when you were mine ss/hg
Title: When You Were Mine
Pairing: Snape/Hermione
Rating: PGish
Status: Completed One-Shot
Summary: A chance encounter grants an estranged couple a second chance. Fluffiness.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.
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Witches and wizards tipsy on butterbeer supported one another while screaming from hoarse lungs. Bright faces painted orange dripped small beads of perspiration and chanted merry insults. The stadium was filled to burst, and had grown unbearably hot from so many screaming fans. Chudley Cannons vs. Pride of Portree, semifinals round. The Cannons hadn’t been to the semifinals in decades. And here they were, tied sixty-to-sixty for the past half hour, with no snitch in sight.
In one of the lower stands was a girl, her long curly hair adorned with an orange ribbon. She gasped suddenly. “O-Oh, damn.” She held her hair away from her face and looked down, poking her toe into the many bits of orange paper littering the rather rickety bench.
Tsking in frustration, the girl pulled on the sleeve of a black-haired boy next to her. “I’ve lost my programme, can you see it anywhere?”
“Hmm? Oh, no, I haven’t,” said the boy unhelpfully, eyes never leaving the play going on in the air in front of him.
“Madam, I have an extra programme. Take it,” said a man behind her. Said program appeared at her side, held by an outstretched hand.
Her fingers were already on the programme, mind eager to thumb through it for a fact on Portree’s chaser. With a pleased smile, she turned to thank her donator.
“Thank…”
Her eyes met his, and the smile slowly slid from her face. Her mouth remained parted in surprise.
“You.” Her tone was more accusatory than appreciative.
The man moved the programme closer to her. “Well? Take it.”
She roughly pulled the programme from his hands, and was about to turn around again when he cleared his throat.
“Obviously you are not pleased to see me.”
She deliberately ignored that statement. “I didn’t know you liked Quidditch,” she said somewhat testily.
“For many years I did not.” His dark eyes scanned the players in front of them.
Marry in haste; repent at leisure, as her grandmother once told her. They had been married almost a year before parting on poor terms, the last six months of which were almost unbearable. Finally one night she’d screamed that he was a domineering asshole, and she’d hex him if he called her a “silly girl” one more time. He’d whispered soft and low for her to get out if she didn’t like it. So she had.
“I recall a rather intense dislike of the entire game. And for those who enjoyed it as well,” she said.
“I’ve gained more of an appreciation recently,” he said.
“Enough to attend games, I see.”
“Clearly.”
“And how do you find them? Frivolous?”
He’d called everything about her frivolous; the way she’d appreciated fine clothing, enjoyed going to Muggle cinema, and always, always ordered dessert.
Her eyes narrowed. “An unnecessary show of affection?”
One of the last arguments they’d had before she’d left was the same tired script about how she treated her best friends.
“No. I rather enjoy them,” he said without menace.
“Oh.”
She was silent. That’s twice she’d baited him and been met with calm politeness. When they had been together, it would have been enough to send him into a moody rage for hours.
“I…particularly enjoy the affection shown by the fans.” He cleared his throat quietly. “I better understand it now.”
They had come together so quickly, she pondered. One day she had thought she hated him, and the next was surprised to see him smouldering at her in his classroom. Even more surprised that she found she didn’t want to look away. Graduation Day hadn’t come soon enough. Barely ten words had been exchanged between them when she finally came to him that night. When she’d daringly thumped on his door. When he’d answered and, wordlessly, pulled her into his rooms. When he'd kissed her deeply and sighed her name into her ear, hands entangled in her hair. When-
His words interrupted her thoughts. “You look well.”
She reddened a bit. “Thanks.”
She could not say the same to him. He was even paler than she remembered, dressed in his requisite black robes. He also seemed much thinner than when she’d last seen him two years ago. His long, slim fingers rested on his knee. She closed her eyes for a brief moment.
“How is Hogwarts?”
“The same. And are you still attending Muggle university?”
“Yes, I am,” she said rather hotly.
“Good…good,” he murmured.
The crowd roared as a Cannons chaser scored. She absently clapped, then immediately looked at him in incredulity. “Don’t tell me you approve? You never approved.”
He had told her she was wasting her time at a Muggle university, that she should be apprenticing Arithmancy or Healing. But, she’d wanted the experience of it, something she felt she’d be missing out on in the Wizard Community.
“I thought you much too intelligent to bandy about with a Muggle education.”
She suppressed a snort. She was twenty-one now, after all.
“I was wrong to try to change your mind. It was your choice.”
Again, she was surprised to hear these words coming from him. She looked at him, only to see him watching her intensely.
“I realise I didn’t give you enough freedom. Didn’t make enough concessions. I was set in my ways.”
He was still gazing at her intently. She wished he’d look away.
“I envied the way you spoke to them so easily,” he continued softly, his eyes flicking to the boys next to her. “I never made an effort to try, though. I should have. I know that now.”
A small piece of orange paper fluttered down from somewhere in the stands above. He brushed it from her curls, but his hand did not leave her face. Instead he wound his fingers over her chin and into her hair.
Something deep inside of her started to shake uncontrollably, as if she was in a bitter winter night, not a hot stadium in June.
“I’ve missed you.” His eyes continued to stare deeply into hers. “Very much.”
Finally, the sharp blackness grew to be too much. She looked away and stepped back ever so slightly.
His hand dropped from her face. “You are happier now, I assume?”
She was about to say yes, that she was much happier doing as she pleased, thank you very much, dating nice boys from her uni and gallivanting with her friends to the pub for good times, not stuck in a dusty library with a cantankerous man who said her music was crap and disliked holding her hand in public.
But something stopped that biting retort from leaving her mouth when she saw his face and instead answered truthfully.
“I…am not.”
He was white about the mouth and his arm gripped hers. He leaned closer to her and spoke with a raspy whisper. “Will you come back to me?”
Suddenly, the crowd erupted into fanatical shouts of excitement and elation. The Cannon’s seeker had caught the snitch. The black haired boy hugged his red haired friend and pumped a fist into the air. They lustily chanted along with the crowd a joyful winners' taunt.
The man and the girl saw none of this. He held his hand out to her as she alighted from the last step. She smiled shyly and took it. He tucked her hand under his arm as they walked out of the stadium and into the clear summer night.
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Author’s Note:
This insistent plot bunny was affectionately inspired by L.M. Montgomery’s short story “Kismet”. No infringement is intended or money being made on my part.
The picture was created exclusively for this story by Lo and may not be archived, iconed, bannered, licked or loled at without our permission. Thanks!
Pairing: Snape/Hermione
Rating: PGish
Status: Completed One-Shot
Summary: A chance encounter grants an estranged couple a second chance. Fluffiness.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.
--------------------------------------
Witches and wizards tipsy on butterbeer supported one another while screaming from hoarse lungs. Bright faces painted orange dripped small beads of perspiration and chanted merry insults. The stadium was filled to burst, and had grown unbearably hot from so many screaming fans. Chudley Cannons vs. Pride of Portree, semifinals round. The Cannons hadn’t been to the semifinals in decades. And here they were, tied sixty-to-sixty for the past half hour, with no snitch in sight.
In one of the lower stands was a girl, her long curly hair adorned with an orange ribbon. She gasped suddenly. “O-Oh, damn.” She held her hair away from her face and looked down, poking her toe into the many bits of orange paper littering the rather rickety bench.
Tsking in frustration, the girl pulled on the sleeve of a black-haired boy next to her. “I’ve lost my programme, can you see it anywhere?”
“Hmm? Oh, no, I haven’t,” said the boy unhelpfully, eyes never leaving the play going on in the air in front of him.
“Madam, I have an extra programme. Take it,” said a man behind her. Said program appeared at her side, held by an outstretched hand.
Her fingers were already on the programme, mind eager to thumb through it for a fact on Portree’s chaser. With a pleased smile, she turned to thank her donator.
“Thank…”
Her eyes met his, and the smile slowly slid from her face. Her mouth remained parted in surprise.
“You.” Her tone was more accusatory than appreciative.
The man moved the programme closer to her. “Well? Take it.”
She roughly pulled the programme from his hands, and was about to turn around again when he cleared his throat.
“Obviously you are not pleased to see me.”
She deliberately ignored that statement. “I didn’t know you liked Quidditch,” she said somewhat testily.
“For many years I did not.” His dark eyes scanned the players in front of them.
Marry in haste; repent at leisure, as her grandmother once told her. They had been married almost a year before parting on poor terms, the last six months of which were almost unbearable. Finally one night she’d screamed that he was a domineering asshole, and she’d hex him if he called her a “silly girl” one more time. He’d whispered soft and low for her to get out if she didn’t like it. So she had.
“I recall a rather intense dislike of the entire game. And for those who enjoyed it as well,” she said.
“I’ve gained more of an appreciation recently,” he said.
“Enough to attend games, I see.”
“Clearly.”
“And how do you find them? Frivolous?”
He’d called everything about her frivolous; the way she’d appreciated fine clothing, enjoyed going to Muggle cinema, and always, always ordered dessert.
Her eyes narrowed. “An unnecessary show of affection?”
One of the last arguments they’d had before she’d left was the same tired script about how she treated her best friends.
“No. I rather enjoy them,” he said without menace.
“Oh.”
She was silent. That’s twice she’d baited him and been met with calm politeness. When they had been together, it would have been enough to send him into a moody rage for hours.
“I…particularly enjoy the affection shown by the fans.” He cleared his throat quietly. “I better understand it now.”
They had come together so quickly, she pondered. One day she had thought she hated him, and the next was surprised to see him smouldering at her in his classroom. Even more surprised that she found she didn’t want to look away. Graduation Day hadn’t come soon enough. Barely ten words had been exchanged between them when she finally came to him that night. When she’d daringly thumped on his door. When he’d answered and, wordlessly, pulled her into his rooms. When he'd kissed her deeply and sighed her name into her ear, hands entangled in her hair. When-
His words interrupted her thoughts. “You look well.”
She reddened a bit. “Thanks.”
She could not say the same to him. He was even paler than she remembered, dressed in his requisite black robes. He also seemed much thinner than when she’d last seen him two years ago. His long, slim fingers rested on his knee. She closed her eyes for a brief moment.
“How is Hogwarts?”
“The same. And are you still attending Muggle university?”
“Yes, I am,” she said rather hotly.
“Good…good,” he murmured.
The crowd roared as a Cannons chaser scored. She absently clapped, then immediately looked at him in incredulity. “Don’t tell me you approve? You never approved.”
He had told her she was wasting her time at a Muggle university, that she should be apprenticing Arithmancy or Healing. But, she’d wanted the experience of it, something she felt she’d be missing out on in the Wizard Community.
“I thought you much too intelligent to bandy about with a Muggle education.”
She suppressed a snort. She was twenty-one now, after all.
“I was wrong to try to change your mind. It was your choice.”
Again, she was surprised to hear these words coming from him. She looked at him, only to see him watching her intensely.
“I realise I didn’t give you enough freedom. Didn’t make enough concessions. I was set in my ways.”
He was still gazing at her intently. She wished he’d look away.
“I envied the way you spoke to them so easily,” he continued softly, his eyes flicking to the boys next to her. “I never made an effort to try, though. I should have. I know that now.”
A small piece of orange paper fluttered down from somewhere in the stands above. He brushed it from her curls, but his hand did not leave her face. Instead he wound his fingers over her chin and into her hair.
Something deep inside of her started to shake uncontrollably, as if she was in a bitter winter night, not a hot stadium in June.
“I’ve missed you.” His eyes continued to stare deeply into hers. “Very much.”
Finally, the sharp blackness grew to be too much. She looked away and stepped back ever so slightly.
His hand dropped from her face. “You are happier now, I assume?”
She was about to say yes, that she was much happier doing as she pleased, thank you very much, dating nice boys from her uni and gallivanting with her friends to the pub for good times, not stuck in a dusty library with a cantankerous man who said her music was crap and disliked holding her hand in public.
But something stopped that biting retort from leaving her mouth when she saw his face and instead answered truthfully.
“I…am not.”
He was white about the mouth and his arm gripped hers. He leaned closer to her and spoke with a raspy whisper. “Will you come back to me?”
Suddenly, the crowd erupted into fanatical shouts of excitement and elation. The Cannon’s seeker had caught the snitch. The black haired boy hugged his red haired friend and pumped a fist into the air. They lustily chanted along with the crowd a joyful winners' taunt.
The man and the girl saw none of this. He held his hand out to her as she alighted from the last step. She smiled shyly and took it. He tucked her hand under his arm as they walked out of the stadium and into the clear summer night.
--------------------------------------
Author’s Note:
This insistent plot bunny was affectionately inspired by L.M. Montgomery’s short story “Kismet”. No infringement is intended or money being made on my part.
The picture was created exclusively for this story by Lo and may not be archived, iconed, bannered, licked or loled at without our permission. Thanks!