A/N: Written for astronauts ' Psycholohical Disorders Competition.
Charlie Weasley with Bibliomania, for official definition see the competition ;)
Being alone with books surely must have SOME mental effect?
Charlie liked books. It was not to say as he liked dragons, the love of his life, but he did like books with a passion. He collected them and was alone with them and that was good enough.
Anything from Moste Potente Potions to A History of Magic, he had every single book there was, even some Muggle ones. Each just piled a little higher in his room at the Burrow, then in tall skyscraper stacks at his flat in Romania. Alphabetizing became a hobby but it didn't take away from the actual reading- the collecting.
Some people would say it was promblematic. His mother for instance. She tried donating his books, presuming they were taking up space, or else distracting. It nearly killed him when she tried. Even if he already graduated, he still need A Standard Book of Spell Grade 2. For the memorabilia sake! For the sake of learning!
Fellows had suggested hoarding, but how could it be? Hoarders collected various things. All he did was treasure books, and words were the greatest weapon. He most certainly had no problem, just too much free time.
Short novels, compositions, thick volumes, whole series', picture books, adult books, magazines, and a comic he knicked from Dad's garage. It was all here. All his. He had enough but then he had to have more, and he wouldn't deny himself that- couldn't.
Maybe that was why he fell for Hermione. He couldn't love her more than his books, that was inevitable. But he knew that she appreciated the art of learning more than others...more like himself. She handled her books with care, He'd give anything just for some intellectual conversation- maybe on more trip to Flourish and Blotts.
He'd arrived in secret early for Bill's wedding with as many books as he could manage, succeeding in leaving any trace of dragons home in Romania. And he'd got her alone, and he'd tried to seduce her, because she was different.
"You've read it?" Hermione asked, picking up Hogwarts, A History, noting its frail binding and many dog-eared pages.
"Of course." Charlie replied, forcing himself not to wince as she flipped through the yellowed chapters (smiling to herself as she did so). Hermione wouldn't mistreat a book.
She set it back down on yet another tower of books and looked at him. "Not many have."
What a perplexing thing to say though. Why would anyone refuse such a jewel? He decided it best be ignored.
"So you like reading," she inquired. He knew she was smart. "I always did as a girl. I was so," she paused here to find a word, like so many fiction characters often did, "anxious when I'd entered the Wizarding World to find I hadn't even entered a whole new world of literature."
A group of Gilderoy's smiled down their shelves at her and she flushed. Charlie himself was walking amongst his books and taking deep breaths, as though he could breathe in the words, the ink from the pages. He probably could.
Then he'd offered Hermione a glass of Firewhiskey. It was good, he nursed his own dose, and it settled to calm him endlessly. Like falling down a rabbit hole. You just keep going further down, down, down.
He wasn't alone. He had her.
"Why'd you bring me up her Charlie?" She asked after a sip. "Your collection is marvelous."
Did she hope to amend with that? He already knew it was marvelous. It was more than that.
And he gave her a quick mesh of the lips, letting her come to him, because she did. A handsome Weasley, pureblood, alone, single, older, more-experienced- like Ron? It was all there, all she could want.
And he liked books.
The girl didn't taste of Firewhiskey, she'd only pretended to drink. It was curious, but Charlie could just share some of his- on his breath. He wasn't accustomed to sharing.
Gently he lowered her to the ground like in the short collection of romance novels. He needed more. Above them many stories towered, waiting to be read. He was wasting precious time.
Quickly he reached for the buckle of his trousers and lifted up the girls skirt. She was making a short moaning sound. That was new. He'd never heard sounds like that in his books.
With a calloused hand he gripped her neck right above the bosom. Smiling he noticed a definite change of texture. Dragons were scaly, books were withered and water-worn, but Hermione was smooth to the touch, an inky peachy color to his eyes. What secrets did she hold from him? Could he just as easily open her min to read?
Charlie anxiously gripped his own arousal with another hand. He didn't have to refer to his own personal library in his head to know what to do next.
Hermione liked it, crying out, of course she did, how could she not? She was smart and just perfect it made no sense to say she hadn't enjoyed it. Was her little gasps, the parting of her chapped and rose-red lips, echoing in the tiniest voice he little brothers name? Not curious at all, it made quite good sense, he'd read the books, seen the signs. Being dense was not a virtue.
It didn't take long but Charlie's mind was already wandering. Back to the many worlds inside his own. To the words he was now itching to read, ready to travel back to and escape. It was all he had.
He pulled out of Hermione, hardly recognizing what he was doing and why, but he knew what he wanted to do. Read some books. Hermione was good, but she was not a book.
And there was nothing like a good book.