The Tale of the Nightshirt: A Drabble Serial
Work Ethics
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"Seen enough?" Hermione queried the thin air. It shimmered slightly, and Severus appeared.

"You knew?" She gave him a look, and he gestured, dismissing the issue. Stupid question. Of course she'd have her office properly warded.

She Beckoned a chair from her cupboard for him. "I knew you'd slipped in with the boys. I'm not quite certain what you intended to accomplish. If you wanted to know what they thought— I guess you've been answered. Also if you wanted to know what I'd say to them. Whether I'd say something else behind your back? I'd say you missed your mark."

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"You wouldn't talk behind my back," Severus said with certainty, adding, "You insult me perfectly well to my face."

Hermione smiled. "True. But that doesn't answer the question."

No point pretending to be obtuse. "Hermione, how much does their… approval mean to you?"

She, too, knew better than to pretend, and sobered. "I… don't know," she answered slowly. "If their objections were reasonable, then quite a bit, I'd say. But as it is… I won't change my mind simply because they don't like you." She tried a small grin. "They're not the ones who'd be sleeping with you, after all."

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"I don't care to repeat my mistakes, Hermione."

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. "I don't care to be someone who'd cause you to. And…" Hermione debated her next words. "I'm not Lily Evans, Severus. Nor am I some thoughtless, self-absorbed teenager, for all that I'm twenty years your junior. I'd… hope that you don't confuse me with either."

Cinnamon eyes met his own steadily, though her cheeks were flushed. Her clock ticked by long seconds before he answered. "No. No, you aren't," he said softly. "You are Hermione Granger, who makes up her own bloody mind about everything."

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He looked quite comfortable there, lying along the transfigured couch, reading her copy of Creatures Quarterly. Severus had no particular place to be, it seemed, until his services were called for by memo-plane, and he had remained in her office while she worked.

And for once, her mind was not on her work. Instead, it was involved in tossing those thick, woolen robes to the floor, his white linen shirt over the couch back, shoes and trousers into a corner… pinning his wrists to the cushions…

When lunchtime came, the beans that her clock chucked at her were entirely superfluous.

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She might think him indifferent, but it was only his concentration on the disgusting pictures of furry Siberian frost slugs that kept Severus upon the couch— instead of across the room, pressing the witch hard against her desk. He doubted she'd appreciate it— during working hours, anyway.

But it wasn't difficult to imagine her sprawled over the blotter, top buttons undone and her breasts moving freely while her hands grasped for his hips…

Slugs. Yes. He was fascinated by oozy, fur-covered slugs.

…skirts hiked up about her waist, legs wrapping around…

Slugs, damn it! The article was about slugs!

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Severus heard the quill scritch into its stand and looked up to find her eyes on him— a reflection of his own desire. But still uncertain, he raised himself on one elbow, never once breaking the connection as he moved carefully, deliberately. She, in turn, rose slowly from her seat.

Thump thump thump! "Mione? You up for lunch?" Weasley's brassy tones screeched through the door, shattering all possibilities.

"Bloody buggering bollocks on a stick!" he swore vehemently.

Hermione smiled apologetically, then strode toward the door, magically unlocking it. Snape watched, intent and indecisive. Then, eyes narrowed and glimmering, he pounced.

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A shrill screech echoed from behind Hermione's office door. "Mione?" Ron called, alarmed. "Mione?" No answer— except for more choked screams. Frantic, Ron flashed off a Patronus to fetch Harry and went for the door.

Like most Government doors, it stuck. "Stop it! No, please, stop!" Ron applied force, smashing it open just as Harry arrived. The two stumbled into the room, wands brandished.

They found Snape there, kneeling atop their friend, hands busy at her waist.

Hermione, tears leaking from her eyes, was… laughing. "Curse it, Severus, I nearly wet myself."

Severus merely smirked at the boys' gobsmacked expressions.

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"Snape!" Potter's roar could probably be heard down in the lowest Unspeakable level of the Ministry. Weasley merely gaped unbecomingly.

Hermione, raising herself on one arm, glanced back and forth between the three men. "Ah," she said in perfect comprehension. She gave Severus a gimlet glare. "Universal fairness being what it is, you probably aren't ticklish whatsoever, are you?"

"I couldn't possibly comment," he replied loftily. Standing, he offered his hand. Silghtly dubious, she allowed him to help her to her feet.

"Later," she hissed, seeing Harry's near-purple face.

As urbane as any Malfoy, Snape drawled, "I certainly hope so."