Authors note: Hello all! This little gem came to me the other night and I just had to get it out. I hope you enjoy it!

~C.B.~

***Tomes***

Some call me crazy. Others just call me Hermione.

Why crazy? What other witch do you know that would open a muggle bookshop on the outskirts of Hogsmead? None thank you very much. Don't get me wrong, I do also carry the normal school books required of the little dumplings who trudge their way into Hogwarts every year in September and some other spell books and bric-a-brac. Being an individual of the mudblood persuasion, I felt it was necessary that the wizarding world get an education in muggle affairs, and books seemed like the best way to do it.

Surprisingly enough, traffic through my humble little shop has been fair. Some shelves are gathering dust now that winter is coming, and most would find a hot cider or mead in their bellies far more enticing than squatting in the red, plush arm chair with a slightly used copy of the Canterbury Tales. I can't hold it against them though. The light from the Three Broomsticks always shines bright through the dimpled old windows facing the street, and it warms my heart to see the future wizards and witches of our world laughing over mugs of Butterbeer while playing in the snow. It reminds me of times, both good and bad.

But, wait you say, Hermione, aren't you a third of the infamous Golden Trio? But, lo! Where is your fortune? Where is Ronald Weasley? Don't you have twelve fire-headed children wiping their runny noses on your arm sleeves and have one on the way?

Well, no.

Don't misunderstand, I wouldn't mind having one or two pudgy bookworms all my own. And Ron is a good man true enough. He has a bad case of the wandering hands however, and that never settled right with me. He promised to stop, and while I believed him and knew he would, I could never ask him to settle when he wasn't prepared. We left one another with an all too familiar handshake and promises to owl each other to say hello. I kept my end of the bargain, but Ron's new female friend put a stop to it with a shrill octave, wail hex that occurred every time I received my owl in return. It hurt for a while, but time heals and moves the pieces of you that were broken off.

And Harry you ask? He is happily married with Ginny, and has his own gaggle of children who affectionately call me "Auntie Miney." I love them and their parents quite dearly. They visit as often as they can, but the journalists from the Daily Prophet still hound Harry as much as they did when he was a boy. Harry's grown into a fine man both in spirits and looks, and when he smiles I can still picture the young wizard who danced with me in the dusky light of a dirty tent in the middle of the woods and in the middle of a war. I suppose I loved him in a different way that night, and no, we did not lose our virginities to one another (although I would be a liar to say it didn't cross our minds). We kissed, and it was wonderful. Some nights when I'm feeling particularly nostalgic I can still taste his mouth, and smell the scent that is uniquely him. Harry and I would never dare mention the one time slip to Ginny or Ron, although I'm sure Ginny would understand to a certain degree (Ron would never but that is a moot point). It was a soft kiss, and warm. A secret promise between friends. We had curled together in our blankets after that and simply held one another. Nothing more, nothing less.

And my fortune? It is true that many survivors of the war were given stipends for our suffering and losses. A fair portion of my friends spent theirs quite quickly on frivolous things, while I saved most of mine in Gringotts and invested some in my shop. I live upstairs in a cozy loft area, so the only person I owe money to is me and I am surrounded by the things I love most which are my books. It is not so much a lonely existence as it is a quiet one. But sometimes when I close the shop for the night, I feel it; the small spark deep within my belly that burns for the time when I was a frizzy headed war child racing through the woods like fire, a raven haired boy to my left, and a copper haired boy to my right keeping pace as the dead leaves blew around our feet in a whirlwind. Always running ; frightened and exhilarated at the same time.

I'd be selfish to complain about my life now though. My existence in pleasant enough, I never have to worry about finances. I have all of the books I can lay my hands on (mostly). There are some however who don't exactly like my "mudblood propaganda." Every once in a while I get a nasty letter from a pureblood prick saying to shape up or ship out. Not in those nice of terms of course. My shop has been vandalized several times but some well-placed boil charms fixed that issue quite quickly. I'm not particularly worried about my safety, I'm a big girl and pull up my big girl knickers when need be.

Why I'm writing this all down however, is because I never want to forget the night when he walked back into my life and how a muggle book shop saved both of us. Who? Well dear reader, stay with me, and let me take you back to that snowy evening proceeding on into the next year in a little bookshop called Tomes on the outskirts of Hogsmead, where he and I both began to believe in magic again.

Hermione J. Granger