FIC: "Irma's Library" for therealsnape
Recipient: therealsnape
Author: miramiraficfic
Title: Irma’s Library
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Irma Pince/Minerva McGonagall, Irma Pince/Horace Slughorn, Irma Pince/Rolanda Hooch, Irma Pince/Severus Snape, Irma Pince/Madam Rosmerta, Irma Pince/Filius Flitwick, Irma Pince/Argus Filch
Word Count: 2,000
Medium: Fic
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): *[Erm, consensual non-monogamy? Other than that, I got nothin’.]*.
Summary: Everyone knows there are two types of librarian in the world. And everyone knows which type Irma Pince is. Or so they think.
Author's Notes: I admit, I had a little trouble deciding what to do with such an open-ended request at first, but Irma stepped up and insisted on having her story - or stories, rather - told. I hope you enjoy, therealsnape!
To read "Irma's Library" at AO3, Click Here!
Everyone knows there are two types of librarian in the world. There is the spinster with her eternally pursed mouth and prim demeanor, who cherishes her books and silence above any human interaction. Then there is the second: indistinguishable from the first until she locks the doors for the evening, sets her spectacles down on the nearest desk, and frees her glorious mane of hair from its bun with one hand as she loosens the buttons on her blouse with the other…
Irma Pince, as any Hogwarts first year will tell you, is not the second kind of librarian. The idea falls somewhere between absurd and downright disturbing.
Irma herself would agree with that assessment wholeheartedly. No wanton hair-tossing for her. Her lovers are as carefully and precisely chosen as the titles that make up the shelves of Hogwarts’ library.
And just like her books, each has an order and a purpose.
***
Mondays mean reference.
To her students, Minerva McGonagall may be a less sexless entity than Irma, but the difference is largely academic. Irma doubts they fathom the true breadth and depth of the Deputy Headmistress’ knowledge, or the uses of Transfiguration she might teach them if it would not cause the entire Board of Governors to drop dead of a simultaneous heart attack. Though there have been days when Min has threatened to do just that in language that would provide her pupils with quite the education on its own, until Irma hits upon the proper distraction.
From Min, Irma has learned the gradations of hard and soft touches, and when to apply each. She has learned the physical limits of flexibility, and how far magic can stretch them. She has learned the hitch of breath that signifies “stop,” the one which signals “go faster,” and even the one that means “do that again.”
The one thing Irma has not learned from Min is the application of sweet nothings. For all the intimate ground they cover in their lessons, there is a somewhat detached quality to them. Irma suspects that Min only took her on as a temporary pupil, and has kept her out of pleasant surprise at discovering a prodigy.
Nonetheless, she accepts the instruction on whatever terms it is offered. And while she does not flatter herself that she will ever approach Min’s ability, she strives to pass on the master’s teachings.
***
Tuesdays, Irma brushes up on politics.
Even after his return to Hogwarts, Horace Slughorn insists on taking her out to dinner. Only the finest restaurants for the fairest of ladies, he declares, though she cannot help noticing that he favors establishments where old pupils can be persuaded to send out entrees “compliments of the chef,” or talks up the virtues of the house wines when she speculates on the merits of something more top-shelf. By now, she has learned to double-check the tip before leaving in case she needs to add a few surreptitious Galleons.
Irma would never dream of trying to dissuade Horace from the assumption that she agrees to the pleasure of his company for the prestige, or the food. On some level, though, she thinks he must realize she comes for the anecdotes. Most of them can only be swallowed with the copious amounts of salt Horace applies to his meat, but trying to sort out the truth from the exaggerations or the outright falsehoods is sufficient entertainment by itself. And when the oysters arrive, or the chocolate cake…well, then the truly intriguing tales spill forth.
As usual, Horace’s promises tend to be more impressive than their execution, particularly when it comes to substantive matters. But she must admit, whatever his failings, the man does possess a silver tongue.
***
Wednesdays, Irma checks the box scores.
If Rolanda Hooch knows any variety of intercourse other than “quick,” Irma has yet to see any evidence of it. She takes care to wear loose robes when she visits the Quidditch locker rooms, knowing that half the time she will not be given an opportunity to take them off, and the other half she will need to shed them before being dragged into the showers.
Fortunately, the speed with which Rolanda works is matched by her skill. From a few stray comments and her fluency in gasps and muffled groans, Irma has deduced she is another of Min’s students.
The particulars of their encounters may remain a blur when she attempts to recall them later, with gaps between moments A and B that seem only explicable through Apparition. But the exhilaration - that lingers clearly.
***
Thursdays are all about mystery.
Irma never knows what mood Severus Snape will be in on any given week, which is why unlike her other lovers, she never seeks him out. Months will pass without him setting foot in the library, or else he will sweep past to pluck a book from the shelves with no more acknowledgement than if she were a ghost or portrait. She no longer takes it personally. The day will come again, as it always does, when she will find him seated in the Restricted Section leafing through a slim volume bound in red leather. He will say nothing; will glance up at her for only the briefest of moments. But she will know it for her cue to return to the spot after curfew, secure in the certainty he will be waiting.
From that point, the assignations never proceed in quite the same way. Sometimes he is forceful, pinning her against the wall with an alacrity even Rolanda cannot match or binding her before she can blink. Sometimes he is hesitant, loosening each article of clothing as though he expects to be stopped before reaching the next hook. Sometimes he is drunk, and upon completion calls out a familiar name that is not hers - the only word he typically speaks.
Afterwards, though, as he smoothes out his robes, he will meet her eyes and nod once. Irma does not claim to be able to read him with precision; with the possible exception of Albus, she does not know anyone who can. But she takes it as gratitude: for offering him comfort, for withholding judgment. And she accepts it with gratitude enough to keep her Thursdays clear. Just in case.
***
Fridays, Irma indulges in guilty pleasures.
Outwardly, Madam Rosmerta is Irma’s opposite in every particular. Many a first schoolchild crush - and quite a few later infatuations - have been spawned in the wake of her signature turquoise-heeled strut. And unlike Irma, Rosmerta is not subtle about advertising interest in potential paramours, or limited in her selection.
However, as someone to whom opportunities have always presented themselves, Rosmerta has never needed to put in the effort which Irma has honed over the years, or acquired the patience and understanding partners like Min and Severus demand. So if it is with mingled lust, envy, and frustration that Irma counts the Friday nights she spends in Rosmerta’s tiny room above the Three Broomsticks as a coup, it is with pride that she basks in the awed praise which follows.
The feeling fades on the long walk of shame back to the castle. In a near-precise reversal of her trysts with Rolanda, she recalls every detail with greater clarity and irritation than when it occurred: the lack of reciprocity or even interest in her desires, capped by the realization that Rosmerta’s eyes stayed closed the whole time. By the time she storms back into her own room, she has resolved to reserve her charitable impulses for Severus, who actually needs them.
But by the next Friday night out, with a few pints in her, it is the pride she remembers when Rosmerta comes sashaying past the bar.
***
Saturdays, by contrast, are for romance.
Historical romance, to be precise. Long before Irma was a librarian, she was the envy of every girl in Hogwarts (and a few boys, too, she doesn’t doubt) able to see the clever, dashing, compassionate soul contained within Filius Flitwick’s small frame. There were countless picnics by the lake and long chats by the common room fire and study sessions which never resulted in much studying, including one memorable occasion when her predecessor chased them out of the stacks without giving Filius a chance to do up his robes.
The end, when it came, was quiet, but sudden and devastating. In all their talks, somehow, they missed or simply avoided touching upon those parts of the future which made it clear there could not be one. He went off seeking glory, and she was left to build the quiet life she had envisioned for one instead of two. An old, clichéd story: one she would have preferred never to read, much less play the protagonist.
By the time Fate brought them back together as colleagues, though, she had regained control of the narrative and made her peace with the abandoned plotlines. It helped that Deborah, Filius’s wife, turned out to be a dear woman without any sense of jealousy. Cordiality blossomed into friendship, and might have remained there happily ever after.
Then one morning, Deborah did not wake. Irma stood by Filius at the funeral and through the tearful nights that followed, and fought back against the ensuing gossip all the more vehemently in light of the secret, shameful spark she could feel reigniting as his ability to smile returned.
Until one day, he turned that smile on her, and she stopped fighting.
Like Irma’s other partners, Filius knows how she spends the rest of her week - knew well before becoming part of the rotation. He avoids the subject, but does not voice any objection. Yet. The day is coming, Irma senses, when he will clear his throat and ask in an earnest tone all the more charming for its hesitance whether she has given any thought to exclusivity.
She has. Of course she has. By the time he raises the question, she hopes to God she will have a more substantive response: one that satisfies her, let alone him. Because while she could easily give up Tuesdays and Fridays, and let Mondays and Wednesdays go with only a twinge of regret, and she’s never been sure Thursdays are a good idea, there are still Sundays to consider.
And Irma would dearly hate to lose Sundays. For those are the days when she curls up with her other old favorite.
***
Argus Filch does not have a reputation as a kind or a patient man. Irma appreciates that. She’s been known to fling the occasional book at a student, but confines her desire to string the true problem cases up by their thumbs to silent, wistful fantasy. Argus, bless him, has no such qualms or concept of discretion.
But she also appreciates the side of Argus which most people only glimpse (and make prurient insinuations about) in his regard for Mrs. Norris. With her, he is always the gentleman, but with none of Horace’s airs: leaping up when he realizes he’s forgotten to pull out her chair for her, or anxiously confirming that yes, she really is enjoying the soup. Every date is a strange but deeply satisfying combination of a first, fumbling encounter and comfortable familiarity.
She can count on her fingers and a smattering of toes the number of times Argus has shown interest in sex. It’s not that he doesn’t find her attractive. She knows that from the way his gaze glides over when he thinks she’s distracted, and the residual heat in his eyes when he glances back up and realizes she’s watching. But he seems content with looking, and with spooning her when they crawl under the covers at the end of the evening, arm around her waist and nose burrowed in her hair.
Which, by week’s end, is enough for Irma. More than enough.
***
Everyone knows there are two types of librarian in the world. But there is only one Irma Pince. And she contains volumes.
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Author: miramiraficfic
Title: Irma’s Library
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Irma Pince/Minerva McGonagall, Irma Pince/Horace Slughorn, Irma Pince/Rolanda Hooch, Irma Pince/Severus Snape, Irma Pince/Madam Rosmerta, Irma Pince/Filius Flitwick, Irma Pince/Argus Filch
Word Count: 2,000
Medium: Fic
Warnings/Content Information (Highlight to View): *[Erm, consensual non-monogamy? Other than that, I got nothin’.]*.
Summary: Everyone knows there are two types of librarian in the world. And everyone knows which type Irma Pince is. Or so they think.
Author's Notes: I admit, I had a little trouble deciding what to do with such an open-ended request at first, but Irma stepped up and insisted on having her story - or stories, rather - told. I hope you enjoy, therealsnape!
To read "Irma's Library" at AO3, Click Here!
Everyone knows there are two types of librarian in the world. There is the spinster with her eternally pursed mouth and prim demeanor, who cherishes her books and silence above any human interaction. Then there is the second: indistinguishable from the first until she locks the doors for the evening, sets her spectacles down on the nearest desk, and frees her glorious mane of hair from its bun with one hand as she loosens the buttons on her blouse with the other…
Irma Pince, as any Hogwarts first year will tell you, is not the second kind of librarian. The idea falls somewhere between absurd and downright disturbing.
Irma herself would agree with that assessment wholeheartedly. No wanton hair-tossing for her. Her lovers are as carefully and precisely chosen as the titles that make up the shelves of Hogwarts’ library.
And just like her books, each has an order and a purpose.
***
Mondays mean reference.
To her students, Minerva McGonagall may be a less sexless entity than Irma, but the difference is largely academic. Irma doubts they fathom the true breadth and depth of the Deputy Headmistress’ knowledge, or the uses of Transfiguration she might teach them if it would not cause the entire Board of Governors to drop dead of a simultaneous heart attack. Though there have been days when Min has threatened to do just that in language that would provide her pupils with quite the education on its own, until Irma hits upon the proper distraction.
From Min, Irma has learned the gradations of hard and soft touches, and when to apply each. She has learned the physical limits of flexibility, and how far magic can stretch them. She has learned the hitch of breath that signifies “stop,” the one which signals “go faster,” and even the one that means “do that again.”
The one thing Irma has not learned from Min is the application of sweet nothings. For all the intimate ground they cover in their lessons, there is a somewhat detached quality to them. Irma suspects that Min only took her on as a temporary pupil, and has kept her out of pleasant surprise at discovering a prodigy.
Nonetheless, she accepts the instruction on whatever terms it is offered. And while she does not flatter herself that she will ever approach Min’s ability, she strives to pass on the master’s teachings.
***
Tuesdays, Irma brushes up on politics.
Even after his return to Hogwarts, Horace Slughorn insists on taking her out to dinner. Only the finest restaurants for the fairest of ladies, he declares, though she cannot help noticing that he favors establishments where old pupils can be persuaded to send out entrees “compliments of the chef,” or talks up the virtues of the house wines when she speculates on the merits of something more top-shelf. By now, she has learned to double-check the tip before leaving in case she needs to add a few surreptitious Galleons.
Irma would never dream of trying to dissuade Horace from the assumption that she agrees to the pleasure of his company for the prestige, or the food. On some level, though, she thinks he must realize she comes for the anecdotes. Most of them can only be swallowed with the copious amounts of salt Horace applies to his meat, but trying to sort out the truth from the exaggerations or the outright falsehoods is sufficient entertainment by itself. And when the oysters arrive, or the chocolate cake…well, then the truly intriguing tales spill forth.
As usual, Horace’s promises tend to be more impressive than their execution, particularly when it comes to substantive matters. But she must admit, whatever his failings, the man does possess a silver tongue.
***
Wednesdays, Irma checks the box scores.
If Rolanda Hooch knows any variety of intercourse other than “quick,” Irma has yet to see any evidence of it. She takes care to wear loose robes when she visits the Quidditch locker rooms, knowing that half the time she will not be given an opportunity to take them off, and the other half she will need to shed them before being dragged into the showers.
Fortunately, the speed with which Rolanda works is matched by her skill. From a few stray comments and her fluency in gasps and muffled groans, Irma has deduced she is another of Min’s students.
The particulars of their encounters may remain a blur when she attempts to recall them later, with gaps between moments A and B that seem only explicable through Apparition. But the exhilaration - that lingers clearly.
***
Thursdays are all about mystery.
Irma never knows what mood Severus Snape will be in on any given week, which is why unlike her other lovers, she never seeks him out. Months will pass without him setting foot in the library, or else he will sweep past to pluck a book from the shelves with no more acknowledgement than if she were a ghost or portrait. She no longer takes it personally. The day will come again, as it always does, when she will find him seated in the Restricted Section leafing through a slim volume bound in red leather. He will say nothing; will glance up at her for only the briefest of moments. But she will know it for her cue to return to the spot after curfew, secure in the certainty he will be waiting.
From that point, the assignations never proceed in quite the same way. Sometimes he is forceful, pinning her against the wall with an alacrity even Rolanda cannot match or binding her before she can blink. Sometimes he is hesitant, loosening each article of clothing as though he expects to be stopped before reaching the next hook. Sometimes he is drunk, and upon completion calls out a familiar name that is not hers - the only word he typically speaks.
Afterwards, though, as he smoothes out his robes, he will meet her eyes and nod once. Irma does not claim to be able to read him with precision; with the possible exception of Albus, she does not know anyone who can. But she takes it as gratitude: for offering him comfort, for withholding judgment. And she accepts it with gratitude enough to keep her Thursdays clear. Just in case.
***
Fridays, Irma indulges in guilty pleasures.
Outwardly, Madam Rosmerta is Irma’s opposite in every particular. Many a first schoolchild crush - and quite a few later infatuations - have been spawned in the wake of her signature turquoise-heeled strut. And unlike Irma, Rosmerta is not subtle about advertising interest in potential paramours, or limited in her selection.
However, as someone to whom opportunities have always presented themselves, Rosmerta has never needed to put in the effort which Irma has honed over the years, or acquired the patience and understanding partners like Min and Severus demand. So if it is with mingled lust, envy, and frustration that Irma counts the Friday nights she spends in Rosmerta’s tiny room above the Three Broomsticks as a coup, it is with pride that she basks in the awed praise which follows.
The feeling fades on the long walk of shame back to the castle. In a near-precise reversal of her trysts with Rolanda, she recalls every detail with greater clarity and irritation than when it occurred: the lack of reciprocity or even interest in her desires, capped by the realization that Rosmerta’s eyes stayed closed the whole time. By the time she storms back into her own room, she has resolved to reserve her charitable impulses for Severus, who actually needs them.
But by the next Friday night out, with a few pints in her, it is the pride she remembers when Rosmerta comes sashaying past the bar.
***
Saturdays, by contrast, are for romance.
Historical romance, to be precise. Long before Irma was a librarian, she was the envy of every girl in Hogwarts (and a few boys, too, she doesn’t doubt) able to see the clever, dashing, compassionate soul contained within Filius Flitwick’s small frame. There were countless picnics by the lake and long chats by the common room fire and study sessions which never resulted in much studying, including one memorable occasion when her predecessor chased them out of the stacks without giving Filius a chance to do up his robes.
The end, when it came, was quiet, but sudden and devastating. In all their talks, somehow, they missed or simply avoided touching upon those parts of the future which made it clear there could not be one. He went off seeking glory, and she was left to build the quiet life she had envisioned for one instead of two. An old, clichéd story: one she would have preferred never to read, much less play the protagonist.
By the time Fate brought them back together as colleagues, though, she had regained control of the narrative and made her peace with the abandoned plotlines. It helped that Deborah, Filius’s wife, turned out to be a dear woman without any sense of jealousy. Cordiality blossomed into friendship, and might have remained there happily ever after.
Then one morning, Deborah did not wake. Irma stood by Filius at the funeral and through the tearful nights that followed, and fought back against the ensuing gossip all the more vehemently in light of the secret, shameful spark she could feel reigniting as his ability to smile returned.
Until one day, he turned that smile on her, and she stopped fighting.
Like Irma’s other partners, Filius knows how she spends the rest of her week - knew well before becoming part of the rotation. He avoids the subject, but does not voice any objection. Yet. The day is coming, Irma senses, when he will clear his throat and ask in an earnest tone all the more charming for its hesitance whether she has given any thought to exclusivity.
She has. Of course she has. By the time he raises the question, she hopes to God she will have a more substantive response: one that satisfies her, let alone him. Because while she could easily give up Tuesdays and Fridays, and let Mondays and Wednesdays go with only a twinge of regret, and she’s never been sure Thursdays are a good idea, there are still Sundays to consider.
And Irma would dearly hate to lose Sundays. For those are the days when she curls up with her other old favorite.
***
Argus Filch does not have a reputation as a kind or a patient man. Irma appreciates that. She’s been known to fling the occasional book at a student, but confines her desire to string the true problem cases up by their thumbs to silent, wistful fantasy. Argus, bless him, has no such qualms or concept of discretion.
But she also appreciates the side of Argus which most people only glimpse (and make prurient insinuations about) in his regard for Mrs. Norris. With her, he is always the gentleman, but with none of Horace’s airs: leaping up when he realizes he’s forgotten to pull out her chair for her, or anxiously confirming that yes, she really is enjoying the soup. Every date is a strange but deeply satisfying combination of a first, fumbling encounter and comfortable familiarity.
She can count on her fingers and a smattering of toes the number of times Argus has shown interest in sex. It’s not that he doesn’t find her attractive. She knows that from the way his gaze glides over when he thinks she’s distracted, and the residual heat in his eyes when he glances back up and realizes she’s watching. But he seems content with looking, and with spooning her when they crawl under the covers at the end of the evening, arm around her waist and nose burrowed in her hair.
Which, by week’s end, is enough for Irma. More than enough.
***
Everyone knows there are two types of librarian in the world. But there is only one Irma Pince. And she contains volumes.
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