Beyond 84 Charing Cross Road

She knows and that should come as no great surprise considering all the blasted clues I've fed her. But she's apparently willing to keep my little secret.

Simon slowly folded the letter and almost placed it on the table beside his chair.

And without a bribe.

But there is a strong hint of a threat.

Rising, Simon walked toward his desk clutching the latest missive from his "friend".

I have to try.

Without lying.


July 28, 2000

Hermione,

I did not die a tragic death in the final battle, so I cannot possibly be the man you're thinking of. If you feel the need to pass on what little information I've given you as incriminating evidence of wrong doing, do so without regret.

I would.

I didn't die for a very simple reason. What Dumbledore and "You-Know-Who" didn't know, saved me. When my task was completed an end was surely in mind for me. I would have been a total blooming idiot not to be able to see into the future that far. Much as you did with your parents, I prepared. For a great many possibilities, as I knew no one else would.

I thank you for the book. I know how dear and rare it is.

Do not loose yourself in the daydreams, Hermione. Always keep a toehold on reality and remember the lessons of history. Your children's children should be told the stories.

Told the stories so they need not live the nightmare.

As always,

Simon

Post script - Promise me one thing. If you do decide to forward your information, give me 24 hours notice.

-~8~-

Promise me one thing. If you do decide to forward your information, give me 24 hours notice.

"Who am I going to tell? How could I possibly hope to convince someone that you're Snape, when I'm not even sure of it myself. They'll haul me off to St. Mungo's, thinking I've finally snapped."

She stared up at the ceiling above the bed, caught up in the same circular thoughts that had been plaguing her since his last letter.

I saw Snape die. I saw it. I've seen it in my dreams countless times since. Simon, obviously, did not die. Logic then says that Simon can not be Snape. But, if Snape didn't die... Then Simon wouldn't be lying when he said that he wasn't the man who tragically died that night and... And my head is going to be killing me if I don't stop doing this to myself.

Hermione rolled out of bed and padded, barefoot, down the hall to the kitchen. She filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove to boil.

"It has to be him. Doesn't it? Maybe I am losing my mind."

July 30, 2000

Simon,

I've asked Leontes not to deliver this until after the sun rises, with any luck the bloody bird will listen to me. If not... oops. Blame me for getting out of bed to write in the middle of the night.

I've written and ripped up several letters over the last two days. Each one started a different way because each time I'd managed to convince myself of something different and now I just don't know what to think anymore.

I hope you're proud of yourself, you've managed to confuse "the brightest witch of her age", to quote my own press.

You asked for 24 hours notice if I were ever inclined to tell another. I want to make that promise to you, I honestly do, but I can't. Giving my complete trust blindly isn't something I can do anymore, for anyone. But I will promise you this, unless I have reason to believe that you are dangerous - to more than just my mental health - your secret is as safe with me as my own.

For whatever that may be worth to you.

Have you had any luck with my bubble bath?

Hermione

-~8~-

....written and ripped... letters... Each one started a different way... I just don't know what to think anymore.

A large sigh escaped and tense muscles slowly relaxed as Simon's head was allowed to rest on the back of his easy chair. His eyes closed briefly before the head was raised and the rest of the letter was read.

A small snort sounded as Simon looked around for his chicken.

"Yorick, listen to this and I quote, "Have you had any luck with my bubble bath?" Can you believe the child..."

Simon paused and frowned.

"Not a child. Not any longer as she would be quick to point out."

He glanced around the small flat, noting the preparations he'd been making. Most of his non-essential items were shrunken, packed and ready to move at a moment's notice.

They can remain packed. Perhaps I've gotten too complacent. Too at ease with the notion I've been forgotten.

While that idea should have upset him, Simon found he was anything but. He felt better than he had in a long while.

Longer than he could remember.

Or want to remember, Simon decided as he rose and stretched. His finger stroked the back of Yorick's head as he paused by the perch on his way to the lab.

"I'm getting too old for these games, Yorick. The youngsters have grown too wise and the rules keep changing even though the trickiest one of them all is no longer around to pull the strings."

Yorick, who didn't particularly like the back of his head stroked, attempted to nip a finger as it passed by his face.

"Careful there, my chicken. You wouldn't want to contaminate what is sure to be the best bubble bath ever made would you? Hermione wouldn't like that," Simon advised as he shook that same finger over his shoulder while walking away.

August 4, 2000

Hermione,

It took a few days, but your bubble bath is done. The small vial Yorick brought you should be enlarged to approximately a liter. Depending on how many "bubbles" you require in your bath, one or two cap-fulls should suffice. I would advise more than three only if your bath is approximately the size of the Prefect's bath at Hogwarts.

Leontes was a perfect gentleman. The sun had already started over the horizon when he delivered your, or should I say, my reprieve? As I wasn't sure how you'd respond to my plea, I was preparing to move yet again. At some point in her life I hope "the brightest witch of her age" will forgive me for confusing her. What I'm about to impart may do that even more.

I am a dangerous man, Hermione. Never doubt that. I merely choose to do no harm unless I'm forced. There is a great difference you see, and while I suppose I shouldn't be telling you this, I cannot stand being thought of as a milksop or a coward.

I am not ashamed of the name I was born under. Nor am I ashamed of my actions. If I am detected, I will not lie. I hope you understand a little of what I'm trying to say.

If you note I'm a little freer with the information I'm giving you, it's because I don't believe the tiny lie you told me in your last letter. About not giving your complete trust.

If you didn't trust me, would you have asked for a "potion" I'd brewed? Even one as innocuous as a bubble bath?

As ever,

Simon

Post script - Be sure to advise me how long it took you to decide to either try the "potion" or toss it out.

-~8~-

The man was trying to drive her insane. He had to be.

Hermione harbored no illusions that Simon would be a dangerous adversary, even without knowing (for certain, at any rate) his skill level with a wand - And didn't that sound dirty? - she had been on the receiving end of his written temper enough times to suspect that he wasn't simply all bark. Simon definitely had a bite.

Doubly so if he was Severus Snape, ghost from the past.

She was also a tiny bit irritated at herself that he was able to read her so well.

It was time to return to safer topics, for now, at least.

August 5, 2000

Simon,

I am a prune. A lovely, vanilla-scented prune who spent far too long soaking in her bubble bath. Which, by the way, I started running the water for shortly after Yorick left my flat, since you were wondering. If only my tub were the size of the Prefect's bath, I'd never leave the house. How much do you think I'd have to tip the delivery boy to have dinner brought straight to my bathroom?

Bad news on the book front, I've run out of leads for the remainder of your list. Please don't take that to mean that I've given up, I'm just not sure when there will be any further progress.

Hermione

-~8~-

August 6, 2000

Hermione,

You are a wicked, wanton woman.

Before you protest, allow me to elaborate.

You have painted a picture in my mind. A beautiful young witch, lounging in her bubble filled bathtub. Her hair hastily bound up with a few tendrils falling down around her face. Skin damp with moisture and a male presence enters the room bearing food and drink.

Depending on the amount of coverage offered by the remaining bubbles - the delivery boy should offer to pay you.

I know I would.

Simon

-~8~-

"I - What - No, I wasn't - I - What?" She pressed a hand against her heated cheek and Hermione stared at the letter in horror. She groaned as she read it once more, clearly hearing the words in a distinctive - familiar - male voice.

The embarrassed flush began to morph into something else as the she pictured the scene Simon had described, her mind automatically trying to place him in the bathroom with her, trying to squeeze into her suddenly too small tub with her. In her mind's eye, he looked remarkably like her old professor the day that he'd knocked Gilderoy Lockhart on his arse at the dueling club demonstration, and that should have been enough to cool the building heat, but it wasn't. The opposite, in fact. "Well, bugger."

He called me wicked. Wanton. Beautiful. At least, I think the beautiful was meant for me.

August 6, 2000

Simon,

Have you been drinking? As in, right now, are you drunk?

Hermione bit her lower lip and quickly scratched through both sentences.

Oops?

If you didn't want to know about the bubbles, you shouldn't have asked.

I'm going to go take a bath - She shook her head and drew a line through the last three words - do something else and then head to bed.

(Apparently) Wicked and Wanton,

Hermione

Post script - The more I think about it, the more I'm forced to smile. No one has ever called me that before. Ever.

-~8~-

A wicked, deep chuckle sounded in the throat of one Simon Sopohorous as he read the seemingly flustered response of one Miss Hermione Granger to his last letter. He had wanted to call Yorick back the moment the bird had left with his previous note, but it had been too late.

Simon had never been a handsome man. Many had considered him as ugly as a troll. Since he'd never had the desire to be openly mocked, he'd never tried to chat a girl up as even an average looking boy might have done. Simon's heart had never strayed from its obsession with Lily Evans or he might have at least tried after he'd reached maturity.

The only "romantic" entanglements he had ever had with the fairer sex were with those for hire. There had been no need for sweet words or romantic gestures with those ladies, so the ability to make a woman flustered, possibly interested, was quite new to Simon.

And very, very tempting.

It gave him a rush of - something he'd never felt before and Simon wanted very badly to feel it again. He didn't realize he was flirting, because flirting, either in person or by letter, wasn't something he did. If it had been suggested that was exactly what he was doing, Simon would have been appalled. He'd seen students sending what was called "goo-goo" eyes at each other for enough years to recognize it in others, but he wasn't familiar with the sensations it caused. If he had, he would have realized how addictive it could be.


August 7, 2000

Hermione,

I do not drink to excess, my dear wanton one. There has never been a time in my life that I've ever been tipsy. One glass of Ogden's, one glass of red wine or one snifter of brandy is all I've ever allowed myself. Before now, it was to be clear headed in case the need arose. Now, I do not care to become an alcoholic by drinking to excess, especially alone.

I'm sending you a bottle of mead with Yorick, lucky bird, at approximately the time I think you'll be taking one of your bubble baths.

Why?

You remind me of it and I'd like to think of you sipping on a glass as you bathe. Drink it sparingly. It's sweet on the tongue, doesn't burn your throat and is lethal if taken to excess.

As always,

Simon

-~8~-

My dear wanton one...

Hermione sunk lower into the tub full of vanilla scented bubbles, tingling a bit as she thought about the letter she'd received not long before. She hadn't intended to take a bath that night, but once she'd given Yorick a biscuit, sniffed the contents of the bottle he had brought and read Simon's letter the urge to do as he'd suggested had been strong.

The mead was sweet, just as he had said it would be, and she was careful to only have the single glass, wanting to keep her head relatively clear as she considered the puzzle that was Simon.

His last few letters had been different, less formal, almost...

"Almost what? Almost as if he might be attracted to me?" Her lips slipped into a disbelieving grin as she sipped from the glass of mead.

There, in the tub, up to her neck in warm water and silky bubbles, hair piled atop her head, Hermione actually felt a bit like the wanton woman he had accused her of being.

Eventually she would have to get out of the tub and figure out just what she would write back to him the next day. But not just yet.

August 8, 2000

Simon,

The mead was lovely, and just as you described. I had a small glass, carefully sipped in an effort to keep it from going to my head. I don't think I managed to become tipsy, but I thought it would be best if I didn't write last night, just in case.

Who knows what sort of impertinent questions I might have come up with.

Well, actually, I do know what sort of questions and we're both probably better off that I kept them to myself, really.

Hermione

Post Script - I really shouldn't ask this, but I just can't help myself. Do you really think of me bathing?

I can't believe I actually put that in writing, and yet I'm not reaching for a new piece of stationery or scratching it out so... Do you?

-~8~-

August 9, 2000

My dear wanton one,

Do I think of you bathing?

I sit here in my chair, smoking a cigar, drinking either tea, or perhaps that occasional snifter of brandy, and visualize your nightly routine. You indicated you like the water hot, so I imagine you're slightly flushed from the steam in your lavatory before you ever enter the tub. One delicate foot follows the other as you sink into the bubbles. Do you sigh as you settle into the scented water?

I imagine a well filled sponge being wrung out over one shoulder and then the other. The water racing down to kiss the skin it finds before running over luscious curves, caressing as it goes. Finally, you rise, flushed, scented and very, very wet. Rather like Venus from the sea.

Irresistible.

I hope you realize, part of me is with you in that bath every night. I designed the bubble bath and every potion I concoct has a little bit of me in it.

Strange. I'm beginning to envy it.

Are those the types of thoughts you think are better off not said? They've been bottled up inside me for too many years as it is. I think I shall allow them their freedom.

So, back to your question - Do I think of you bathing?

I believe that qualifies as a resounding yes.

As ever,

Simon

-~8~-

"Oh. My. God." The words were barely loud enough to qualify as a whisper.

Hermione swallowed hard and looked around her flat, searching for something, anything that might indicate that this was part of a joke or an hallucination.

Finding nothing to indicate that the letter was anything other than simply the latest in a long line from Simon, she carefully read it again, shivering at the thought of part of him in her nightly bath. It was a rather erotic concept for her, and Hermione found that she was suddenly far too warm.

She pulled loose the tie she'd worn to work, and forced herself to prepare a light dinner before she even considered trying to write a reply.

"I don't even know him. I mean I do, but I don't. I don't even have a face to put to the name."

Oh, but you do, don't you? Right or wrong, you have a face and a voice.

So what if you have never met him? You probably never will. What harm is there in flirting a little? Teasing a little? So it's out of character for you, for once, let yourself live a little bit. Simon is.

August 11, 2000

Simon,

I have a confession to make, every time I apply the scent you made, every time I slip into the tub and feel the water touch and caress my skin - I think of you.

Especially these last few nights. It's almost as if you're there in the room with me, watching.

Those are exactly the sort of things that I thought would be better left unsaid, but now that they are I find that I have no desire to take them back.

You know part of what I do almost every night, tell me something of what you do? Do you sit in that chair with your cigar, lost in thought or a good book, or something else entirely? I'd like to know. I'd like something to think about the next time I'm surrounded by you and your bubbles.

Hermione

-~8~-

"I'd like something to think about the next time I'm surrounded by you and your bubbles."

Simon suddenly longed to tell her of the many things he'd done, and yet none of them.

How many would she condemn me for even if they had been done under the hand of Dumbledore?

Would she understand the depths to which he'd had to sink to do what was needed? The depths he was still trying to find his way back from? He spent many hours fighting an inner battle to use her as his confessor until reason won out.

She wasn't asking about what he'd done in the past. Hermione wanted the present. That he could provide. The shadows were winning in Simon's flat before he lit a candle and began to write.

August 14, 2000

My sweet, wanton, romantic dreamer,

On nights when I'm restless and the fog has lifted, I go to the roof of my building. Most nights I am content to watch those below me. Other nights, I wish to see the heavens, but as you know, the Muggle lights that surround us make that difficult. On those nights I cannot stand being confined to my building or the roof - I fly.

I have always been a creature of the dark. The night. Now even more so. The night is forgiving and soft. It holds me lightly in its grasp and allows me to believe I'm finally free.

How would you like to fly with me, Hermione? Cuddled into the crook of my arm with a warm cloak wrapped around you. Smell the rain on the wind before it reaches this tired old city. Mock the slow moving creatures tied to the ground. Watch the sun start to peak over a mountain before turning around.

Perhaps some night, you'll hear a tap on your window and I'll be there with that cloak. Would you come?

As always,

Simon