Title: Hermione's Severely Botched Love Life
Author: Ivory Tower
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns all Harry Potter characters and concepts.
Hogwarts was hosting its annual staff Christmas party. Hagrid was stationed by the egg nog, loudly humming Christmas carols. Professors Flitwick and McGonagall were sampling the familiar deli tray to make sure that the ham was up to par. Dumbledore and Professor Sprout were in the midst of a confetti fight. Filch watched while adding a generous amount of whiskey to his hot cider, seemingly mindless of the huge mess he would later have to clean up.
Professor Granger; however, was standing near the door, a little awed by the spectacle. The was her first year of teaching at Hogwarts, and she still felt a little shy around her colleagues. Even Snape, she noticed, was in attendance. He was stationed by the mixed nuts, carefully picking out the cashews, and munching them with a sour expression. Sibyl Trelawney, decked in a nightmarish pearlescent sequined gown, emerged with a tray of cocktail glasses.
"Martinis, anyone," she asked as though offering to tell fortunes. Hermione relented and accpeted one. Snape and McGonagall did likewise.
"A toast," said Minerva, "to-"
WE INTERRUPT THIS STORY TO BRING YOU THE MOMENT OF TRUTH!!!!!! Snape notices that Hermione is drop dead gorgeous. Yeah, baby! His icy heart of 18 years has melted, and he longs to fondle Professor Granger's voluptuous breasts.
Hermione took a modest sip of her alcoholic beverage. Snape suddenly looked less grumpy, and more...well, he looked quite horny, to be perfectly honest. Must be the alcohol. Professor Granger then excused herself to the conveniently picturesque window where she could sadly reflect on a past relationship gone bad.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is time for the overused and pointless flashback scenario!
Tired from a strenuous day at the Ministry of Magic, Hermione entered the flat she shared with Ron Weasley. A little oral sex sounded soothing after such a difficult day. First, though, Hermione wanted a nice cup of tea.
"Ron," she called out, laying aside her important satchel containing the Ministry's next strategy against Voldemort, "would you be a dear and put on a kettle of tea while I slip into my sexy yet modest lounging attire?" No response. "Ron?" Hermione walked down the dark hallway of foreshadowing to the bedroom, and knocked on the door. "Are you in there, Ron? It's getting awfully suspenseful out here."
Hermione thought she heard a noise so she walked on in. Ron was wearing a sequined, multi-colored thong, a shirt and tie, long black socks, and one of Hermione's bras on his head. He was on the telephone, and he was daincing while rubbing his crotch.
"Oh yeah, baby. It's *aaaallll* good," Ron told the person on the other end.
Hermione stared, horrified. Then, rage overtook her. She, too, began to dance and rub herself.
"Is it all good, Ron? Huh? Is it," Hermione asked angrily.
Ron whirled around to face his fiancee, a stupid look of surprise on his face. It was the last memory of Ron that Hermione would ever have, for she had left him that night, never to return.
Tears filled Hermione's brown/honey/golden/hazel eyes as she recalled Ron's downward spiral into1-900 number smut. The obsession had robbed him of what dignity he'd ever had. Percy had sent his condolences, along with an all-too-casual inquiry of the exact digits of the malignant sexline. Hermione secretly blamed Arthur Weasley and his fascination with all things muggle for his sons' phone sex fetish. She could not enjoy the party; therefore, there was but one thing to do.
Ten minutes later, Hermione walked outside in the softly falling snow, clad in her laciest night attire. The moon was so bright and sad and romantic that Hermione began to dance. Alcohol always made her want to dance in her sensual night clothes. It was good for the story.
Que Snape's Not-So-Dramatic-Entrance-To-The-Outdoor-Elements
"Miss Granger? Why are you dressed so poorly in such weather? Do you want your feet to freeze, and turn black, and rot off? That gown accentuates your clevage perfectly. Your nipples are stading at perfect attention. You dance like a drunken angel."
"Oh, Professor Snape! You say such pretty things! Tee hee! Come dance with me."
Snape shrugged, and the two proceeded to do Stevie Nicks twirls in the softly falling snow. The sheer romanticism of it all made even Snape's yellow, uneven teeth beautiful in their own weird way.
"Is it all good, Professor Snape?"
"Oh, it's *aaalllllll* good, Miss Granger."
Hermione instantly knew that she had found her eternal soulmate that had been prophesized three pastlives, twice removed, ago. A prophecy prophesized by none other than the all-powerful toilet bowl of Nicholas Flamel himself. Nevermind the other 47 times she had felt this way after drinking alcohol. Tonight was forever. She could *feel* it!
Twelve hours of forever later...
Hermione awoke naked in a room that wasn't hers. It wasn't a bedroom at all. In fact, it was-.
"Good morning, Miss Granger."
"Headmaster!" Hermione rolled off the headmaster's desk and scrambled to cover herself. "I-what-why are you wearing my nightie? Where's Snape?"
"Ah, he has been in the shower for the past two hours, attempting to scrub cherry red lipstick from his entire body."
"What *happened*?"
Dumbledore fixed Hermione with a firm gaze. "Do you really want to know?"
"I-I'm afraid! What have I done?"
"The question, I believe, should be what *haven't* you done, Miss Granger? Hermione gasped and put a hand to her mouth. "We just found Filius dangling from the chandalier by what I believe are your stockings. He was quite incoherent, but the few things he did say involved olives and other things I won't discuss in the light of day."
"Headmaster, I assure you that I don't remember a thing! I don't even have cherry red lipstick."
"Severus does," stated Dumbledore cooly. "Along with a pair of black patent leather pumps." Dumbledore motioned down at his feet. Hermione winced. She didn't need to see that right now. "What I cannot figure out," continued the headmaster, "is how Minerva's panties ended up on Hagrid *without* the aid of magic."
"None of this is making any sense," shouted Hermione, her head reeling.
"Ah, but these things rarely do, Miss Granger. However, I believe it would be quiet inappropriate for you to remain estranged from Ronald Weasley on the pretense of decency."
Hermione sighed. "You're right, Professor. I guess all of us have our vices."
And so, Hermione went back to Ron and her old job at the Ministry of Magic. Snape didn't feel too bad. After all, there were plenty of new DADA professors to keep him busy. But sometimes, on certain winter nights when the snow is softly falling and the moonlight is especially bright, you can still see Professor Snape, his skinny body covered in cherry red lipstick, twirling in the newley fallen snow while an old man in a lacy negligee and black patent leather pumps, looks on.
~FIN~
Author: Ivory Tower
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns all Harry Potter characters and concepts.
Hogwarts was hosting its annual staff Christmas party. Hagrid was stationed by the egg nog, loudly humming Christmas carols. Professors Flitwick and McGonagall were sampling the familiar deli tray to make sure that the ham was up to par. Dumbledore and Professor Sprout were in the midst of a confetti fight. Filch watched while adding a generous amount of whiskey to his hot cider, seemingly mindless of the huge mess he would later have to clean up.
Professor Granger; however, was standing near the door, a little awed by the spectacle. The was her first year of teaching at Hogwarts, and she still felt a little shy around her colleagues. Even Snape, she noticed, was in attendance. He was stationed by the mixed nuts, carefully picking out the cashews, and munching them with a sour expression. Sibyl Trelawney, decked in a nightmarish pearlescent sequined gown, emerged with a tray of cocktail glasses.
"Martinis, anyone," she asked as though offering to tell fortunes. Hermione relented and accpeted one. Snape and McGonagall did likewise.
"A toast," said Minerva, "to-"
WE INTERRUPT THIS STORY TO BRING YOU THE MOMENT OF TRUTH!!!!!! Snape notices that Hermione is drop dead gorgeous. Yeah, baby! His icy heart of 18 years has melted, and he longs to fondle Professor Granger's voluptuous breasts.
Hermione took a modest sip of her alcoholic beverage. Snape suddenly looked less grumpy, and more...well, he looked quite horny, to be perfectly honest. Must be the alcohol. Professor Granger then excused herself to the conveniently picturesque window where she could sadly reflect on a past relationship gone bad.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it is time for the overused and pointless flashback scenario!
Tired from a strenuous day at the Ministry of Magic, Hermione entered the flat she shared with Ron Weasley. A little oral sex sounded soothing after such a difficult day. First, though, Hermione wanted a nice cup of tea.
"Ron," she called out, laying aside her important satchel containing the Ministry's next strategy against Voldemort, "would you be a dear and put on a kettle of tea while I slip into my sexy yet modest lounging attire?" No response. "Ron?" Hermione walked down the dark hallway of foreshadowing to the bedroom, and knocked on the door. "Are you in there, Ron? It's getting awfully suspenseful out here."
Hermione thought she heard a noise so she walked on in. Ron was wearing a sequined, multi-colored thong, a shirt and tie, long black socks, and one of Hermione's bras on his head. He was on the telephone, and he was daincing while rubbing his crotch.
"Oh yeah, baby. It's *aaaallll* good," Ron told the person on the other end.
Hermione stared, horrified. Then, rage overtook her. She, too, began to dance and rub herself.
"Is it all good, Ron? Huh? Is it," Hermione asked angrily.
Ron whirled around to face his fiancee, a stupid look of surprise on his face. It was the last memory of Ron that Hermione would ever have, for she had left him that night, never to return.
Tears filled Hermione's brown/honey/golden/hazel eyes as she recalled Ron's downward spiral into1-900 number smut. The obsession had robbed him of what dignity he'd ever had. Percy had sent his condolences, along with an all-too-casual inquiry of the exact digits of the malignant sexline. Hermione secretly blamed Arthur Weasley and his fascination with all things muggle for his sons' phone sex fetish. She could not enjoy the party; therefore, there was but one thing to do.
Ten minutes later, Hermione walked outside in the softly falling snow, clad in her laciest night attire. The moon was so bright and sad and romantic that Hermione began to dance. Alcohol always made her want to dance in her sensual night clothes. It was good for the story.
Que Snape's Not-So-Dramatic-Entrance-To-The-Outdoor-Elements
"Miss Granger? Why are you dressed so poorly in such weather? Do you want your feet to freeze, and turn black, and rot off? That gown accentuates your clevage perfectly. Your nipples are stading at perfect attention. You dance like a drunken angel."
"Oh, Professor Snape! You say such pretty things! Tee hee! Come dance with me."
Snape shrugged, and the two proceeded to do Stevie Nicks twirls in the softly falling snow. The sheer romanticism of it all made even Snape's yellow, uneven teeth beautiful in their own weird way.
"Is it all good, Professor Snape?"
"Oh, it's *aaalllllll* good, Miss Granger."
Hermione instantly knew that she had found her eternal soulmate that had been prophesized three pastlives, twice removed, ago. A prophecy prophesized by none other than the all-powerful toilet bowl of Nicholas Flamel himself. Nevermind the other 47 times she had felt this way after drinking alcohol. Tonight was forever. She could *feel* it!
Twelve hours of forever later...
Hermione awoke naked in a room that wasn't hers. It wasn't a bedroom at all. In fact, it was-.
"Good morning, Miss Granger."
"Headmaster!" Hermione rolled off the headmaster's desk and scrambled to cover herself. "I-what-why are you wearing my nightie? Where's Snape?"
"Ah, he has been in the shower for the past two hours, attempting to scrub cherry red lipstick from his entire body."
"What *happened*?"
Dumbledore fixed Hermione with a firm gaze. "Do you really want to know?"
"I-I'm afraid! What have I done?"
"The question, I believe, should be what *haven't* you done, Miss Granger? Hermione gasped and put a hand to her mouth. "We just found Filius dangling from the chandalier by what I believe are your stockings. He was quite incoherent, but the few things he did say involved olives and other things I won't discuss in the light of day."
"Headmaster, I assure you that I don't remember a thing! I don't even have cherry red lipstick."
"Severus does," stated Dumbledore cooly. "Along with a pair of black patent leather pumps." Dumbledore motioned down at his feet. Hermione winced. She didn't need to see that right now. "What I cannot figure out," continued the headmaster, "is how Minerva's panties ended up on Hagrid *without* the aid of magic."
"None of this is making any sense," shouted Hermione, her head reeling.
"Ah, but these things rarely do, Miss Granger. However, I believe it would be quiet inappropriate for you to remain estranged from Ronald Weasley on the pretense of decency."
Hermione sighed. "You're right, Professor. I guess all of us have our vices."
And so, Hermione went back to Ron and her old job at the Ministry of Magic. Snape didn't feel too bad. After all, there were plenty of new DADA professors to keep him busy. But sometimes, on certain winter nights when the snow is softly falling and the moonlight is especially bright, you can still see Professor Snape, his skinny body covered in cherry red lipstick, twirling in the newley fallen snow while an old man in a lacy negligee and black patent leather pumps, looks on.
~FIN~