McLemore and Lessing, Booksellers didn't open their doors until the morning had had a chance to grab a cup of coffee and read the paper. This suited Hermione Granger fine. Most days she was the first one in by a good twenty minutes. She liked to spend the pre-work moments sitting on the ladder in the back shelves, surrounded by the smell of paper, leather, and aging glue. The owners had given her a key within a month of her start, after finding her every morning on the doorstep.
"This is a bookshop, Hermione, not a factory," Mr. McLemore had said as he handed her the key. "You don't need to punch your timecard at precisely ten. We look fondly on lateness." She had continued to arrive early, but knew better than to bother Messrs McLemore and Lessing with it.
Gerald McLemore was a tall thin man, fastidious in his habits and dress. He tended towards bow ties, watches with fobs, manicures, and absurdly shiny Italian shoes. If his eyes had not been so equally terrible, he would have affected a monocle. As it was the little gold glasses he wore were polished to a brilliant gleam. Mr. McLemore worked the front desk, dividing his time equally between studiously ignoring the customers and deriding their selections.
Bernard Lessing was not the polar opposite one would expect. Though shorter, a mere five-eight to McLemore's six-three, he was neither rotund nor slovenly. Bernie, as he insisted everyone call him, worked accounts and inventory, stepping onto the floor rarely. The ledgers (no computers for him), were his world, filled with neat and precise numbers in his neat and precise hand. He was fond of sweater vests and toffees, the smell of which pervaded the tiny back office.
As far as her employers knew, Hermione Granger was a quiet young girl studying in a further education program since a troubled adolescence had left her utterly without qualifications for university. McLemore suspected drugs, while Bernie thought family break-ups more likely, but neither cared much. Renegade teenagers are hardly new, despite what teens themselves may think. Hermione Granger was thoughtful, respectful, and neat. Whatever trauma had befallen her in youth had done no lasting harm (and possibly much good).
"Here early again, I see. When we say 'open at ten' we really mean half past. Will you never learn, girl?" Mr. McLemore asked as he entered.
"Good morning, Mr. McLemore," she replied from behind a stack of books. He settled himself at the front desk with a mug of coffee and Hermione continued shelving. As the youngest member of McLemore and Lessing's crack team of book purveyors by at least thirty-five years, all the heavy lifting and hauling fell to Hermione.
The restock was Hermione's favorite work, especially on slow days (of which there were many). Bernie added new books and returns in a pile behind the register each evening. She sorted them by subject, then by author, then took the piles off to their respective shelves. There she would linger, putting books back and flipping through those that looked interesting, fingering the spines of their new neighbors and mentally noting the names of those she wanted to borrow (an incredible perk of the job).
"G'morning, Hermione!" called Bernie as he entered.
"Hello!" she called and waved in the general direction of the door.
"Big day today, Hermione, isn't it?"
"No bigger than any other Monday, I should think," Hermione said as she emerged from behind the counter. "Did I forget a holiday again?"
"No, no," Bernie chuckled. He stood with both hands clasped behind his back and an almost manic twinkle in his eye. Hermione knew from twinkling, and this particular one screamed "trouble brewing: run for the hills."
"Your…birthday?"
"Guess again!" he trilled.
"My birthday?" Hermione ventured.
"Oh, for chrissakes Bernie, put us all out of our misery and just tell her! You look like you've been sniffing the white-out again," snapped McLemore from behind his coffee mug.
"Today, Miss Granger, is your two year anniversary with us!" Bernie proclaimed, sweeping a hand from behind his back to reveal a bright pink cupcake.
"Is this the physical manifestation of a raise?" she asked. She could hear McLemore splutter as he attempted to laugh and drink simultaneously.
"Yes, yes, you're getting a raise as well," sighed Bernie. He sounded a bit wounded. "This was just to show we cared. A nice gesture."
"Thank you, I shall treasure it for the half minute it takes me to scarf it," Hermione replied, taking the cupcake out of his palm and hugging him.
"Don't I get one?" asked McLemore plaintively.
"No, Gerry. You're a vicious old pouf who said not twenty minutes ago that cupcakes were feeble. I'll not reward that," Bernie huffed and strode into the back office.
"Well, there's no need for personal remarks," McLemore called after him. Hermione took a plastic knife from behind the tin behind the counter and split the cupcake neatly down the middle. One half was promptly stuffed into her mouth, the other pushed across the long wooden counter to her employer.
"You shouldn't bolt your food. It's from Hummingbird—this is a cupcake to be savored."
"'Thank you' would have been an acceptable answer as well," Hermione replied. She wrapped her arms around a stack of books for Religion and Philosophy, and heaved them off the floor.
"We are glad to have you here, Miss Granger," McLemore said. He smiled at her, and licked a stray bit of ice cream from the tip of his forefinger. "Lord knows I wasn't going to lift a finger for the restock."
She had moved on to Science Fiction and Mystery when the customer came. He was the first of the day, and likely the only. SciFi/Mys was buried deep in the shelf maze (a byproduct of McLemore's disdain for "ridiculous confabulation") and Hermione could only hear the jingle of the bell and crack of the door as it snapped back against the frame.
"Good afternoon, sir," McLemore said. Hermione was pulling herself up from the floor when the answer came.
"The same to you, sir."
Thank God she'd had a grip on the shelf, or the shock probably would have keeled her over right then. There was a long, long silence. Hermione pulled herself fully up and crept to the edge of the shelves, then darted down to the end of Art History.
"Is there something I can help you with?" McLemore asked (querulous—the customer must be loitering at the front desk).
"Yes, actually. I was wondering if you happened to employ a young woman by the name of Hermione Granger." She did not gasp, for which she mentally patted herself on the back. Instead, she crept forwards to the front of Art History. If she leaned out just a bit she'd be able to look out at the front from behind McLemore. She leaned.
"Granger, you say? Hmm…" McLemore appeared to be staring at the ceiling, tapping at the counter with his pencil. Hermione could imagine the look on his face: lips pursed, practically sneering at anyone who interrupted his crossword. Well, serves him right, coming looking for her.
She let her eyes drift upwards, to the offending customer. For a moment they may have made contact, but she couldn't be sure. His eyes were immediately downcast, studying the counter. He looked much the same, for all that a black trench had replaced the robes.
"I see the name doesn't ring a bell. Thank you," he said abruptly, turning smartly on his heel and sweeping to the door before McLemore can summon an answer. The man could sweep. A born thespian, if she'd ever seen one.
"Bastard. Like I would have told you anything," McLemore hissed before turning back to his crossword.
Hermione returned to SciFi/Mys and hunkered down among the books. Thank anyone who was listening for McLemore and his fussing. What did it matter if he'd maybe (possibly, not terribly likely) seen her. He couldn't very well stake out the store.
Hermione pushed open the door of her flat and flicked on the light. The clean, if somewhat bare, living room of her tiny apartment (closet, really, if she was being honest) greeted her. He had not been waiting for her outside the shop, nor had any dark men stalked her through the grocer's. She dropped a bag of groceries, mostly frozen dinners, on the kitchen counter and, with much more care, placed a bottle of red wine beside it.
It was a matter of a step to turn on the stereo, and another to open the freezer and shove the food in it. Then she tackled the breakfast dishes which had been building over several days and were threatening a hostile takeover of the range top. When the last dish had been soaped, scalded, and left drying on the rack, Hermione poured herself a glass of the red wine and settled on the loveseat.
"Happy two year anniversary, indeed," she said and sipped deeply from the glass. A swell of violins filled the silence after her, working on the ancient orders of both Bach and narrative need.
The swell fell, the sip ended, and Hermione Granger was left behind, stranded on the couch. A pyramid of books was piled neatly on the coffee table. Flaubert and Camus, Tolstoy and Joyce, all with ragged slips of paper jammed between the pages, marking time. She ignored the neat pyramid, reaching instead to the floor and slightly under the couch for a dog-eared Kate Atkinson novel. The book flopped open obediently near her last stop, it's back long since broken.
One more gulp drained the wine glass, and she brought the bottle in from the kitchen along with half a bag of crisps before settling down. A fresh glass poured, she curled herself up against the armrest and brought her knees up, cradling the book in her lap. Hermione leaned her head against the couch cushion, and read on. Three glasses of wine and six chapters later, she was asleep.
She woke at six the next morning, startled by the unholy combination of garbage collection and bright sunlight. Staggering slightly, Hermione unfolded cramped limbs and dropped the Atkinson back to the floor, nudging it under the couch with her foot. Coincidentally, she also nudged the wine bottle, which tipped over onto the carpet with a "glug."
"Bugger," she sighed, and procured soda water and a cloth from the kitchen. Half an hour later she was still dabbing at it, soaking up the last of the stain, when there was a knock at the door.
"Who in hell is paying visits at this hour?" she grumbled to herself, half-heartedly attempting to pat down her hair with the wine rag. She drew back the bolts and opened up the door.
"Good morning, Ms. Granger. You're looking quite as...frizzy as I remembered. May I come in?"
This time, she could not help but gasp. "Professor Snape?"
"Mr. Snape will be sufficient. I have not been a professor for several years. Now, Ms. Granger, would you stop gaping and invite me in? There are some pressing matters we need to discuss," Snape said. He crossed his arms and stared down at her and sniffed. "My, my, Ms. Granger. It's a bit early for a drink, isn't it?" And he smiled down at her, not at all pleasantly.
"Like hell I'm doing this now. Call me when you're ready to be civil," she snapped and slammed the door shut, throwing the bolt with a statisfying clunk. She leaned her back against it and took several deep breaths. A hot shower. Yes, a hot shower was just what she needed. She threw the rag on the kitchen counter and padded into the bathroom, wishing (not for the first time) that she could still hex someone.