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An Accidental Affair Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 29007 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

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“What the fuck is he doing here?” Hermione muttered, glaring across the room at the black figure, approaching with long echoing strides like a study in supercilious self-possession. Without warning, Professor Snape turned on the spot, the closest students almost careening into his chest which, Hermione noted, he still held with all of the tension of someone trying not to fart.

“Merlin’s buggery bollocks,” she hissed through gritted teeth as his voice rang out like some morose bell with a particularly large clapper. Her hungover brain shrank away from her ears in protest.

“I expect you all to conduct yourselves with the utmost decorum.” He lifted his head at the end of his sentence as if conducting an orchestra with his prominent beak. “You are not to touch . . . any . . . of the artefacts.”

Hermione huffed audibly. He was clearly still over-using the dramatic pause.

“You will be required to write two feet of parchment about this excursion so ensure that you use this time wisely.” He now lowered his nose, bowing out of the one-sided conversation.

The students gradually dispersed as though only just discovering that they hadn’t been physically petrified by his words. Hermione remembered that intense discomfort only too well. Her heart had spent the vast majority of time in the dank dungeons, jiggling around her bellybutton like some sort of arrhythmic jellyfish.

So it was with some satisfaction that she now found herself feeling considerably more annoyed than afraid of him. She had changed since Hogwarts. The real world had hardened her. And being poor and almost perpetually hungover meant that she spent more time working on her caustic wit than trying to appease people who were nearly always wholly undeserving.

She stood very still. With any luck she might be able to hold her position between the two wooden cabinets, like some slightly dishevelled installation piece, and avoid engaging with him entirely as he stalked around the room, peering and prying like some sort of malevolent crow. Even if he had nearly died trying to save the wizarding world, he had been, and probably still was, a colossal asshole.

What the fuck?

He seemed to have stopped mid-snoop and was now surreptitiously backing up to one of the pieces. In fact, he appeared to be almost standing upon the plinth, his dark cloak spread ominously like the wings of a vampiric bat. Had he crossed the line? She was shocked. He, of all people, should know better than to cross the line.

Hermione stepped forward, trying to smooth down her hair which she felt curling like possessed Devil’s Snare. Marching officiously, she approached, stopping directly in front of him.

“Professor Snape, I would ask that you kindly step away from that piece.” She found herself adopting an unusually haughty demeanour, attempting to repay just a small fraction of the intimidation she had suffered at his hands over seven years of schooling. “You will notice that a line has been provided on the floor to indicate the appropriate proximity to each piece. Please ensure that you remain behind the line at all times.”

He glared at her, beetle black eyes glittering. “Miss Granger.” His voice sneered even if his ghostly face didn’t. “May I ask what authority you claim here?”

“I happen to work here, so I claim the authority of an employee who has been entrusted with protecting these artefacts. I’m afraid you’ll find that my authority surpasses that of a visiting secondary school teacher.”

His eyebrow ticked almost imperceptibly and she could tell by the icy blue motes that seeded the depths of his eyes that he was decidedly unimpressed.

“I see.” He inhaled sharply, finishing with a snort of displeasure. “Then I shall move. But only when the students are ready to leave. Another few minutes.”

It was Hermione’s turn to be taken aback. She was never challenged when it came to enforcing the ‘don’t cross the line’ rule. It was the most basic tenet of museum etiquette. And who the fuck did he think he was anyway?

“I’m afraid, Professor,” she over-pronounced the honorific, “that I can’t allow that. You will step away this instant or I am authorised to forcibly remove you.”

This time he did sneer. And fold his arms. She waited. Then pulled her wand.

His sneer dropped away. Clearly he remembered how adept she was, even as a student.

“Miss Granger.” His voice was barely a whisper as it curled around her name. She could feel every student’s ear straining toward them. “I think that would be most unwise, don’t you?”

Her eyes rested upon the deep furrow of his brow, absorbing the familiar paradox of his conciliatory and yet patently threatening tone. She sniffed disparagingly, determined to demonstrate that she was no longer cowed his presence. Then she took a step closer.

“Professor Snape,” she murmured. “I couldn’t give a Niffler’s ear what your credentials are. You will respect my authority here, or be subjected to the consequences.”

He scrutinised her in that same withering manner that had given rise to such memorable phrases as ‘insufferable know-it-all.’ She was too hungover to care. She just wanted him to go away.

“One would imagine,” his voice had dropped impossibly low, like the bottom key of an old piano, grating and unpleasant, “that being inebriated in the workplace might constitute some form of occupational health and safety breach.”

Her jaw tightened as she held her breath, trying to retract the fumes from last night’s bender despite the fact that they had clearly already entered his annoyingly proficient, patently pompous nostrils.

With a twist of her mouth, she suddenly raised her wand to him. His hand jerked up in response. As soon as his fingers touched the wood, a blue bolt shot from the end, blasting the object behind him.

With a gasp, she pushed him aside to reveal the tattered remains, crisp and smoking, of a book. Below it sat a card, unharmed and contemptuously white.

The Magic of Sex by Walter. P. Whiffle. Only known copy to survive the reign of Lord Barnaby the Pure.

“Look what you’ve done!” she cried.

“I did nothing, whatsoever,” he growled. “This was entirely your fault.”

Suddenly the ancient oak door flew open. In stormed a small man with round glasses and a long grey beard, followed by a tall man in a suit.

“What’s going on here!” The small man demanded, clapping his hands to draw their attention.

“I’m so sorry, Mr Dooley.” Hermione approached him. “I’m afraid there has been an accident.”

The man pushed past her and stood, staring at the smoking ruins, mouth agape, hands slowly curling into fists.

“Get these children out of here,” he growled, his gaze not deviating from the charred remains.

As the suited man shuffled the students from the room, their quiet murmurs receding into awkward silence, Hermione moved to the opposite side of the plinth. She didn’t want to be implicated with Snape in anything. He’d touched her wand. It was his fault it had discharged.

“What happened?” Mr Dooley turned to Hermione, his whiskery lips stretched tight like a rubber band.

“Well . . . um . . . I was trying to . . . um . . . enforce the museum rules regarding proximity to the . . . artefacts . . . but Professor Snape . . . he chose not to follow my instructions and . . . well . . . I warned him. But then he touched my wand and it . . . um . . . the book received a direct hit and it . . . “

“Professor?” The small man’s nose twitched in irritation as he glared up at the tall dark figure.

“I’m afraid Miss Granger was noticeably inebriated. When I informed her that she couldn’t be entrusted with this precious collection in such a condition, she proceeded to threaten me. Her wand discharged and this is the unfortunate result.”

Hermione’s eyes bugged and she inhaled deeply, ready to blast.

Mr Dooley raised a hand in her direction. “I’m not interested in hearing any more from either of you. There are two courses of action available. Either you come up with one hundred galleons each to pay for this piece. Or you find a replacement copy. You have one week. And Miss Granger . . . ,” He turned to her, raising a stubby finger, “if you fail to meet these requirements within seven days, your position here will also be terminated. Good day.” He turned in a flourish of robes and stomped out.

Hermione’s head thumped as she tried to process his words. Terminated? But how would she survive? She barely managed to pay for her miserly flat as it was. She’d worked at the museum for nearly three years and she’d always been reliable. He hadn’t even given her a chance to explain herself properly. One hundred galleons? Where the hell would she find that sort of money? And a replacement copy? Well that was laughable. Clearly the book was as rare as Cockatrice’s teeth. Or perhaps even non-existent now that the only copy had been reduced to a smouldering mess. It was so incredibly unfair. She felt tears pricking the edges of her bloodshot eyeballs. Then she remembered. She wasn’t alone.

Her gaze slowly shifted from the floorboards at her feet to the man who stood unmoving by the plinth, arms crossed, regarding her dispassionately. A ball of red-hot fury welled inside her until her vision swam.

“Satisfied now, Professor?” she seethed. “I hope you have a sizeable Gringott’s account. You’re going to need it to pay for what you’ve done.”

“I have no intention of paying a single knut,” he sneered. “This was the result of your errant wandwork and you know it.”

You fucking bastard.

“I do not, and never have, had an issue with errant wandwork,” she replied tersely. “I doubt you can say the same, Professor.” She looked him up and down pointedly, deliberately lingering on his crotch.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Such clumsy insinuations are most unbecoming of you, Miss Granger.”

“This entire mess was due to your ridiculous attempt to cover up a sex book. You clearly have some . . . issues.”

He barked a mirthless laugh. “Hardly. Rather, I considered the content of that particular publication to be inappropriate for a first year audience.”

“Really?” Hermione scuffed across the boards, crossing her arms when she was near enough to feel the ire radiating from him. “But you considered it appropriate to model disrespect, misogyny and bullying to them? How very gallant of you.”

“Misogyny? You think I hate women?”

“I haven’t yet managed to narrow down the field of people you obviously despise.” She peered down her nose at him. “I’m sure women are just one unfortunate subsection of society who fail to meet with your approval.”

He turned with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I haven’t time to indulge such foolish accusations. Good day, Miss Granger.”

“You should realise, Professor,” she raised her voice at his receding figure, “that when I lose my job here, I’ll be forced to give up my flat.”

“That’s not my problem.” He continued to stride toward the exit.

“After that I’ll disappear—leave this place for good. I’ve been untraceable before and I’ll do it again. There will be no one left to pay for that book except you. I’m sure Mr Dooley won’t have any trouble tracking you down at Hogwarts. You’ll have to pay the entire amount. As I said, I would check your bank account just to make sure. Mr Dooley is very . . . persistent.”

Professor Snape stopped still, his broad shoulders rigid, his back ramrod straight.

Dark locks of hair trailed over his pallid features as he turned. Hermione held her breath during his slow return, each footstep echoing in the meter of a malevolent metronome. He stood too close.

“Even if you didn’t lose your job, I doubt you could come up with the money,” he muttered darkly. “You don’t look like you have two knuts to rub together.”

Her attempt to execute a disdainful toss her significant mane was less than successful since she hadn’t been able to afford to cut it, instead she made do with her best approximation of a Snape-ish sneer. “I’m tempted to speculate that your obsession with denigration and intimidation is due to the fact that you don’t have two nuts to rub together,” she replied, refusing to be intimidated. “However, it’s true that I’m not wealthy. I’m supporting my parents who live overseas and accommodation in this town can hardly be described as ‘inexpensive.’”

“Perhaps if you spent less money on the bottle, you might not be in such a predicament.”

“I’m in a predicament right now that will not benefit from further discussion of this kind. In fact, we both are. We need to come up with another copy of that book within a week or we are both completely fu . . . financially ruined.”

She was, of course, speaking for herself. He could be a complete moneybags, a veritable ‘galleon stallion.’ He certainly didn’t seem to spend a lot—if his uninspiring wardrobe was anything to go by.

His eyes, which had been downward focused, now slid up to hers, shifting from one of her defiant brown ones to the other.

“And how would you suggest we find another copy of an irreplaceable book?” he asked, his voice tight with contempt.

“Oh, I don’t know . . . book stores, libraries, museums . . . I’ll make a list. You can owl half and I’ll owl the other.”

“And if we fail to locate a copy?”

The question hung between them for an inordinately long period. She stared at the smoking cinders, worrying her bottom lip into a swollen lump by the time she answered,

“Then there won’t be another to compare it to.”

“Miss Granger, please attempt to infuse your statements with a little more sense,” he sighed irritably.

She leaned closer, aware that she was probably pickling him with her breath.

“If there are no other copies, then the exact content of the book is likely to be unknown. It can be re-written.”

“Re-written?” he snorted. “By whom?”

She raised her eyebrows meaningfully.

His face was suddenly more animated that she could ever remember.

“That is the most ridiculous suggestion I have ever . . . “
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An Accidental Affair *Complete*

An Accidental Affair Complete