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Wrong Bettor 1/10
Title: Wrong Bettor| Prologue: I see a difference...
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
teaoli
Fandom: Harry Potter
Genres: alternate universe, parallel universes, scifi, fantasy, mystery, action, romance, drama, humour
Characters: Severus Snape, Hermione Granger, Mr Granger, Mrs Granger, Harry Potter, Molly Weasley, Ron Weasley, Original Characters
Summary: There's no such thing as Fate. The simplest acts can take you places you'd never predict. In the game of craps we call life, wrong bettors wager against the roll. Inspired by Wildcat's Star Trek fic "A Roll of the Dice." Written & posted with permission.
Pairings multiple
Prologue: I see a difference
It was a sensation not unlike having something yanking behind his navel that woke him; it was finding himself naked and spooning with an equally naked woman (the placement of his hands incontrovertibly confirmed her state of undress) which told him something had changed. But it wasn’t until she murmured, in a voice husky with either sleepiness or satiation (he rather suspected the latter), “Mmm, Severus, that was nice,” that he realised something might be very, very wrong.
Although he’d never heard it used with anything close to that inflection, he recognised the voice all too readily. His eyes flew open to find that, although the bed he lay in felt surprisingly familiar, he was in a moonlit room which bore only the most cursory resemblance to the one where he’d closed them.
“What, silence? You must be getting old, darling.” She chuckled. It was a low rumbling noise, too rife with sensual flavour to be likened to anything so innocent and annoying as a giggle. In spite of a natural inclination toward affront at her calling him “old,” he felt his body start to respond to that laugh. With a great deal of effort, he managed to quash the urge to rise to the occasion.
“Or maybe it’s been so long, I’ve finally succeeded in shagging you into a coma,” she went on, her voice now as enticing as that… chuckle had been. “I wouldn’t mind, only that would mean we probably shouldn’t have another go and that is unacceptable!”
He had to stifle a groan – half agonised, half-pleased – when she writhed against him. Only the fact that she couldn’t possibly get any closer than she’d been when he woke up (well, she could have, but thinking along those lines wasn’t at all conducive to keeping a clear head) stopped him shoving her away.
Although…
Instinct told him to hex first and ask questions later, but reason and nearly twenty years of on the job espionage training wormed their way in, suggesting he reconnoitre a bit first. Furthermore, causing her any sort of harm whilst they both lacked clothing and were in bed (and when she was leaning so languidly into his embrace) might be considered unsporting. Not to mention he had no idea where his wand might be.
Besides, he assured himself, surely this is a dream. An unusual dream, no doubt; he wasn’t in the habit of imagining the softness of Hermione Granger’s skin or her (he gave an experimental squeeze with his higher hand) curves. He hadn’t been in the habit of thinking about her at all in the years since he’d been released from St. Mungo’s and thereby escaped the bi-weekly visits she’d forced on him for close to half a year.
But why now? he wondered, and twiddled the fingers of his lower hand. Only as another experiment, of course. Mmm, very nice.
“Fuck!” she said in a much clearer voice than she’d used before. (This was not the reaction he imagined his imagination would supply, but it was certainly in keeping with what he remembered of Miss Granger.) “Who are you and how long have you been here?”
And that was when he decided he probably should have followed his instincts, after all.
“—are you fifty-five? Seventy?” she was demanding, but before he could gather his enough wits to tell her he was “only forty-six years and twenty-five days old, thank you very much,” Miss Granger twisted in his embrace so that he could just make out her face in the dim moonlight. “And when did you get here? It better have been after, or I swear I’ll hex your bollocks off and not be afraid to tell your Hermione it was me who did it!”
Too shocked and confused even to pull away from the irate witch — or even to properly Occlude — Snape settled for staring at her, mouth somewhat agape as she continued to spew invective at him.
What the hell was she on about? His Hermione?
He must be deep in the throes of a particularly disagreeable hallucination or dream, he figured. Although he couldn’t stop himself noticing that Miss Granger’s bosom, heaving and brushing against his chest as she drew breath to extend her near-incomprehensible tirade, was far from unpleasant, her shrewish words and the shrill voice she used to deliver them helped keep at bay his body’s natural response to her proximity and state of dress.
Bugger it! It’s obviously been too long.
“We have an agreement, damn you, Severus Snape!” she screeched. “You’re supposed to identify yourself immediately upon arrival.”
If she recognises me, what does she mean I’m to identify myself?
“There’s a moratorium on travelling this week! What was your Hermione thinking? And why haven’t you answered my questions? Which one are you and when did—? Oh, never mind!”
She reached down between them and curled her fingers round his knob less gently than he’d have liked, but without using enough force to do any damage. Still, it served to bring him out of his temporary stupor.
Just as he was saying “Miss Granger, kindly remove you hand from my—”, she said, “Dry. That’s good, at least,” and let go.
A flung out hand – which nearly caught him on the nose – and a muttered spell he couldn’t make out caused the electric bedside lamps to switch on. Miss Granger blinked several times against the lights’ glare before offering him a glare of her own. Her eyes seemed to rake over his face for several moments then pay special attention to his exposed shoulders. As awkward as it was, considering their respective positions of repose, she gave a half shake of her head.
“Damn it! Who are you?” she asked again.
Severus ignored her question in favour of getting an answer to what was to his mind currently the most vital question.
“Miss Granger, where, in the name of Adhan Windfucker’s Unnamed Incubus, are our clothes?”
Go to Chapter One
Author:
teaoliFandom: Harry Potter
Genres: alternate universe, parallel universes, scifi, fantasy, mystery, action, romance, drama, humour
Characters: Severus Snape, Hermione Granger, Mr Granger, Mrs Granger, Harry Potter, Molly Weasley, Ron Weasley, Original Characters
Summary: There's no such thing as Fate. The simplest acts can take you places you'd never predict. In the game of craps we call life, wrong bettors wager against the roll. Inspired by Wildcat's Star Trek fic "A Roll of the Dice." Written & posted with permission.
Pairings multiple
Prologue: I see a difference
It was a sensation not unlike having something yanking behind his navel that woke him; it was finding himself naked and spooning with an equally naked woman (the placement of his hands incontrovertibly confirmed her state of undress) which told him something had changed. But it wasn’t until she murmured, in a voice husky with either sleepiness or satiation (he rather suspected the latter), “Mmm, Severus, that was nice,” that he realised something might be very, very wrong.
Although he’d never heard it used with anything close to that inflection, he recognised the voice all too readily. His eyes flew open to find that, although the bed he lay in felt surprisingly familiar, he was in a moonlit room which bore only the most cursory resemblance to the one where he’d closed them.
“What, silence? You must be getting old, darling.” She chuckled. It was a low rumbling noise, too rife with sensual flavour to be likened to anything so innocent and annoying as a giggle. In spite of a natural inclination toward affront at her calling him “old,” he felt his body start to respond to that laugh. With a great deal of effort, he managed to quash the urge to rise to the occasion.
“Or maybe it’s been so long, I’ve finally succeeded in shagging you into a coma,” she went on, her voice now as enticing as that… chuckle had been. “I wouldn’t mind, only that would mean we probably shouldn’t have another go and that is unacceptable!”
He had to stifle a groan – half agonised, half-pleased – when she writhed against him. Only the fact that she couldn’t possibly get any closer than she’d been when he woke up (well, she could have, but thinking along those lines wasn’t at all conducive to keeping a clear head) stopped him shoving her away.
Although…
Instinct told him to hex first and ask questions later, but reason and nearly twenty years of on the job espionage training wormed their way in, suggesting he reconnoitre a bit first. Furthermore, causing her any sort of harm whilst they both lacked clothing and were in bed (and when she was leaning so languidly into his embrace) might be considered unsporting. Not to mention he had no idea where his wand might be.
Besides, he assured himself, surely this is a dream. An unusual dream, no doubt; he wasn’t in the habit of imagining the softness of Hermione Granger’s skin or her (he gave an experimental squeeze with his higher hand) curves. He hadn’t been in the habit of thinking about her at all in the years since he’d been released from St. Mungo’s and thereby escaped the bi-weekly visits she’d forced on him for close to half a year.
But why now? he wondered, and twiddled the fingers of his lower hand. Only as another experiment, of course. Mmm, very nice.
“Fuck!” she said in a much clearer voice than she’d used before. (This was not the reaction he imagined his imagination would supply, but it was certainly in keeping with what he remembered of Miss Granger.) “Who are you and how long have you been here?”
And that was when he decided he probably should have followed his instincts, after all.
“—are you fifty-five? Seventy?” she was demanding, but before he could gather his enough wits to tell her he was “only forty-six years and twenty-five days old, thank you very much,” Miss Granger twisted in his embrace so that he could just make out her face in the dim moonlight. “And when did you get here? It better have been after, or I swear I’ll hex your bollocks off and not be afraid to tell your Hermione it was me who did it!”
Too shocked and confused even to pull away from the irate witch — or even to properly Occlude — Snape settled for staring at her, mouth somewhat agape as she continued to spew invective at him.
What the hell was she on about? His Hermione?
He must be deep in the throes of a particularly disagreeable hallucination or dream, he figured. Although he couldn’t stop himself noticing that Miss Granger’s bosom, heaving and brushing against his chest as she drew breath to extend her near-incomprehensible tirade, was far from unpleasant, her shrewish words and the shrill voice she used to deliver them helped keep at bay his body’s natural response to her proximity and state of dress.
Bugger it! It’s obviously been too long.
“We have an agreement, damn you, Severus Snape!” she screeched. “You’re supposed to identify yourself immediately upon arrival.”
If she recognises me, what does she mean I’m to identify myself?
“There’s a moratorium on travelling this week! What was your Hermione thinking? And why haven’t you answered my questions? Which one are you and when did—? Oh, never mind!”
She reached down between them and curled her fingers round his knob less gently than he’d have liked, but without using enough force to do any damage. Still, it served to bring him out of his temporary stupor.
Just as he was saying “Miss Granger, kindly remove you hand from my—”, she said, “Dry. That’s good, at least,” and let go.
A flung out hand – which nearly caught him on the nose – and a muttered spell he couldn’t make out caused the electric bedside lamps to switch on. Miss Granger blinked several times against the lights’ glare before offering him a glare of her own. Her eyes seemed to rake over his face for several moments then pay special attention to his exposed shoulders. As awkward as it was, considering their respective positions of repose, she gave a half shake of her head.
“Damn it! Who are you?” she asked again.
Severus ignored her question in favour of getting an answer to what was to his mind currently the most vital question.
“Miss Granger, where, in the name of Adhan Windfucker’s Unnamed Incubus, are our clothes?”
Go to Chapter One