FIC: "(Im)Proper Conduct" for alwaysasnapefan
Recipient: alwaysasnapefan
Author: arcadian_dream
Title: (Im)Proper Conduct
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Pomona Sprout/Irma Pince
Word Count: 1350
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): * A bit fluffy.*
Summary: It is the scent of her that clings to the air: warm, and earthy; dirt and skin and the faintest sheen of prickling sweat that draws Irma back to life on this night, in this moment.
Author's Notes: thank you, bethbethbeth for putting up with me; and to alwaysasnapefan for your lovely request. I haven't quite managed to get the adult content up and running in this fic, but I hope you still enjoy it ♥
It is the scent that wakes Irma. It is the scent that draws her from the realm of awkward, fitful sleep where she sits hunched over her desk, her long, bony fingers curling around the edge of an open book and back to the consciousness of a cold and lonely night.
It is the scent of her that clings to the air: warm, and earthy; dirt and skin and the faintest sheen of prickling sweat that draws Irma back to life on this night, in this moment.
It is the scent of her before it is the sight, or the sound.
"Professor Sprout," Irma says, raising a hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn as she speaks. She eases her aching limbs up off of the desk and carefully closes the book before her; its fluttering pages expel what could almost be a sigh into the silence of the librarian's cramped, cluttered office. She sits up, she stretches, but she does not rise to her feet. She does not turn to face her visitor.
"Good evening, Irma," Pomona says with a slight bow of her head, greying ringlets falling about her full, pink cheeks with the movement. "I didn't expect to find you here."
Irma glances over her shoulder, high thin eyebrow arched in sceptical enquiry. "You didn't? This is my office, Pomona, I would think that if I could be expected to be found anywhere it would be here."
Pomona steps forward. "True," she concedes, "though I didn't expect to find you here so late. I tried your chambers, but..."
Here Pomona pauses and places a small, chubby-fingered hand on Irma's shoulder. She leans down and rests her chin in the skeletal crook of Irma's neck and shoulder; an angular hollow of jutting bone and withered skin.
"I tried your chambers," Pomona repeats in a whisper, and Irma can feel the heat of her colleague's breath on her skin now; flaring desire to chase away the bitter cold.
"I tried your chambers, but to no avail," Pomona finally concludes. "Anyone would think you were avoiding me, Irma."
"Pomona," Irma admonishes with more conviction than she feels, "Don't be ridiculous. Why in Merlin's name would I be -"
"I don't know, Irma."
Pomona releases her gentle grip on Irma's shoulder, and the sudden absence of the warmth makes Irma's breath hitch in her throat and longing leap to the precipice of her lips, but she purses them and pushes the words back, swallowing them; quashing them.
Irma pushes her chair back, its legs screeching against the stone floor. She shifts to the side, so that she is facing Pomona more directly, but still she does not turn to her directly.
"Pomona," she begins in a consolatory tone, "I -"
"Yes?"
"It's just that -" Irma stalls, unsure as to how she should proceed. In truth, she doesn't know what it is she is trying to say. The conflict within her head - her heart - is great.
"Yes?" Pomona repeats, interrupting the disjointed flow of Irma's fighting thoughts.
"I think it ... improper for us to ..."
"To what, Irma?"
"To ... behave, as we did before. That's all, Pomona. That's all," Irma finishes weakly. "What happened was ... a mistake. She watches the tears rush to Pomona's eyes, but refuse to fall. She watches the undulating of her throat as she swallows; and the way her teeth gnaw momentarily at her bottom lip, as though chasing away the anger and the hurt that threatens to spill from the tip of her tongue at any moment.
And it must succeed, Pomona's will, because she does not speak the angry words that Irma fears. Instead, Pomona clears her throat and nods.
"Goodnight then, Irma," she says before turning on her heel, the fabric of her robes rippling with movement before settling to cling to her full, round bottom.
"Goodnight, Pomona," Irma responds mournfully.
With a defeated bow of her head, she moves to turn away from Pomona's departing form, but the sound of returning footsteps halts her movement as Pomona advances, and presses a hand once more to her shoulder, drawing Irma's attention to the words that follow:
"It may be an accident, but It's never improper to love, Irma," Pomona whispers; "never."
Stoic, and sad, Pomona sweeps out of Irma's office; abandoning her to the cold, dark night and the persistent ache of desire denied; as always.
***
Light seeps into Irma's room. Pale, and weak; she would say that it shimmers, save for its lack of vibrancy. Instead, it is dull and faltering; pathetic.
She rolls once more onto her side, still in search of sleep's comforting arms, but fails to find them. She cannot shake the sight of burgeoning tears in Pomona's warm, round eyes from her mind; nor the haunting echo of her words.
Dawn advances and Irma cannot help but long for the warmth that she has denied herself as the coldness of propriety chills her very bones.
And she realises, as the air, dry as the books and parchments that she holds so dear invades her nostrils, gnarled fingers clawing at her hollow-feeling insides that she wishes only for Pomona.
*
She raps gently at the door; tentative. She doesn't want to wake Pomona, but knows that she must.
She must, that is, if Pomona sleeps.
Irma hopes that she doesn't. She hopes that she, too, lies awake; kept from sleep by unfulfilled desire; kept, by the need to feel the rasp of Irma's body against hers, just as Irma needs to feel the plush of Pomona's flesh against her bones.
She knocks again gently, but receives no reply. Undeterred, Irma presses her cheek to the timber's rough grain and listens. She extracts her wand from the pocket of her stiff, grey dressing gown and murmurs an incantation.
The sound of Pomona's breathing suddenly magnified, it reaches Irma's ears with ease: stilted breaths, a soft sniffling; the unsettled rustle of shifting bedclothes as Pomona strives in futility for a comfort that she will not reach tonight.
Satisfied that Pomona is awake, Irma lifts the spell and gently eases the chamber door open. Pomona starts beneath the covers at the sound, but does not roll over to see what it is; who it is.
"Pomona," Irma whispers, tucking her wand back into her pocket. "Pomona."
"What is it, Irma?" comes the reply; muffled by Pomona's pillow.
"I've come to apologise." Irma approaches the bed. The scuppered sound of her slow but steady gait suddenly sounds enormous in the silence. It echoes, and for a moment Irma thinks that what she has come to say will be swallowed up by the sound of her footsteps.
"For what?" Pomona asks, in the same muffled voice. "You were right." She rolls over, and the bed squeaks with the shifting of her weight. She looks up at Irma with wide, tired eyes.
"No," Irma says, shaking her head. Her thin lips twist into what she intends - hopes - is a kind smile, but she isn't sure. It has been too long since she had cause to move her features so.
"No," she repeats. Lowering herself onto her knobbly knees by Pomona's bed, Irma reaches out, cupping Pomona's cheek in the palm of her hand. "No, I wasn't. You were. You were right." Irma brushes her thumb over Pomona's lips and, allowing her eyelids to fall closed, she leans in, her dry lips searching for the warmth of Pomona's; full, and moist.
In the flickering grey light of the new day, Irma's mouth does find Pomona's: she finds eager lips blossoming with unfettered urgency; an insistent tongue that seeks out her own, thick and hot and consuming, a tongue that will strive to swallow her whole, to take Irma entirely into her own body, into her very soul.
What Irma finds, in the folds of Pomona's flesh, in the very scent of her - of heat and of earth - and in the trembling of her own aged fingers, is love.
Love.
And it is never improper.
It is anything but.
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Author: arcadian_dream
Title: (Im)Proper Conduct
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Pomona Sprout/Irma Pince
Word Count: 1350
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): * A bit fluffy.*
Summary: It is the scent of her that clings to the air: warm, and earthy; dirt and skin and the faintest sheen of prickling sweat that draws Irma back to life on this night, in this moment.
Author's Notes: thank you, bethbethbeth for putting up with me; and to alwaysasnapefan for your lovely request. I haven't quite managed to get the adult content up and running in this fic, but I hope you still enjoy it ♥
It is the scent that wakes Irma. It is the scent that draws her from the realm of awkward, fitful sleep where she sits hunched over her desk, her long, bony fingers curling around the edge of an open book and back to the consciousness of a cold and lonely night.
It is the scent of her that clings to the air: warm, and earthy; dirt and skin and the faintest sheen of prickling sweat that draws Irma back to life on this night, in this moment.
It is the scent of her before it is the sight, or the sound.
"Professor Sprout," Irma says, raising a hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn as she speaks. She eases her aching limbs up off of the desk and carefully closes the book before her; its fluttering pages expel what could almost be a sigh into the silence of the librarian's cramped, cluttered office. She sits up, she stretches, but she does not rise to her feet. She does not turn to face her visitor.
"Good evening, Irma," Pomona says with a slight bow of her head, greying ringlets falling about her full, pink cheeks with the movement. "I didn't expect to find you here."
Irma glances over her shoulder, high thin eyebrow arched in sceptical enquiry. "You didn't? This is my office, Pomona, I would think that if I could be expected to be found anywhere it would be here."
Pomona steps forward. "True," she concedes, "though I didn't expect to find you here so late. I tried your chambers, but..."
Here Pomona pauses and places a small, chubby-fingered hand on Irma's shoulder. She leans down and rests her chin in the skeletal crook of Irma's neck and shoulder; an angular hollow of jutting bone and withered skin.
"I tried your chambers," Pomona repeats in a whisper, and Irma can feel the heat of her colleague's breath on her skin now; flaring desire to chase away the bitter cold.
"I tried your chambers, but to no avail," Pomona finally concludes. "Anyone would think you were avoiding me, Irma."
"Pomona," Irma admonishes with more conviction than she feels, "Don't be ridiculous. Why in Merlin's name would I be -"
"I don't know, Irma."
Pomona releases her gentle grip on Irma's shoulder, and the sudden absence of the warmth makes Irma's breath hitch in her throat and longing leap to the precipice of her lips, but she purses them and pushes the words back, swallowing them; quashing them.
Irma pushes her chair back, its legs screeching against the stone floor. She shifts to the side, so that she is facing Pomona more directly, but still she does not turn to her directly.
"Pomona," she begins in a consolatory tone, "I -"
"Yes?"
"It's just that -" Irma stalls, unsure as to how she should proceed. In truth, she doesn't know what it is she is trying to say. The conflict within her head - her heart - is great.
"Yes?" Pomona repeats, interrupting the disjointed flow of Irma's fighting thoughts.
"I think it ... improper for us to ..."
"To what, Irma?"
"To ... behave, as we did before. That's all, Pomona. That's all," Irma finishes weakly. "What happened was ... a mistake. She watches the tears rush to Pomona's eyes, but refuse to fall. She watches the undulating of her throat as she swallows; and the way her teeth gnaw momentarily at her bottom lip, as though chasing away the anger and the hurt that threatens to spill from the tip of her tongue at any moment.
And it must succeed, Pomona's will, because she does not speak the angry words that Irma fears. Instead, Pomona clears her throat and nods.
"Goodnight then, Irma," she says before turning on her heel, the fabric of her robes rippling with movement before settling to cling to her full, round bottom.
"Goodnight, Pomona," Irma responds mournfully.
With a defeated bow of her head, she moves to turn away from Pomona's departing form, but the sound of returning footsteps halts her movement as Pomona advances, and presses a hand once more to her shoulder, drawing Irma's attention to the words that follow:
"It may be an accident, but It's never improper to love, Irma," Pomona whispers; "never."
Stoic, and sad, Pomona sweeps out of Irma's office; abandoning her to the cold, dark night and the persistent ache of desire denied; as always.
***
Light seeps into Irma's room. Pale, and weak; she would say that it shimmers, save for its lack of vibrancy. Instead, it is dull and faltering; pathetic.
She rolls once more onto her side, still in search of sleep's comforting arms, but fails to find them. She cannot shake the sight of burgeoning tears in Pomona's warm, round eyes from her mind; nor the haunting echo of her words.
Dawn advances and Irma cannot help but long for the warmth that she has denied herself as the coldness of propriety chills her very bones.
And she realises, as the air, dry as the books and parchments that she holds so dear invades her nostrils, gnarled fingers clawing at her hollow-feeling insides that she wishes only for Pomona.
*
She raps gently at the door; tentative. She doesn't want to wake Pomona, but knows that she must.
She must, that is, if Pomona sleeps.
Irma hopes that she doesn't. She hopes that she, too, lies awake; kept from sleep by unfulfilled desire; kept, by the need to feel the rasp of Irma's body against hers, just as Irma needs to feel the plush of Pomona's flesh against her bones.
She knocks again gently, but receives no reply. Undeterred, Irma presses her cheek to the timber's rough grain and listens. She extracts her wand from the pocket of her stiff, grey dressing gown and murmurs an incantation.
The sound of Pomona's breathing suddenly magnified, it reaches Irma's ears with ease: stilted breaths, a soft sniffling; the unsettled rustle of shifting bedclothes as Pomona strives in futility for a comfort that she will not reach tonight.
Satisfied that Pomona is awake, Irma lifts the spell and gently eases the chamber door open. Pomona starts beneath the covers at the sound, but does not roll over to see what it is; who it is.
"Pomona," Irma whispers, tucking her wand back into her pocket. "Pomona."
"What is it, Irma?" comes the reply; muffled by Pomona's pillow.
"I've come to apologise." Irma approaches the bed. The scuppered sound of her slow but steady gait suddenly sounds enormous in the silence. It echoes, and for a moment Irma thinks that what she has come to say will be swallowed up by the sound of her footsteps.
"For what?" Pomona asks, in the same muffled voice. "You were right." She rolls over, and the bed squeaks with the shifting of her weight. She looks up at Irma with wide, tired eyes.
"No," Irma says, shaking her head. Her thin lips twist into what she intends - hopes - is a kind smile, but she isn't sure. It has been too long since she had cause to move her features so.
"No," she repeats. Lowering herself onto her knobbly knees by Pomona's bed, Irma reaches out, cupping Pomona's cheek in the palm of her hand. "No, I wasn't. You were. You were right." Irma brushes her thumb over Pomona's lips and, allowing her eyelids to fall closed, she leans in, her dry lips searching for the warmth of Pomona's; full, and moist.
In the flickering grey light of the new day, Irma's mouth does find Pomona's: she finds eager lips blossoming with unfettered urgency; an insistent tongue that seeks out her own, thick and hot and consuming, a tongue that will strive to swallow her whole, to take Irma entirely into her own body, into her very soul.
What Irma finds, in the folds of Pomona's flesh, in the very scent of her - of heat and of earth - and in the trembling of her own aged fingers, is love.
Love.
And it is never improper.
It is anything but.
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