Chrestomathy: a collection of selected literary passages.
May 23, 1975
With the street fair came the first succulent taste of summer. Sun intense enough to be called hot blazed in a clear cerulean sky. Children ran barefoot in the grass, couples strolled hand-in-hand among the exuberant vendors, and even the fussiest old ladies settled by their families beneath fanning trees to wait out the festivities were coaxed out of their cardigans. Paper banners spanned the roads, fluttering in the warm breeze, and the enticing sent of hot, fried food and sticky, sugary things swirled in the lively atmosphere.
Megan Granger made yet another lap of the crowded main thoroughfare, her keen, coffee-brown eyes sweeping the faces that swam past her searchingly. But the eager, slightly frazzled form of her husband was not among them. She heaved a sigh and sank down onto a cement bench, too hot to move another step.
She had thought that once she gave in and married him, her long-time love and even-longer-time friend would actually manage to keep the dates they set. Especially dates set to celebrate her birthday. Of course, it wasn't technically Megan Granger's birthday. It had been on Wednesday, but both had been so buried in work that it was something of a relief not to have to do anything special. They had agreed to save that for today. And her husband was an hour late.
Megan caught sight of a tall, gangly man in a pinstriped apron across the way who kept pulling deliciously sticky-looking buns out of a cart, and had just made up her mind to get her hands on one when someone hurtled past her. He skidded to halt in front of a startled group of gossiping women (accidentally spraying one with gravel), and backtracked to plant himself firmly in front of Megan.
"Paul!" she cried, startled by his sudden appearance. "Where on earth have you been? I've been around the fair half a dozen times!"
She fixed him with a sterner look than usual because it was her make-up birthday and the first big occasion since their wedding in January and honestly he should have learned how to keep time by now.
"I'm sorry," Paul panted, bent double. He had never been an athletic man and, having realized his lateness, had run at full tilt from the car park at least a mile down the road.
"Yes, well," Megan said, folding her arms. But her expression had softened. "Buy me a cinnamon bun and I'll forgive you."
Paul sank onto the bench beside her, still red-faced and puffing, but inexplicably beaming.
"I'll do one better than that," he managed breathlessly.
For the first time, Megan noticed the brown paper bag he clutched in his hands. He turned to the table behind them and tipped it upside down. A leather-bound book slid onto the concrete slab with a soft thump that could scarcely be heard in the chaos of the fair. Megan gasped quietly at the curly, gold title, the crackling, gold-edged pages. It was more beautiful to her than any diamond or work of metal.
"Oh, Paul, it's lovely!" she said happily, carefully picking it up and thumbing through it eagerly, completely forgetting her decision to be annoyed with her husband for at least another ten minutes.
"Thought you'd like it," Paul grinned. "The complete works of William Shakespeare. Isn't he your favorite?"
Megan smiled, leaning down to kiss her husband, but hugging the book to her chest as if it were her first born. "Might be."
A/N: There aren't an excessive number of stories dealing with Hermione's parents, primarily I think because JKR gives us absolutely nothing to go on. They don't even have names or descriptions or any kind of importance, thus are not particularly interesting to read about. But who else in the world of Harry Potter could claim a word like this, hm? :)
Oh yes, and a shout out goes to Imp, who, last I heard, was on chapter 80, but troubled themselves to leave me a lovely long review for as many of the chapters as they could remember, which is impressive given that there were EIGHTY. :) Thank you!