Part Five

Simon,

Three books will be delivered this afternoon; your account will be debited tomorrow barring any issues.

Since your warning about Peabody and his intentions proved valid, I shall return the favor with a warning of my own – the sensational rubbish you may have read or heard in the media about the "trio" is just that, rubbish. For every fact printed, there are half a dozen lies.

Respectfully,

Simon,

As it is the end of the month I wish I had more progress to report. With any luck, there will be better prospects to discuss next month.

There are many things I could suggest that might be of benefit to Mister Peabody, his roaming hands, his inappropriate tongue and his rampant libido; however, as I would prefer to remain employed for the foreseeable future, and as I will be meeting with him at least once more to finish negotiations for the last of the lot, it would be best if I kept them to myself.

Please don't let my silence keep you from bestowing a gift upon anyone you might choose.

I don't know what may have happened in the past to sour you against the press, but I cannot say I disagree with you. On this point, at least.

As a matter of fact, I have realized over the last few days that I don't know a great many things about you, whereas you appear to "know" much about myself. My life, as they say, has been something of an open book, and once again it has put me at a disadvantage.

The feeling unsettles me, and I'm afraid that I have let that unease color my earlier interaction with you.

I have enough books for now. Do not fret over them too much. If they are to be found – they will be found.

I will try to tell you a little of myself, but there's something you need to understand. My life – such as it is – has been anything but an open book. It should come as no surprise that I am somewhat guarded when it comes to the members of the press or anyone else for that matter. Stupid decisions on my part, and a bit of circumstance, forced duplicity upon me at a young age. It's become the habit of a lifetime. One I'm not even tempted to change, really.

It has allowed me to survive, and while I'm not shouting it from the rooftops – I'm still breathing. Still putting one foot in front of the other and still – still living – which is much more than too many can say.

My needs are simple. My wants, other than the list you have, are few. In a nutshell, I am a boring old fart who spends the greatest majority of his time alone with a chicken who pretends to be a falcon.

As ever,

I hope you don't think this too forward of me; I am aware that our strange correspondence began out of a business relationship – if one would call it that – rather than any desire on either of our parts to gain a pen pal, but I find myself writing your name far more often than necessary to discuss your list. Over the last few months I have begun to look forward reading your letters. Yes, even the rude ones.

I am aware that you are much older than I, but I think that we may have more in common than one might expect. Our letters of late have been rather more than those between mere bookstore manager and customer; at least, that is the way it appears to my eyes. If I am incorrect or am misreading the situation, please feel free to tell me so, but I have come to think of you as somewhat of a friend.

If you do not mind, if it's not too inappropriate, I should like to continue to write to you – when there is something worth sharing to write about, of course, as I would not wish to waste your time or mine – from my home rather than from the store. Your twice monthly updates will still come from Marks and Sons, but as most of my work correspondence is kept on file and there have already been some things written that I would prefer be kept out of the quarterly reviews...

There are times when I wish I could remain guarded rather than telegraphing my thoughts and feelings for all the world to see – the most recent example would be the above paragraphs where I just opened myself up for what may be one hell of a nasty rebuff and a potential calling on the carpet by my employers after they hear what I've done. Which, I can assure you, is not something I've done before now; I don't just randomly accost anyone who writes Marks and Sons looking to purchase something via owl order. I'm still not sure how this came about, why I didn't just tell you to take a long walk off of a short pier upon receiving your second, and rather rude, letter. Perhaps I have a well hidden masochistic streak that even I was unaware of?

On that note, it grows late and I need to send this before I think better of it.

Your friend,

Hermione,

It has taken several days for me to be able to absorb and admit this. You are correct. I do consider you what could possibly be termed – friend.

Do not take offense at my wording. I have had acquaintances, colleagues, superiors, enemies and even business associates. Until now, I don't believe I've ever had a friend of any age in the last twenty or so years. I did have one once. A childhood friend who died before her time.

Before you start feeling sorry for this old fart, you should also know it was mostly by my choice. Friends invite confidences, trust and too many other stumbling blocks on the path I'd been set.

If, indeed, you did not continue to write, the days would be less bright than they've become, the nights a little longer, and though I am loath to admit it, I would miss your correspondence greatly.

Age is a perception of the young, really. I don't feel any different than I did when I was your age. I do think I've learned some harsh lessons and am finally wise enough to know I've still more to learn. Since age does not show on paper – what does it matter?

As ever – your friend,

Simon

Simon,

Those days between the sending of my note and the arrival of yours found me in a near constant state of morbid anticipation. The longer you remained silent, the more I managed to convince myself that you were offended, were planning to take your business elsewhere, and were just taking your time to choose the perfect wording for your scathing reply that would put me in my place.

Needless to say, I am rather relieved that this was not the case. Considering the way most of my staff immediately find something else to do far across the building the moment your Yorick makes an appearance, the chances of anyone else reading such a missive would be extremely slim, thereby saving me some embarrassment, but it was still something I wasn't looking forward to.

You said age is a perception of the young, and I would have to argue with that. At the very least, it is not only the young who concern themselves with physical age and sometimes overlook emotional maturity. I can not think of a single time where I have thought to myself "I can not do this, I'm simply not old enough," but I distinctly remember being told I was too young by many of my elders. Don't even get me started on the idiocy that comes with being eighteen, somehow managing to survive that final battle at Hogwarts when so many fell, to witness so much... only to be told that I was too young to properly understand what had happened, that I needed to be coddled and reassured that nothing like this would ever happen again, that no one important had the time to listen to the words of a child when she tried to warn them that it could happen again if we weren't prepared to learn from the past. Yes, I had been through a lot, more than most, but it all came down to the fact that I was still only eighteen years old.

It would appear that I still hold a bit of bitterness in my heart for that. Perhaps I've just grown cynical in my not-so-old age.

I only meant to argue one small point, and I've managed to run off on a drawn-out tangent, haven't I?

Consider yourself lucky you only have to read my ramblings; I've been told I can get quite caught up in things when I speak.

Tell Yorick that while I don't keep mice in the flat, I have some biscuits that he may like. I was given the recipe by a customer who raises owls and other birds of prey, and Leontes adores them. If Yorick is willing to stick around on his next delivery, he is more than welcome to try one.

Hermione,

I tell you this not to stir pity in your heart, but to give you the other perspective. Would it surprise you to find you are envied? Not for the trials you've suffered through, but the care and concern shown you later. The bit of bitterness in your heart at the "coddling" you received would be a mere wisp of smoke compared to the blaze I hold in my own for the lack of it.

Which would you rather have held in your heart?

Simon

Simon,

I apologize for the briefness of the mid-month update yesterday, but we were in the midst of a store-wide inventory.

Needless to say, from the moment I stepped foot in the building until I left – two hours later than usual the last three nights alone – there has barely been a moment to sit, much less take the time to pen long, or even medium sized, notes.

Luckily, inventory is done for several months, and I'm home and able to put my feet up, finally.

Yorick seemed to like the biscuit, although I was hesitant to actually hand it to him. His beak is a bit intimidating. He didn't look too offended when I sort of put it on the table and slid it in his direction. I'm not sure he knew what to make of my cat; it was the first time he's stuck around long enough to see Crookshanks.

I suspect you have a point about the coddling I received. As much as I may bluster in irritation at the treatment, I don't know what I would have done if no one had cared or shown concern. I suspect it would have hurt far worse, at the very least I think I would have been tempted to turn my back on all of it.

And that, I think, is enough of that.

I don't want to write of sad things; I'm tired and frustrated and slightly sloshed...

Red wine or white?

Suspense or comedy? Fiction or nonfiction?

I already know you are a Potions maker, and you know I manage a bookstore, but what do you do for fun? I read, no surprise there. But I bet you didn't know that I also knit. Sometimes while I'm reading!

What I really want to do is write, though. It's something I've always wanted to do, even more than being the Prime Minister or a ballerina or a professor at Hogwarts.

What did you want to be when you grew up, Simon?