Part Six

Hermione,

If this is the sort of correspondence exchanged by "friends," I now know why I have none. Of what possible use is this trivial information? Due to your "sloshed" condition, which you shouldn't be by the time this reaches you, I shall indulge your request for this drivel.

I prefer Ogden's and if forced – red.

Fiction is a waste of time, therefore non.

Suspense or comedy what? Plays? As I've never attended any, I have no preference.

I am indeed a potion maker, and I am aware you manage the book store.

Fun. What a strange little word. I don't believe I have "fun."

I enjoy experimenting with Potions. There is nothing more satisfying than making something no one else ever has or possibly ever will again.

I enjoy a good glass of brandy on a rainy night as long as there's a hearty fire nearby. I occasionally enjoy a cigar along with the brandy if I'm of a mood. Add one of my nonfiction books, especially if it's one I been waiting for, and I am almost content.

Is this what you mean by fun?

My childhood was too long ago and too short to contemplate what might have been in my dreams. By the time I reached my teens, my course was set with no detours allowed.

Do you require a hangover potion to keep on hand?

As ever,

Simon,

While I may not be a potion maker by profession, I am fully capable of making my own cauldron full of hangover relief... or running out to an apothecary in the early morning hours before I'm supposed to be at work.

As to the sort of correspondence between friends, I'm afraid that in your case I'm not all that sure. You see, the other people that I write to are all people that I know, or knew, in person before we began exchanging letters. I didn't have to ask them "getting to know you" questions, because I already knew them.

You, my friend, are a bit of a blank page. I know next to nothing about you, other than you can make me laugh and you can make me want to rip my own hair out (followed quickly by yours), sometimes in the same sentence. I understand from reading your earlier letters that you aren't the type to open up to just anyone, and I don't mean to pry into delicate things – and feel free to tell me if I'm being too inquisitive, but it is my nature – which leaves me with the inconsequential questions one might ask to get to know someone else.

For instance, I generally do not make a habit of drinking, but when I do I prefer something with a hint of a fruity flavor. The one and only time I tried Ogden's, I ended up spitting up most of it and couldn't feel my tongue for ten minutes. As you may have noticed, I get chatty when I'm tipsy, which is the main reason I tend not to drink around strangers.

I'll read anything put in front of me, but I have a special fondness for romantic fiction. I can almost picture you sneering right about now. You probably don't want to know what face I'm making.

As far as what I would define as "fun," anything that one finds enjoyable, I suspect. Even if that enjoyment comes from a fine brandy, a good cigar, and a better book. Change the brandy to a glass of cocoa and the cigar to a bubble bath, and you've got the recipe for one of my favorite kinds of evenings. I'd suggest you give it a try, but you don't seem the bubble bath type.

Are you still in a place where you're not allowed any detours? Or is that a question I shouldn't have asked?

Hermione,

You were wrong. I didn't sneer.

I sighed.

Every woman, many that are far, far older than you, seem to prefer romantic fiction. It puzzles me.

Are all women that anxious – in some instances I might use the word desperate – to make themselves a slave of some man? To bear his children, cook for them all and clean from dawn to dusk? I have lost count of the brilliant minds I've seen wander down that path because they think, or have been brainwashed to think, that is what is expected of them.

You haven't mentioned your – shall I call it affiliation? – with one of your classmates. It was bandied about for quite some time that you would be making a match of it. Are you already a Weasley in everything but name, Hermione?

From what I know of Molly Weasley, she's a fine wife and mother. Graduated from Hogwarts, tied the knot with Arthur and spent the remainder of her life popping out one child after another. There are those who would say she's happy that way. I wouldn't know as I've never had the opportunity to ask.

You do.

Before you jump into the holy pit of matrimony, make sure it's what you want.

As far as detours, my road is my own now, so I may take as many, or as few as I like. In case you haven't guessed, I'm not and never have been married.

I'm not a blank page, merely a closed book. One that is particular about its readers. Nothing you have asked thus far is too delicate or intrusive, and if you do, you won't receive an answer.

No, I'm not the type to take bubble baths. Would you have preferred bubbles to salts? If so, I will endeavor to develop one, since you spurn my hangover potion.

As ever,

Simon,

There is more to romance than marriage and indentured servitude. I think that you would find, should you ever bother to look, that a majority of romantic fiction tends to focus more on the building of a relationship, a romance, if you will, than on ten years down the line after the vows have been spoken and all that. We read for the escape, for the chance to picture ourselves in the heroine's place, being wooed and seduced by the man of our dreams. For a few short hours we are witty, attractive and desirable, and that can make facing the harsh realities of the real world just a tad bit easier the next day.

Molly Weasley is a wonderful woman, wife and mother, and as you do not know her personally, I do not feel comfortable discussing her any further with you.

After such a scathing denouncement of married life, I should inform you that I am, in fact, quite happily married, and let you be the first to offer congratulations on the upcoming birth of little Junior.

However, I shall, instead, say that I am not currently romantically involved with anyone – that would include Ronald Weasley, who is a topic I would prefer not be discussed for now, thank you – but if I were, you can rest assured that I would be no man's slave if I ever did find the one that I wish to spend the rest of my life with. That does not mean that I won't cook for him, should the urge strike (and he is willing to take his life into his own hands by eating whatever monstrosity I set before him), or clean the house (I do prefer that everything be tidy and put away for my own peace of mind), but I have demands of my own that I shall want fulfilled in return: foot rubs, uninterrupted reading time and –

And the rest of that list would be more than you would care to read, I'm sure.

Have you ever taken a bubble bath? If you haven't, how do you know you wouldn't enjoy it? I dare you to set aside an hour one evening and give it a try, but be sure to protect your book against the water first.

You've already spoiled me with the scent and bath salts, so I should tell you not to bother with bubbles, but I won't as I'm feeling particularly greedy of late.

Speaking of baths, I've got a date with a good book and a hot tub, so I shall bring this letter to a close.

Hermione

Hermione,

Your blasted bubble bath exploded and ruined three other potions in my lab today, young lady. Needless to say, it's not quite ready yet, nor am I of a mind to bathe in it.

From the things you've said in your letters, I'm of the opinion you're a hopeless romantic. I should warn you, I'm not a romantic – at all.

I've thumbed through a romantic fiction or two in my time, and the pictures painted by the authors are totally unrealistic. Heaving bosoms, panting heroes arriving in the nick of time to forestall whatever calamity is in the works (sometimes those roles are reversed and the heroine is the savior), true love and happiness ever after (sometimes delayed by a tragic misunderstanding), is the standard recipe the last time I looked. Has it changed?

I've delayed responding to it as long as I can, for I do not wish to end our friendship. Read my warning again about being a romantic, for I've read your post script more times than I care to remember, and I do not tease. In order for there to be no misunderstandings between us, you need to know the following. It matters not one iota to me if you are trapped in a happy or unhappy marriage. You seem to possess something fairly rare in this day and age: an intelligent brain. I merely hate to see it wasted.

As ever,

Simon

Hermione,

You have lightly touched upon several things during your previous letters that I have let pass by without comment. I choose to comment on them now.

You say you understand that I'm not a romantic and that it matters not. You also say you prefer "harsh truth." The following are mine.

I am forty years old. Old enough to be your father, not old enough to be your grandfather. From my age you surely understand that I was alive during the Dark Lord's first reign of power, so do not take what I say lightly.

I allowed you to believe that I did not personally know Molly Weasley. I did for a time know her, but I did not invade her privacy to ask her if she was content with her lot in life. She was an extraordinary witch who, in my opinion, wasted her life raising a mob of children who inherited their father's scatterbrained wits. Have you never noticed how effortlessly she casts her magic? How she manages that household of insanity?

I understand she felled Bellatrix Lestrange. The Dark Lord's favorite. One of his strongest soldiers.

That alone should tell you Molly is not one to be trifled with. What could she have done, accomplished, if her apron strings had not been thoroughly tied around her waist?

You indicated you tried to tell people about the dangers of "this" happening again. People are fated to repeat history's mistakes. There was possibly one person who could have prevented the Dark Lord's reign of terror.

Dumbledore.

He's the one who brought Tom Riddle to Hogwarts. Watched him as he grew into his powers. Surely if anyone could see the potential for evil, he could have.

I had to stop and walk about the room before I decided to assure you of this. I knew Dumbledore. I didn't know him as well as I thought I did, and that became obvious the more I knew him.

Many call him "the greatest wizard." I call him "the great manipulator" because he was.

People were not "people" to him. They were chessmen to be placed where and when he needed them in the battle with the Dark Lord. Nor were they allowed to know "too much." Knowledge was parceled out sparingly and quite grudgingly.

How many lives were lost needlessly because the great and wise Dumbledore had his plan all mapped out and didn't want one of his chess pieces to upset the balance? I say this unwillingly, because I am a cold hearted bastard at the best of times, I was appalled at some of the tactics he employed.

His heart wasn't merely cold. It was made of stone. It had to be.

Now you know why I warned you. I am not, never have been, and never will be a romantic. Life is too short for daydreams when your only reward is nightmares.

Simon

Simon,

I may not have been alive during You-Know-Who's first reign, but I am very aware of the devastation his return caused. I was witness to Molly Weasley – sweet, motherly Molly Weasley – casting the Unforgivable, gathering hate and darkness into her heart to power the most final of the curses. I was there the night that she lost her son. I was there the night that Colin Creevey, Remus Lupin, Professor Snape and so many others died because of a mad man and his followers. I was eighteen years old, fighting for my life against witches and wizards who had been harnessing Dark magics since before I was born, and I was outclassed and extremely lucky that I didn't join the others in death that night.

You speak of Dumbledore's chessmen; I was one of his pieces. Perhaps not a pawn – I suspect I was too valuable to be sacrificed too early; Harry needed my stability to complete the task he had been given. A rook, I think. Yes, that seems to fit. But I harbor no illusion that the moment my usefulness came to an end, the moment I was no longer necessary in Dumbledore's great plan, I would have been tossed to the wind. Do you have any idea what sort of protections were put in place to keep my Muggle family safe? The defenseless parents of Harry Potter's Mudblood friend?

None. Not a single one. I had to do it on my own, protect them the only way I could think of, and now they hate me for what I did.

But they're still alive when so many others are not, so I consider it to be a worthy sacrifice.

I believe I have earned the right to a few daydreams now and then if I choose, if it helps me get through another night without screaming myself awake as I witness the life draining out of someone, again and again, helpless to save him, helpless to do anything but silently cry and bite back the bile crawling up my throat.

What of you, Simon? You talk of his first reign, but where were you during the second? You called him the Dark Lord, a habit of his followers. That's something you might want to watch in the future, my friend. Others may not be as willing to overlook something like that; luckily, you're exchanging letters with a "romantic" Pollyanna, correct? Having read your words on Dumbledore, I'm inclined to believe that you were privy to some of his plans at one point or another. Manipulative as he was, I doubt he would have freely given information to someone he did not trust, which is the only thing that has me writing this letter now.

Dinner with Peabody was quite successful. Not only was I able to procure that additional book for you, a feat in and of itself, but I managed to confuse the man considerably when I mentioned your name. I was attempting to distract him from inquiring about my plans for the rest of the evening, and I'm afraid I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. I suppose I should apologize for that.

It seems he has no clue who you are, or how you may know him. At first, I assumed you were merely friends with the late grandfather and had never met the younger Peabody. But then your letter arrived, and with it the nightmares, and suddenly I had many hours in the dead of night with which to stare at the ceiling and think.

Who are you, Simon?

I can tell you who you aren't. You aren't a forty-year-old potion maker named Simon Sopohorous. I've done my research this time. There is a Sopohorous in the Potions field but he is far too old to be you, as you keep reminding me.

A grandson, perhaps, trying to make a living and needing to use the name and reputation of your relative to break into the business?

Or do you have another reason to hide behind another man's name?

Just tell me one thing, Simon; let me see it in print so that I can ease my mind and move on, one way or another.

I did what I did that night for Harry, not for the Wizarding World, not for Dumbledore, but for Harry and Ron and myself and to just put an end to the exhaustion and death before I finally broke down and collapsed.

When Voldemort fell, whose side were you on? His, Dumbledore's, or yours?

Hermione,

Who am I?

Whose "side" was I on?

It's not that simple, Hermione.

The sad truth is... I no longer know.

In my youth I took the Dark Lord's mark. The Dark Lord destroyed the only thing I've ever loved, leaving behind a shell.

Dumbledore took that shell and filled it with his purpose. It was a terrible purpose in its own right. I did not know this until almost the end.

My task is now complete. Dumbledore is dead. The Dark Lord is dead. And I am again left as a shell.

Who am I?

I am Simon.

A forty-year-old potion maker who wishes merely to live out the rest of his life in peace.

As always,

Oh, Simon,

You remind me so much of – of someone who was lost years ago. Too much.

There are things I should do with the recent information I've learned, but in honor of that man's sacrifice, I won't. Not unless I'm given reason to regret my decision.

I hope you understand what I'm trying to say; I've found that subtlety is not one of my strong suits. If not, or if I am mistaken, this won't make a bit of sense, but if I'm correct...

Regardless, you are Simon. Forty-year-old potion maker. And my friend.