396So yes, I should be writing lots of other things. And yet, here I am… I was a good little writer and got my word count in. Then this fell out of fingers. I'm blaming Severus Snape...
Oh and this started off with the 'sending a patronus whilst drunk' trope, but, as this is Hermione Granger, she had to go one better. Which means this fic is not the short little one-two shot I was expecting *sigh*
Mostly M for language at the minute.
Entangled
Hermione groaned. She pressed a hot, sweating hand to her forehead and her groan deepened. She was not drinking again. Never. Never ever. Stampeding hippogriff hooves couldn't thunder as loud as the pounding in her poor skull.
She opened bleary eyes and her bedroom ceiling swam into view. She'd –somehow— made it home. She frowned. Most of the night was as blurred as her vision. Fuck.
They'd been out somewhere in Soho, some club Ron and Harry had stumbled across as apprentice Aurors. Good food, great music and a hot dance floor… Hermione wiggled her toes and pain lanced across the arches of her feet. It gripped her calves and forced an ache through her thighs. Yes, obviously a great deal of dancing. She'd danced…with a man. Wrapped herself around him and had Ron spitting out his tequila in disbelief.
Staid and dusty Archive Apprentice Hermione Granger did not do a fantastic impression of Devil's Snare. But from what she could remember, this man had been worth the wasted shot. Tall, dark and an accented voice so deep it was somewhere in his boots.
She craned her neck to the side, found her bed empty and huffed out a sour laugh. Last time she was in that position—
Hermione closed her eyes and willed away the images, the sensations, the feeling… "Fuck." She sat up, denying the memories and her world lurched. She flopped back into the softness of her pillows and fought the rising nausea. What had she been doing? What had she been drinking? Every inch of her ached. Naturally, she didn't get to pull every muscle because of wild and rampant debauchery. It was never her luck.
She was twenty one. Young, free and most definitely single. Very single. Morbidly single. So why in the name of Circe's left tit, wasn't there a tall, dark, accented man lounging about on her rumpled sheets, suggesting they have another go? Because—she huffed out a hot breath—because there was only one tall, dark, velvet-voiced man she wanted in her bed.
And she'd had him. For one, blissful, blissful night…before it all turned to shit.
Hermione pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets and welcomed the pressure. She would not suffer another day of mooning over Severus Snape. He'd made his interest in her clear: A good fuck and no, I won't stay for breakfast. Her mouth twisted. The bastard had run from her flat whilst she was in the bathroom. Not a word. Nothing. And not a word since, either.
She breathed against the hollow ache in her belly. She'd managed to admit to herself that she'd spent too long in the bathroom that morning. Hiding. Panicked. So unsure of how to proceed. Thick with elf-made wine, propositioning him had been easy. But in the morning light and blisteringly sober, she could hardly just fall back into bed with him.
Standing in the bathroom doorway and staring at her empty bed, scourified of every hint of…them, had made her decision for her.
Hermione dug her toes into the rug set beside her bed and willed away the burn in her eyes. Six months and thoughts of him still stabbed at her. Why had she thought it such a good idea to satisfy her insane schoolgirl crush?
Because it's not a crush.
She swore, ignoring that irritating voice in her head. The one that said she should put on her Gryffindor knickers and owl him. Find out why he left. Either he would be interested, or she could get a seal on her uncertainty and move on. She was twenty one. She shouldn't be hung on a miserable bat of a man twice her age. She shouldn't have him as her only moment of bliss.
She was fucking Hermione Granger. War hero. Wizards fell over their tongues for her—
She winced at that image. She wasn't Ron, a young man happy to play up his fame to pull a plethora of witches into his bed. She'd always believed she'd needed more —which was why she'd never fallen for Ron's less than pleasant hints to fuck when they were hunting horcruxes. Severus had… Damn it, she had to face her wants, her needs, so another wizard could provide them. But who had that voice, that stunning intelligence and could combine the two to make her tremble, make her come by those assets alone?
And he had. At the awful Ministry New Year ball, when she'd sidled up to him and flirted. Badly. The scent of cloves and cedar caught her in their dark little corner, the heat of his body surrounding her, driving away all thought of anyone else. And his words. His promises. With simply his smooth, warm lips at the shell of her ear he'd brought her to a blistering orgasm.
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose and pushed herself away from her bed. Hangover Potion and a shower. Then a slow Sunday morning. Maybe coffee and cake from the café on the corner. Definitely nothing too taxing.
She shuffled to the bathroom, feeling grubby and sore. She'd slept in her clothes. Which meant she'd been completely wasted. And she felt drained. She hadn't flashed magic in front of muggles, had she? That would hardly go down well on the night they celebrated Harry and Ron's induction as fully qualified aurors.
It was unlikely. A flurry of letters would already be battering her. No doubt she'd been showing off obscure spells she found in the archives. Apparently, she did that whilst drunk. She never yet had any memory of it.
She stared into the bathroom mirror. Hungover Medusa stared back at her. Had she been crying the night before? Her eyes were red and swollen. Nothing more appealing than a miserable drunk. Wonderful.
She washed away the worst of the smeared makeup and fumbled in the cabinet for a vial of Hangover Potion. She made her own. Well, she had for the past six months. Severus had patented his cure and she couldn't face the sinuous and combined Ss on the label. Her cure was fine –not as good as his, naturally— but it took care of the worst of her hangover. With a slow day and not much movement, she'd be fine by Monday.
Her wards pinged and she choked on the vile potion. Coughing, she stumbled from the bathroom. Harry didn't get hangovers. Bastard. And he thought it great fun to visit her, as she most definitely did.
She yanked open her door. "Harry Potter, you great git, you can just fu—"
She stared. Her mouth fell open.
"Good morning, Miss Granger."
Hermione blinked. What in the name of Merlin's saggy ball sack was Severus Snape doing on her doorstep?
Let me know what you think :)
I'll post chapter two in a smidge...
