Ficlet: "Unexpected Development" (PG-13, Snape/Granger for teddyradiator)
Title: Unexpected Development
Prompt: "hips" and "with a fist"
Characters: Hermione Granger, Severus Snape, Ron Weasley
Rating: M for the (not-so-graphic) sex!
Words: 1,229
A/N: for teddyradiator
There was no explaining it. There was simply no way to justify in rational terms how she had come to be sharing a bed with Severus Snape - but was it sharing, really, when their bodies had hardly been separated since they had collapsed onto the duvet half an hour ago?
Her mind was doing amazing, impossible things, fading in and out of reality on the waves of his touch and it was becoming harder and harder to form a logical thought.
Merlin’s beard! What was he doing with his tongue?
It must have begun about last week; yes, that sounded right. Things had really gone to shit on Wednesday last…
************************************************
“Are you bloody insane??”
Hermione was embarrassed by how shrill her voice had become. From previous experience, she had no doubt that her cheeks had gone a blotchy red and the freckles that were almost transparent, speckled across her nose from days in the sun as a girl, were standing out with alarming clarity.
“I don’t know why you’re so bothered,” Ron had replied. He was leaning against the door jamb on the threshold of her office at the Ministry; he was trying to look nonchalant, but he was confused by her reaction and it showed in the vague squint of his eyes.
“Did you honestly think that I wouldn’t mind you groping me in front of a horde of Prophet reporters? Circe’s tits, Ronald, I’m not some slut you can parade around in front of your drinking buddies!”
Flashes of memory drove white hot pinpricks of anger across her vision. She had never understood the phrase “seeing red” until this very moment.
“How are the surveillance efforts on the Bloodlines Urban Revival Proposition coming along?” This from a spotty, young reporter whose Quick Quotes Quill was quivering in anticipation over the pad clutched in his sweaty hands.
“I can neither affirm nor deny that there has been any move by the Ministry to follow certain leads - er, any rumors of a movement attempting to revive the pre-Voldemort blood purity agenda.”
Hermione had bit back a curse at Ron’s slip of the tongue. One silly bumble and he had practically handed over proof that the Auror office was waging a barely-legal campaign against the B.U.R.P. What mad whim had caused Kingsley Shacklebolt to allow Ron to act as spokesperson at this press conference?
Questions had continued to pepper an increasingly-befuddled Ron until - finally - the moderator had called for final queries.
“Do all these long nights in the office put a damper on your love life, Auror Weasley?”
Hermione’s eyes had scanned the crowd and lighted on a witch in the middle of the press of reporters with vibrant orange curls and a fastenator complete with a neon green bat whose wings beat feebly against a binding of emerald green ribbon. So that was Rita Skeeter’s replacement at the Prophet, was it?
For one, glorious moment Hermione waited with the smug assurance that Ron would crush such a ridiculous question flat. But to her horror, she watched as his eyes brightened to be thrown such a simple query - after all, wasn’t this just what he and his mates bantered back and forth between Quidditch matches at the Leaky Cauldron? And worse still, he was reaching out and pulling her towards him until her hip met painfully with the pointed edge of the podium and the pain distracted her enough to keep her from fending off his sloppy kiss and the pointed pat on the arse.
How she had kept her composure in light of such a disgusting display of machismo, Hermione would never know. But now, in the quiet of her office, face-to-face with the wizard who had brought such appalling shame down on her head, that composure was slipping.
“You know very well that we haven’t been seeing each other for weeks, Ronald,” she shouted, not caring whether anyone else heard.
“But, ‘Mione…”
“And even if we were still together - which we most certainly are NOT - what would EVER make you think that groping me in front of the entire wizarding media was acceptable??”
“It wasn’t personal, Hermione, honest,” Ron spluttered, crossing his arms and attempting a look of nonchalance which was clearly failing him. “I didn’t think you’d mind. Besides,” he continued, stepping tentatively closer to her and offering Hermione a sheepish smile, “it’s not like you’ve got another bloke to worry about right now…”
Whatever else he might have said was cut abruptly short by the impact of her fist against his nose. Crashing backwards into the door of Hermione’s office, Ron let out a pained yelp and clutched at his streaming wound with all the shock of a child promised cake and delivered pickled eggs.
It was at that very moment that a familiar form darkened the doorway.
“I couldn’t help overhearing the ruckus. Is there a problem here?”
Ron gaped up at Severus Snape, blood seeping through his fingers.
“She - she punched me, sir,” he stammered, reverting unconsciously to the address of his school days.
Reaching out, Snape pulled Ron’s hands away from his nose and surveyed the damage with cool indifference. Wiping his hands on his robe, he leaned against the threshold and smirked as he said, “I see no difference.”
Cursing, Ron stomped out of the room and left Hermione and Snape alone to contemplate his absence.
“I’m sorry you had to see that, Severus,” Hermione said at last, eyeing her coworker askance to gauge his reaction to her uncharacteristic violence.
“Don’t be,” Snape replied, his voice rich with relish, “I was on my way here to administer my own brand of retribution. I’d say he got off easy, but then, I’ve never been on the receiving end of a Granger Cuff.”
If she thought it strange that Snape should have been on his way to avenge her honor, Hermione did not say anything. Instead, she smiled gratefully and muttered something about “he deserved it, the bloody tosser.”
“Drinks at the Black Griffin,” Snape proposed with the ease of someone who knows his suggestion will be accepted - as it had been every Wednesday for the past two months.
“Love to.”
************************************************
So perhaps it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Hermione that she found herself in bed with Severus Snape. After all, hadn’t this been coming on gradually for weeks, ever since they were assigned to the same division in the Department of Mysteries? She would never have admitted to having fantasies involving her work partner, but she would be lying if she didn’t admit that the night had been everything she could have ever hoped for.
Snape glanced up at her tousled hair spread out across the pillows and her eyes, half-closed, looking back at him. Leaning down for a final kiss to the soft curve of her hip, he slid up the bed to lie beside her.
“Hermione,” he whispered, looking suddenly very self-conscious.
“Hm?”
“I wondered… that is… would this have happened if Ron hadn’t…” He found he couldn’t finish the question, so he left the words to linger in the air between them.
To his surprise and delight, she propped herself up on her elbow and bent over him to kiss first his forehead, then his nose, and then his mouth. Drawing back reluctantly, she fixed him with a long, hard stare and said
“Ron who?”
Prompt: "hips" and "with a fist"
Characters: Hermione Granger, Severus Snape, Ron Weasley
Rating: M for the (not-so-graphic) sex!
Words: 1,229
A/N: for teddyradiator
There was no explaining it. There was simply no way to justify in rational terms how she had come to be sharing a bed with Severus Snape - but was it sharing, really, when their bodies had hardly been separated since they had collapsed onto the duvet half an hour ago?
Her mind was doing amazing, impossible things, fading in and out of reality on the waves of his touch and it was becoming harder and harder to form a logical thought.
Merlin’s beard! What was he doing with his tongue?
It must have begun about last week; yes, that sounded right. Things had really gone to shit on Wednesday last…
************************************************
“Are you bloody insane??”
Hermione was embarrassed by how shrill her voice had become. From previous experience, she had no doubt that her cheeks had gone a blotchy red and the freckles that were almost transparent, speckled across her nose from days in the sun as a girl, were standing out with alarming clarity.
“I don’t know why you’re so bothered,” Ron had replied. He was leaning against the door jamb on the threshold of her office at the Ministry; he was trying to look nonchalant, but he was confused by her reaction and it showed in the vague squint of his eyes.
“Did you honestly think that I wouldn’t mind you groping me in front of a horde of Prophet reporters? Circe’s tits, Ronald, I’m not some slut you can parade around in front of your drinking buddies!”
Flashes of memory drove white hot pinpricks of anger across her vision. She had never understood the phrase “seeing red” until this very moment.
“How are the surveillance efforts on the Bloodlines Urban Revival Proposition coming along?” This from a spotty, young reporter whose Quick Quotes Quill was quivering in anticipation over the pad clutched in his sweaty hands.
“I can neither affirm nor deny that there has been any move by the Ministry to follow certain leads - er, any rumors of a movement attempting to revive the pre-Voldemort blood purity agenda.”
Hermione had bit back a curse at Ron’s slip of the tongue. One silly bumble and he had practically handed over proof that the Auror office was waging a barely-legal campaign against the B.U.R.P. What mad whim had caused Kingsley Shacklebolt to allow Ron to act as spokesperson at this press conference?
Questions had continued to pepper an increasingly-befuddled Ron until - finally - the moderator had called for final queries.
“Do all these long nights in the office put a damper on your love life, Auror Weasley?”
Hermione’s eyes had scanned the crowd and lighted on a witch in the middle of the press of reporters with vibrant orange curls and a fastenator complete with a neon green bat whose wings beat feebly against a binding of emerald green ribbon. So that was Rita Skeeter’s replacement at the Prophet, was it?
For one, glorious moment Hermione waited with the smug assurance that Ron would crush such a ridiculous question flat. But to her horror, she watched as his eyes brightened to be thrown such a simple query - after all, wasn’t this just what he and his mates bantered back and forth between Quidditch matches at the Leaky Cauldron? And worse still, he was reaching out and pulling her towards him until her hip met painfully with the pointed edge of the podium and the pain distracted her enough to keep her from fending off his sloppy kiss and the pointed pat on the arse.
How she had kept her composure in light of such a disgusting display of machismo, Hermione would never know. But now, in the quiet of her office, face-to-face with the wizard who had brought such appalling shame down on her head, that composure was slipping.
“You know very well that we haven’t been seeing each other for weeks, Ronald,” she shouted, not caring whether anyone else heard.
“But, ‘Mione…”
“And even if we were still together - which we most certainly are NOT - what would EVER make you think that groping me in front of the entire wizarding media was acceptable??”
“It wasn’t personal, Hermione, honest,” Ron spluttered, crossing his arms and attempting a look of nonchalance which was clearly failing him. “I didn’t think you’d mind. Besides,” he continued, stepping tentatively closer to her and offering Hermione a sheepish smile, “it’s not like you’ve got another bloke to worry about right now…”
Whatever else he might have said was cut abruptly short by the impact of her fist against his nose. Crashing backwards into the door of Hermione’s office, Ron let out a pained yelp and clutched at his streaming wound with all the shock of a child promised cake and delivered pickled eggs.
It was at that very moment that a familiar form darkened the doorway.
“I couldn’t help overhearing the ruckus. Is there a problem here?”
Ron gaped up at Severus Snape, blood seeping through his fingers.
“She - she punched me, sir,” he stammered, reverting unconsciously to the address of his school days.
Reaching out, Snape pulled Ron’s hands away from his nose and surveyed the damage with cool indifference. Wiping his hands on his robe, he leaned against the threshold and smirked as he said, “I see no difference.”
Cursing, Ron stomped out of the room and left Hermione and Snape alone to contemplate his absence.
“I’m sorry you had to see that, Severus,” Hermione said at last, eyeing her coworker askance to gauge his reaction to her uncharacteristic violence.
“Don’t be,” Snape replied, his voice rich with relish, “I was on my way here to administer my own brand of retribution. I’d say he got off easy, but then, I’ve never been on the receiving end of a Granger Cuff.”
If she thought it strange that Snape should have been on his way to avenge her honor, Hermione did not say anything. Instead, she smiled gratefully and muttered something about “he deserved it, the bloody tosser.”
“Drinks at the Black Griffin,” Snape proposed with the ease of someone who knows his suggestion will be accepted - as it had been every Wednesday for the past two months.
“Love to.”
************************************************
So perhaps it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Hermione that she found herself in bed with Severus Snape. After all, hadn’t this been coming on gradually for weeks, ever since they were assigned to the same division in the Department of Mysteries? She would never have admitted to having fantasies involving her work partner, but she would be lying if she didn’t admit that the night had been everything she could have ever hoped for.
Snape glanced up at her tousled hair spread out across the pillows and her eyes, half-closed, looking back at him. Leaning down for a final kiss to the soft curve of her hip, he slid up the bed to lie beside her.
“Hermione,” he whispered, looking suddenly very self-conscious.
“Hm?”
“I wondered… that is… would this have happened if Ron hadn’t…” He found he couldn’t finish the question, so he left the words to linger in the air between them.
To his surprise and delight, she propped herself up on her elbow and bent over him to kiss first his forehead, then his nose, and then his mouth. Drawing back reluctantly, she fixed him with a long, hard stare and said
“Ron who?”