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The smell of hot pavement and car exhaust flooded Hermione’s senses on her spontaneous walk through Soho. A supersport motorcycle engine revved like a siren call in the distance, then it and its rider barreled through the traffic. She followed the path of the bike with her eyes, imagining what it might be like to sit on the back of such a vehicle—wrapping her arms around a fit waist, the wind blowing across her exposed skin, the rumbling engine beneath her—
She sucked in a breath at the shiver dancing along the base of her spine.
Today was the first day of Hermione’s week-long holiday. It also marked one month since becoming single. After poring through travel books and blogs in an attempt to come up with somewhere fun and exciting to visit, Hermione decided to discover what London’s side streets and villages had to offer. She felt certain she could find something, or someone, interesting.
A maroon corner shop caught her eye. Looking through the paned-glass storefront, Hermione saw row after row of towering stacks and shelves of books. Her heart leapt into her throat and she glanced up at the writing above the window.
Antiquarian and Unusual Books , she read.
An antiquarian was unlikely to be the type of “interesting” person she was looking for this week, but Hermione was not one to pass by a bookstore. She bounced to the front door and entered A.Z. Fell and Co.
Closing the door behind her, the familiar and comforting scent of old books enveloped her. She paused just beyond the threshold and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim light of the shop. The sound of cars and pedestrians rushing by outside was replaced by a string quartet album playing on an antique phonograph. Dust eddies swirled in the sunlight filtering through the glass pane.
Stepping forward to a round claw-foot table, she ran the tips of her fingers down the spines of brown books with crackling pages. Then she wandered over to a nearby bookshelf, leaning forward to read the weathered, gold-leaf titles. The books were sorted by no organisational system of which Hermione was aware, but she did not mind. All these old books reminded her of the Hogwarts library and her body relaxed more than it had since her breakup.
A cough and shuffle from the other side of the shelf caused her to gasp and instinctively reach for her wand before a round, frowning face appeared around the endcap. She took a step back as adrenaline coursed through her limbs.
“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed. “I’m so sorry; you startled me.”
The curly, blonde-haired man narrowed his eyes and stepped out from behind the shelf of books. “Can I help you find anything in particular, madam?” he said with a slight edge to his voice.
“No, not really, sir. I’m mostly just looking. Probably won’t even buy anything; I just really like old books.” Hermione chuckled and rubbed the back of her neck. “Are you Mr Fell?”
“Ah! Yes, yes I am.” The man’s voice and expression softened. He stood up a little straighter, and adjusted his sand-coloured waistcoat and brown tartan bow tie.
“This place is amazing.” Hermione glanced around, gesturing to the volumes of old tomes. “I don’t think I’d ever want to leave if this was my shop.”
Mr Fell beamed. “A fellow bibliophile!”
“Guilty.” Hermione shrugged.
“Well, my dear, you look around as long as you like. If you need anything, I’ll be at my desk.” He gave her a polite nod and strolled away.
Hermione watched his retreating back. For the proprietor of the place, he certainly appeared unhappy to have a customer at first. She did not ponder the strange behaviour long because soon she was swept up in the light and warmth of the shop.
A little while later—could have been minutes or hours, Hermione had lost all sense of time—the front door opened and closed. Turning her head, she saw a lissome man in designer sunglasses swagger through the shop. He looked as though he would have felt more at home at a rock concert rather than an antique bookshop. His fitted all-black wardrobe contrasted his tawny-beige complexion in a way that made Hermione weak in the knees.
The mysterious man arched a sculpted eyebrow in her direction as he sauntered toward the back office and ran slender fingers through his flame-red hair. A twinge of jealousy pulsed through her; wishing it was her fingers running through his tousled hair…pulling his smooth-shaven face closer to plant a bruising kiss on his thin, pale pink lips…pressing her—
She pulled her gaze from his tightly clothed backside and cleared her throat, resisting the urge to jump a random stranger and climb him like a tree.
Turning her attention back to the stacks proved difficult because Mr Fell and the handsome man’s muffled voices drifted through the shop. She casually browsed nearer to the unusual pair—not to eavesdrop, of course—and picked up bits and pieces of the conversation.
“What do you mean, one of mine? ”
That voice belonged to Mr Fell , Hermione thought.
“What do I mean?” the other man scoffed.
His tenor voice was low and smoky, like a finely tuned guitar. It plucked a string deep inside Hermione she didn't know existed until this moment, thrumming down to her core.
He continued, “You didn’t notice anything… different about her?”
Her? Are they talking about me? she wondered and leaned back to peek in on them.
Reclining back in his wooden office chair, Mr Fell clasped his hands across on his stomach and crossed his feet at the ankles. He shook his head, brows raised. “I think you’re imagining things, Crowley.”
Crowley. Hermione rolled the syllables around in her head.
“And I think, if you were less occupied with keeping customers away from your business, then you would have noticed…” He leaned forward, hands on his narrow hips, and muttered something Hermione could not discern.
Mr Fell’s eyes flicked over the tall man’s shoulder, widening when he glimpsed Hermione.
She stood up straight and turned away. Her face, neck, and ears burned hot from the embarrassment of being caught listening to their private conversation. Indistinct whispers were the last remnants her ears captured as she tiptoed to a different section of the shop.
A few minutes later—Hermione was doing her best impression of an innocent bookstore patron—the fiery-haired man’s soft steps echoed through the rows. The prickle that accompanies eyes boring into one’s back fluttered up her neck and settled on her scalp. Resisting the urge to turn as long as possible, it soon became too much and she flitted her eyes in his direction.
His mouth split into a wide, wicked grin that made his already sharp cheekbones and pointed chin even more pronounced. Then he continued his path toward and out the front door.
Hermione let out a long and slow breath after the door shut with a click.
A couple of days after the events at the antique bookshop, Hermione decided a lunch-time run through St James’ Park was in order—anything to clear her head of a certain enigmatic stranger whom she would never meet again.
Her breathing came hard and fast, arms and legs pumping up and down, lungs burning. Sweat dripped down her forehead, her feet landing with smooth purpose and propelling her forward.
Crow-ley. Crow-ley. Crow-ley.
The name she was trying to beat out of her head instead became a mantra with every stride.
She pounded her way across a bridge, through green fields lined with trees and flower beds, and around the lake. Each step plagued her mind with more what-ifs .
What if she hadn’t been caught snooping in on their conversation?
What if she had said something instead of watching him walk out?
What if she hadn’t quietly snuck out so to avoid further embarrassment and questions from Mr Fell?
Hermione rounded a bend in the path and as if summoning him through sheer force of thought and will, spotted the object of her sleep-induced fantasies of late.
Crowley and Mr Fell occupied opposite sides of a park bench ahead. The pair could not appear more dissimilar if they tried.
Mr Fell wore a beige jacket like the one he had worn when Hermione visited his bookshop. He also sat prim and straight on his side of the bench with his hands clasped on his lap.
Where Mr Fell took the light side, Crowley took the dark once again in an all-black ensemble. His posture was also more casual and slouched, with his knees spread and one elbow draped over the back of the bench.
Keeping her pace as she neared them, she ignored the wobbly feeling in her knees, telling herself it was a side effect of the strenuous run and nothing else. Mr Fell’s mouth moved and he nodded in Hermione’s direction. Crowley’s head snapped toward her, eyebrows going up and jaw going down.
Nearing their bench, she smiled as she passed and decided not to stop. What would she say anyway?
Hi. You’re hot. Let’s get—OOF…
Fuck.
One second Hermione was running and feeling good, and the next she found herself sprawled on the concrete path with a bleeding knee and road rash palms. She sucked in air through her gritted teeth at the sting of the minor injuries. It wasn’t anything that a simple healing spell and a little dittany couldn’t fix up, but she was surrounded by Muggles. Resigning herself to limping to the Apparition point, a velvety voice suddenly spoke over her shoulder.
“Are you okay?” it asked.
Before she could turn her head, Crowley appeared and crouched next to her, placing a hand over her scraped knee.
“Um…Yeah…I mean, I think so,” stammered Hermione. Her inarticulateness was probably just from the unexpected fall and subsequent graze, she told herself.
“You were in my friend Zira’s bookshop the other day, weren’t you?” A brow raised over his dark sunglasses. “What’s your name?”
She nodded. “Hermione.”
“Hermione,” he repeated.
If she hadn’t already been warm and flushed from the run, then her name tumbling off his lips would have done the job. Hermione clenched her hand at her side to stave off the tremble building inside her. She had dreamt of this man for days and now, all a sudden, he was next to her. Taking a deep breath to settle her nerves, she noticed a distinct scent of mahogany, leather, and vanilla blazing off of him like an inferno.
“I’m—” he started but Hermione cut him off.
“Crowley,” she finished his sentence. “Yeah, I…might have overheard your conversation with Mr Fell the other day.”
Hermione glanced away for a second; she looked back and many things happened simultaneously.
First, Crowley’s mischievous, pointed smirk was back. Then his mouth moved. Hermione assumed he said something but the words did not register in her brain because she was distracted by a warm, tingling sensation radiating from her knee—on which Crowley’s palm still rested—and spreading in waves through her body. The feeling was not unlike the tickle of magic ghosting her skin, but it wasn’t the same either.
She gasped.
Crowley drew his head and hand back, mouth falling open. His voice had an almost imperceptible quiver when he spoke.
“Well,” he uttered as he wet his lips, “looks like you’re not hurt too bad.”
Looking down at her knee, prepared to argue and point out the blood, Hermione discovered it was healed and good as new. Better maybe. She was certain there used to be a scar there from a bicycle accident she had as a kid.
“Here.” Crowley stood and held out his hand.
The same hand which had been on her knee when the…weird thing…happened. She accepted the proffered hand with trepidation, and he helped her up.
Hermione dusted herself off, smoothing down her singlet and running shorts. She opened her mouth, intending to thank Crowley (for what , she wasn’t sure—she wasn’t sure what the hell just happened) but he beat her to it.
“I’ve been annoyed at myself for walking out of Zira’s shop the other day without saying a word to you, so I’m going to take this second chance while I have it. Would you have dinner with me?”
Pixies fluttered in Hermione’s belly.
Crowley worried his lower lip while waiting for Hermione to respond.
Yes! Obviously, the answer was yes.
“That sounds fantastic,” she finally said, heart racing.
A tentative smile crept across Crowley’s face, and a cross between a sigh and a laugh escaped his lips.
They agreed to meet outside the antique bookshop the next day and Hermione bid him farewell, happy but also confused about the not-quite-magic Crowley seemed to have used to heal her knee.
Her closet doors were flung open, clothing and shoes tossed about haphazardly. Hermione lay on the floor wrapped in a bath towel, her wet hair soaking through the creme and light-gold carpet of her bedroom.
There was nothing. She had nothing to wear. Or she had too much to wear. Either way, none of it looked good enough.
She let out a small huff and stood up. Somewhere in this mess there had to be a worthy outfit.
Diving back into the closet, she pulled out everything she owned and piled it all high on the bed. Then she sorted. The maybes were stacked onto the bedside chair and the nos were thrown back into the closet—she would organise later.
Half an hour later, she stared at three potential outfits spread out on her coral and black floral duvet. Hermione tapped her fingers on her crossed arms as she considered each in turn.
Option one: distressed skinnies, blue floral blouse, brown suede moto jacket, and nude pumps. Cute and flattering.
Option two: strappy black camisole dress, denim jacket, and black peep-toe booties. Classic and flirty.
Option three: cuffed boyfriend jeans, white lace blouse, black leather jacket, and black flats. Casual and fun.
But which to choose…
…
…Option one it was. Definitely. Not too dressy, not too informal. Hermione got dressed, tamed her tresses, and Disapparated.
Approaching Mr Fell’s—Zira’s—bookshop, Hermione’s pointy-toed pumps clicked on the sidewalk. She held the brown jacket over the crook of her arm, and the breeze billowed her flowy blouse. As she flipped her loose curls behind her shoulder, she arrived at the corner shop and looked around. No sign of Crowley.
Hmm , she thought and glanced at her watch. Only a couple of minutes early.
Hermione stepped toward the side of the building and leaned her back against it, out of the flow of traffic, then thought about the curious man on whom she was waiting.
First—by Godric, he was good-looking! It should be a sin for someone to have those cheekbones, that smile, and that hair.
Second—he wasn’t a Muggle, that much was obvious. He had seemed as shocked as she was when his…not-quite-magic…mixed with her magic.
She glanced down at her knee, concealed in skin-tight jeans, and wondered, How in Merlin did he manage to remove my scar though?
Yesterday she’d noticed a small tattoo of a coiling snake below Crowley’s sideburn. That alone yelled Slytherin , but something in her gut said no . He was something new and different…and exciting.
A revving engine and squealing tires distracted her from her thoughts. Looking up, a pristine vintage Bentley screeched to a halt in front of her and the passenger door opened. Classic Queen blared from within…
‘Storm the master marathon I'll fly through
By flash and thunder fire I'll survive
(I'll survive, I'll survive)’
…before being turned down to a more tolerable level.
Moving away from the building, Hermione bent down to peer into the car.
“Hermione! Climb on in,” Crowley called.
“Nice car,” she said as she settled into the passenger seat. Buckling her seatbelt, she hoped the speed with which he just took that corner was because he was late and not his typical driving style.
She was wrong.
Gripping the seat like a tether to life, Hermione opened her eyes only when Crowley announced they had arrived.
“But…this is…“ She clambered out of the car. “How did you get a reservation at The Ritz? I’m not…I mean, isn’t there a dress code here?”
Crowley tossed the keys to the valet and joined her on the sidewalk. Eyeing her up and down, he said, “I think you look great. Come on,” and offered her his arm.
To Hermione’s amazement, the maître d’ showed them to what must have been the best table in the establishment. Looking over the exorbitant menu, her need to know who (or what) Crowley was had become too much.
“Thanks for healing my knee, by the way. I could have managed it myself when I got home but it was sweet of you all the same.”
His forehead furrowed.
Hermione continued undeterred, “I mean, it was a little reckless. What if I’d been a Muggle?”
He adjusted his position on the chair.
“But I suppose a Muggle might not have noticed.” She looked at Crowley, expecting him to have said something by now. “It’s okay, because I’m a witch, so it’s fine. I just wanted to say thanks.”
Folding his arms on the table and leaning forward, Crowley asked, “What’s a…Muggle?”
What? Hermione’s mouth went dry.
“What do you mean, What’s a Muggle? ” she finally said. This was not going how she imagined and making her more confused in the process. Time for a new approach.
She lowered her voice and leaned across the table. “I… felt your magic—or something—even if you’re not a wizard. And to answer your question, a Muggle is a person without magical abilities.”
Their waitress interrupted the conversation to take their order. When she left, Crowley propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his knuckles.
Why is he still wearing sunglasses in a restaurant? Hermione wondered.
“It’s not magic,” he said, “Though…I suppose a few religions might call it that. And I’ve known some witches—mostly dealing in predictions, prophecies, that sort of thing—but you’re different from them.”
Hermione held her breath and waited for him to continue. When he did not, she whispered, “So you’re not magic and you’re not a Muggle…what are you?”
After a thoughtful pause, he leaned back and scrubbed at his hair. “I’m…uh…a mostly immortal, formerly celestial…being.”
Tilting her head, Hermione repeated, “Formerly celestial being?” Hearing the words from her own mouth did not make them more believable or understandable.
It’s official , she decided, I’m on a date with a crazy person.
“Yeah, well…until I, uh…fell sorta slowly in a downward direction.” Crowley pointed a finger into the table.
If he thought he was explaining, he was not doing a very good job. Hermione shook her head, more confused than before. “It almost sounds like you’re talking about Heaven and Hell like they’re actual real places.”
“That’s because they are. I don’t normally make a habit of outing myself as a demon on a first date, but here we are. Honestly, I figured you were one of Zira’s lot when I saw you in the bookshop. But he claimed you weren’t—makes sense now.”
Throughout this explanation, Crowley’s hands became more animated, and Hermione couldn’t help but think it was a little bit cute. Despite him claiming to be a demon, if such a thing existed, she couldn’t shake the safety she felt with him. If he truly were a demon, then he must be the nicest one.
Their meal courses came and went. Hermione did not press the demon/magic topic any further. Though, in the back of her mind, she wondered if she showed him her powers, then maybe he would demonstrate his. She talked about the generalities of her job; he talked about his perfect houseplants and generations of mischief with Zira (who was an angel, apparently?).
When Crowley dropped her off back at the bookshop, Hermione was a little sad to say goodbye. Before opening the door she asked, “Can we do this again?”
“Definitely.”
