A Little Light Reading

"Go and get laid..."

Hermione raked her hands through her hair, which she regretted when they snagged on tangles and stung her scalp. It was amazing how he could tell her to go and sleep with someone in the same tone as he would tell her to go and buy some milk. As if it were easy to go and find someone to sleep with, especially as she had never done such a thing before. Not that she was discrediting his advice entirely; now that she thought of it, sex would probably help a bit as far as getting some physical satisfaction went, and it might even help her move on emotionally, but she simply wasn't sure how to go about doing it. Dating simply hadn't been a major part of her life; there had been Viktor and then Ron; just two boys who had asked her out, no seduction efforts required.

Well, not exactly, but she decided that the incident with Cormac McLaggen was to be relegated to the "embarrassing mistakes" section of her memory and didn't really count. In any case, the sorts of men-related skills that other girls seemed to acquire during their teenage years were not in Hermione's prodigious resume.

Two months ago, she could have Flooed Ginny and asked her about what to wear and say and other such things, but that was clearly out of the question now.

She sighed. Fretting wasn't going to improve the situation, whereas reading might provide comfort, if not actual assistance.

Wait... assistance... I know! Hermione whirled and plunged down the second aisle from the right, heading for a small, specialized section near the back, which was so potentially dangerous that she had to keep it strongly warded. Quickly, she muttered the countercharms which allowed her to pass through and saw the slight shimmer that signaled the wards splitting and opening to let her in. Stepping inside, she sealed it behind her--she did not want a customer seeing her in here as they browsed--and turned to regard the two shelves of books before her.

The Ancientte ande Moste Potente Kama Sutra; Potions for the Heart and Associated Organs; A Treatise on Bondage and Related Spells... This was the love and sex section, but it went far past any similar sections in stores like Flourish and Blotts. The watered-down, vaguely amusing versions of the Kama Sutra that were sold to the general public looked like children's picture books next to the one she had; it was not only very old, but it was written by Indian wizards. The positions in it were physically impossible without the use of the spells that went with them; some of them were actually dangerous for the participants, as well as anyone within a ten-meter radius. There were love potions that surpassed Amortentia the way Ferraris surpassed Volvos, which had to be sealed in steel vials and stored under two feet of enchanted ice water to prevent nearby persons from being affected. In the darker books, there were pain/pleasure spells, as well as various objects of a similar nature; there was even one spell, in the Erotinomicon, that literally caused the victim to climax again and again, without any physical stimulation, until their bodies gave out and died.

It was a long shot that she would find anything helpful to her quandary, but it was as good a place to start as any. Hermione selected a few likely-looking tomes and settled down on the floor to read.

It was several hours later when the bell on the door jingled, alerting her to a customer. Hastily, Hermione replaced the books (one of which was still moaning from being touched) and slid out of the warded area, knowing that it would automatically seal itself up behind her. Hopefully, her face wasn't too flushed – being magical, all the pictures in the books moved, and she definitely felt a need to change her knickers after reading them for a while.

"Hello!" she said brightly as she rounded the corner of the aisle. "How may I help you?"

The man leaning on the counter turned to her and gave her a warm, toothy smile, taking off his fedora as he did so. Hermione was surprised at how dapper he was; her customers tended to be swathed in yards of black robes or wearing mismatched Muggle clothing. Stylishly cut business robes such as he wore were very rare.

A long arm was extended towards her as she approached. Hermione took the hand attached to it and was treated to a limp, dry handshake as he introduced himself.

"Hello, I'm Tiburos Flourish, the new owner of Flourish and Blotts. You must be Hermione Granger."

"Yes, I am, and it's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Flourish. Are you--er--the late Mr. Flourish's son?" she inquired politely, looking up at him as she disengaged her hand.

"Actually, I'm his nephew, but I was the only living relative who wanted the shop, and I intend to carry on as though he had been my father. Speaking of carrying on," he continued, waving away her attempt at condolences with a long hand, "I was wondering if you would like to come and have a drink with me tonight. I want to discuss the future of bookselling in Diagon Alley with you."

Hermione blinked, taken aback at the unexpected invitation. "Oh... Well, that's very kind of you, Mr. Flourish, but--," she began. Snape's parting words to her rose unbidden in her mind. "But... Yes."

"Didn't quite catch that, Miss Granger."

"Yes, Mr. Flourish, I would like to have a drink with you tonight." After all, he wasn't bad looking, and he seemed nice enough. If she slept with him, it probably wouldn't be too bad, and if she didn't, the evening would not be a total waste. Besides, Hermione had just spent a few hours researching for a situation much like this one, and she was not one to let information go unused.

He smiled widely and replaced his hat on his head. "Lovely," he said. "Can you meet me at the Three Broomsticks at seven?" At her nod, he smiled even wider and exited, leaving Hermione trying to figure out what she had to wear.

There was little business that afternoon. Hermione puttered about the store, arranging books, taking stock, and checking her finances as she considered the happenings of the past day and a half. She smiled when she pictured Ron's expression if he knew that she was taking Snape's advice on sex; no doubt he would have got her installed in St. Mungo's had she suggested such a thing.

At five-thirty, Hermione locked up the store, taking care to set the protective wards on it, and Apparated to her London flat to change. Apparition was the best way to get there; having selected a home based on price, Hermione had ended up in one of the more dicey neighborhoods. The flat itself was fine, a small studio with a kitchen and loo, plus a crate that she had Transfigured into a bathtub, but she did not relish the idea of walking there.

After hanging her purse on a hook and taking off her shoes, Hermione opened her wardrobe and regarded its meager contents with her hands on her hips. Running a small bookshop did not exactly rake in the Galleons, and in any case, clothing had never been high on her purchasing priority list. There were casual Muggle clothes, plain and dress robes, and a few Muggle dresses, which, from what she knew, were a bit out of style. Quite frankly, even if she'd had an entire Selfridge's to choose from, Hermione felt her predicament would not have changed much--she still wasn't sure what was appropriate for that night. The way Flourish had said it, this was about business, and she didn't want him to think she was trying to seduce him, but she was in search of sex. True, the sex didn't have to happen tonight, but he was good-looking, and she remembered there were no rings on his hands. His very long, delicate hands. Rather like Snape's, come to think of it, though without the strength and roughness that came from years of working with them. Even when Snape had been horrid to her and her friends, she had always thought he had beautiful hands...

Hermione shook her head sharply, trying to clear out the images of Snape's hands that had appeared, and returned her focus to clothes. At last, she decided that business came first, and so she picked out a set of dark blue robes: nicer than her black ones, but not unusually so. Her jeans and shirt were dumped in the laundry basket as she stripped; she debated for a minute before swapping her plain cotton bra and knickers for black lace. No sense being unprepared. With a comb and Sleakeazey's, she wrestled her hair into a not-completely-hedge-like ponytail.

Her preparations finished, Hermione fixed herself a light dinner--she wasn't sure if food was included in "have a drink with me"--and buried her nose in the first book that came to hand--Sense and Sensibility, as it turned out. When her clock chimed seven, she marked her place, grabbed her purse, and Disapparated, hoping all the while for a bit of good luck.

* * *

Severus had never particularly liked his name as a youth, even when it wasn't being converted to Snivellus, but at least he wasn't christened Rodion Raskolnikov. It sounded like a skin disease, one that itched.

The book Granger had sold to him was fascinating in spite of the protagonist's name, and Severus was starting to realize what might have prompted that young woman to choose it for him. He understood feeling as though the world was full of idiots who were nothing more than a waste of space, and he knew all too well what remorse for killing a person could do. It occurred to him that Granger might have sympathy for such feelings; a person as intelligent as she must have felt frustrated with the shortcomings of others, especially the idiots she'd associated with. As for the other matter, well... she had killed Greyback and Macnair at the final battle. Killing two people at age eighteen was affecting, even if they were despicable men who would have raped, tortured and eventually killed her without the slightest twinge of remorse.

Remorse. Was that what she was trying to tell him with this novel? That his actions, from dooming the Potters to tormenting Granger, would come back to him in some way? Severus took a sip of mulled mead as he considered that thought, but he eventually dismissed it. She knew why he had protected the-Boy-Who-Lived-to-Drive-Him-Mad for so long, so presumably she was aware that remorse had kept him going for almost twenty years.

Half a pint of mead later, Severus was scanning the Three Broomsticks for a waitress to refill his glass when the woman who had been occupying his thoughts entered the pub with a man. Apparently she had taken his half-serious suggestion to heart, for the man was fairly good-looking and well dressed. Severus watched from his half-hidden corner table as they sat down and ordered drinks. Though he couldn't hear what she was saying, Granger was talking animatedly to the man, her hands gesturing in what looked like a mime of wandwork. The man looked a bit glazed behind his mask of attentiveness; Severus could have told him that the only way to deal with the know-it-all was to head her off before she got too much momentum up.

Using Crime and Punishment as a cover for his gaze, Severus watched the pair. Drinks had arrived, which shut her up long enough to give the man an opportunity to speak. He was leaning forward with his arms propped on the table, fingers laced together. In between sentences, he flashed a wide grin that reminded Severus of a shark.

As he watched and the man talked, a change came over Granger. No longer was she exuberant and animated; she was sitting abnormally straight, and from what he could see, her arms were now crossed over her chest. Once or twice her bushy ponytail bounced as she shook her head vehemently at something the man said. If this was a date, then Severus was fairly certain that it was not going well. He saw it in the man as well; the wide grin was fading, to be replaced by an iron-jawed look of determination. Was Ganger refusing his advances, perhaps?

"Excuse me?" Shrill and angry, Granger's voice suddenly cut through the general hubbub of the Three Broomsticks, making the rest of the patrons go quiet and turn to look towards her.

"Miss Granger, please, calm down," said the man hastily, glancing at the now-attentive patrons with chagrin.

"Calm down? You invite me to come and talk about business with you and then pull out this self-serving bollocks, and you want me to calm down?" Chair legs scraped across the floor as the young woman stood, her fists clenched at her sides. Severus gave up all pretenses of reading and leaned forward to watch the show. Schadenfreude was such fun.

"It was a business proposition, Miss Granger, and one I'm sure you'll find to be reasonable once you've thought it over," said the man as he reached--very slowly--for his fedora, which was on the table next to him. Behind the bar, Severus noticed that Rosmerta had surreptitiously drawn her wand and was eyeing the couple, probably trying to gauge whether intervention would be needed to avoid injuries. The ability to judge such things was one of the few skills shared by bartenders and teachers.

It was quiet enough in the pub for Severus to hear her snort of disdain. "I have better things to think about, Mr. Flourish. Please leave." She didn't move as Flourish stood and placed his hat on his head, but Severus saw her stiffen as he dropped a few Sickles on the table. His quiet, "My treat, Miss Granger. Good night," hung in the silence as he made his way to the door and left.

Satisfied that the entertainment was over, Severus went back to his book and his mead. Whatever Granger had been hoping to get out of that man, or him from her, it clearly hadn't been successful. If her recent behavior was anything to go by, she would likely go back to her precious bookstore, or simply to some secluded nook, and cry about being let down and betrayed. There would probably be reading involved.

With that idea in mind, it was surprising when the woman in question dropped into the empty chair across from him about twenty minutes later and slammed a half-full glass of firewhisky on the table, startling him.

"This," she said, giving him a fierce, albeit not quite focused, glare, "is all your responsibili-lil-ity, Severush Snape."