tasted heavenly, like the true essence of Earl-Grey-plus-two-sugarlumps, and when she opened her eyes again, Fell was looking at her with a small smile on his face.

"You like it?" he asked, stirring his own tea absently, then opening a tin of biscuits on the table and offering it to her.

"It's wonderful," she sighed, sipping it again as she took a biscuit. "I'm not sure how you make it so that it turns out different from my own, but it's some of the best I've had. Thank you." She smiled at him.

They sipped their tea and ate biscuits and talked of inconsequential things--a new book that Fell read and recommended, a museum that they'd both been to--and it was only when the sun was beginning to set that Hermione realized how late she'd stayed. But when she said goodbye and hurried back to her flat to start dinner, she knew that she'd been happier talking to Fell than she had been in a long time, even going out with Crowley.

*

Hermione pushed open the door to the bookshop two weeks, three dates with Crowley, and two more teas with Mr Fell after her first one. Crowley always left her with a warm goodnight kiss and a lot to think about in the state of the world, and she always left Fell feeling bright and cheerful and happy, and she liked both men quite a bit, even if they didn't seem to be getting along with each other very well.

And as she listened to the shouting in the back room, drowning out any tinkling the little door bell might have made when she entered, it became very apparent that they weren't getting along well.

"--single person!" Fell was saying hotly. "What happened to mass-produced soul-tarnishing, and being a modern demon?"

Oh my, Hermione thought. Should I be listening to this? Still, she moved farther into the shop on soft feet, and didn't think they heard her.

"Sometimes you want something with a little more finesse," Crowley hissed, and it really sounded like hissing to Hermione's ears. "Tying up traffic and telephone lines is all very well, but sometimes it's nice to work on just one soul! What's the big deal?"

"The big deal," Fell said, "is that she's a witch, and was very involved on my side of the recent conflict in the wizarding world, and is very important to several key people there, and I don't want to see her fall to your sort."

Witch, Hermione thought. He said witch, and wizarding world. He's talking about me, isn't he? She kept listening.

"But why are you getting so angry?" Crowley asked, and his voice stopped, except for a slight undertone, hissing. "You're doing a good enough job of thwarting me, aren't you? She likes you, and likes talking to you, and she's far too intelligent to be so easily taken in by me."

"My dear," Fell said frostily, "that's not the point. I thought, after our discussion a few weeks ago, that you would leave her alone, if only for my sake. But now--"

"I understand," Crowley interrupted. "You're jealous, aren't you?" He sounded smug and delighted, and Hermione kept listening in almost horrified fascination. What was going on?

"Jealous? I most certainly am not!" Fell said primly.

"Hmph," Crowley sniffed. "Sure, you aren't. You do know that envy's one of the seven deadly sins, don't you, angel?"

"Of course I know!" Fell said. "But I'm not--"

"And this makes how many deadly sins now?" Crowley asked, speaking right over whatever Fell had been going to say. "Gluttony, avarice, lust..." He sounded like he was ticking points off on his fingers.

"Crowley," Fell said desperately, miserably, and Crowley stopped.

"Oh, angel," he murmured, and Hermione had to strain to hear. "Don't worry--if you haven't Fallen by now--" and Hermione could hear the capital F, "--I don't think you're going to."

"I hope so," Fell said, quietly, and Hermione wondered a bit at his last name, if he was so afraid of Falling. "I know you don't seem to have things too badly, but..." He sighed. "I like being an angel."

"I know," Crowley said, sounding a bit subdued. "I know. But if your people don't think fraternizing with me is bad enough to make you Fall, I don't think you're going to unless you do something really bad. So just...don't think about it anymore, all right?"

"All right," Fell said. "But you will leave that poor girl alone from now on, won't you?"

Hermione wasn't sure she liked them getting back to the subject of what she assumed was her.

Crowley sighed. "You drive a hard bargain, angel. All right, I'll leave her alone if you will. It isn't fair if she gets one influence but is forbidden the other."

Hermione started walking away then--she didn't think there were any other important things she was going to overhear. She wasn't sure what to think about what she had overheard, but there was one thing she knew--she didn't like it that they talked about her as if she was...beneath them. A pawn in a chess match between them, maybe. Whatever it was, she didn't like it.

As she approached the door, she took out her wand and muttered a quick silencing charm on the bell--she didn't want it giving away that she'd been eavesdropping.

Then she steeled herself, putting away all memories of tea with Fell and evenings at the Ritz with Crowley, and stepped out the door. She didn't look back, and she never saw either man--angel, demon, whatever--or that old bookshop again.