morethansirius (morethansirius) wrote in quiz_sshg,

Prolific Author Series: ApollinaV

In late 2008, a story began posting on fanfiction.net that had a fresh twist on the marriage law challenge. The word spread like wildfire, and readers were soon hooked on The Gilded Cage, which featured snappy dialogue, memorable original characters, and a huge cast of Disney-named house-elves.

Since then, apollinav has fed us a steady stream of stories and has become a favorite author of scores of fangirls looking for a juicy plot and juicier lemons. Her stories range from drabbles to epics, humour to angst, and have been included in many past quizzes.

This week's quiz showcases ApollinaV's work, and is the latest installment in the Prolific Author Series. Enjoy!


(Our heartfelt thanks go to christev for writing this lovely introduction!)



SSHG Prolific Author Quiz ApollinaV The Gilded Cage


Want to give Hermione a run for her money in the know-it-all field? Simply play the quiz by commenting on this post with your answers at any time over the weekend. All comments with answers will be screened until the answer sheet is posted on Monday morning EDT. On Monday, all quizzlings with the correct answers will receive a pretty banner to prove their quiz prowess. Ready? Set? Play!


Match the quotes to the story titles without choosing the red herring titles:

The Gilded Cage
Fearsome Beasts
Summer with Sasquatch
Technique
Not on Countertops
Plan B
Next of Kin WIP
Hiding Hermione
A Curious Case of Wrackspurts
A Snake Named Daphne
The Mentor
The Trial of Severus Snape


1. And then when the only thing he'd been looking forward to on the calendar was Date Night on Friday, Hermione casually reminded him to make sure his robes were clean and serviceable for Monday.

"What's Monday?" Severus asked at the breakfast table, furrowing his brow.

She grabbed her car keys from the little dish she kept them in and tugged her purse over her shoulder. "Our court date, remember? To have our marriage annulled."

His cup of tea clattered onto its saucer.

Distantly he heard the click of the latch closing as Hermione departed.

Severus sat there with his tea cooling for an indeterminable amount of time unable to form a thought in his head. Shock, he reminded himself, as he snapped out of it. Ushanka budged up against his leg and let out a loud, "Mrrrrow!" He looked down at his scruffy familiar and sighed.

"You'll probably fare better out on your own than I will."

She bumped her head against his leg again and Severus leaned over to pick her up. Ushanka's thick grey fur fanned out across his chest and she laid her tail on the breakfast table. Severus would have commented about that, and removed it, but Ushanka butted her face underneath his chin and snuggled into his collarbone with a deep purr and Severus found that he didn't give a damn if her fur landed in his cold tea or not.

He gave his cat a good scratch as she purred and rumbled deeply. Severus sat back and let his eyes traverse Hermione's small flat, feeling an unwelcome pain. This was his wife's home and he would be out. Out of the house and out of her heart. No, Severus sadly corrected, he'd probably never been in her heart.

"Do you think she'll give us the tent?" Severus asked.


2. There was a knock at the door. Why was there a knock at the door? Severus frowned—he wasn't expecting company. The only visitors that came by either wanted to know if he had a personal relationship with Jesus, or if he would be voting Labour in the bi-election, and they both left empty handed. At the window he peeked through the curtain and frowned deeper. Miss Granger was on his stoop.

Fuck.

Of course she would be. She now had 'access' to his life—or rather, a ready excuse to invite herself over. Severus fully expected she would start seeping into everything, like the beach sand he found in his shoes, car, bag, ass crack—infiltrating and permeating every nook and cranny she could fill—because Hermione Granger was thorough like that. A thought flashed through his mind: ignore the door. Pretend not to be home. It could work.

"I know you're in there—I can see you through the window," she shouted.

"Bugger it all," he muttered before opening the door with a disgusted scowl.

"Hi!" she said enthusiastically. Much too enthusiastically for Severus' tastes. "I thought we ought to go over some notes in preparation for tomorrow."

"Did you? And why on earth would you think I would need your help in preparation?" He waited for the squirm. He had two decades worth of evidence that when he dropped his voice to a certain register and threw a little bit of spittle in for good measure, children squirmed. Especially people-pleasing Gryffindors.

Hermione blinked. She did not squirm.

Interesting.

"Oh, well it's your choice, really." He was about to neatly interject that it indeed was his choice, really, and then close the door in her face with a satisfactory thud. "But I know all the tricks to getting the most Galleons out of your book contract—and what will sell for merchandising. That, and I brought a bottle of your favorite."

The little witch was wise beyond her years.


3. The audible gulp that came from her husband was her first real clue that her stellar gift idea wasn’t just a dud, but perhaps was freaking him out? Was that possible? His clenching and unclenching fists seemed to indicate it was.

“Severus?” she asked concerned. “Are you okay?”

“I, uh… I don’t like snakes, Hermione.”

Hermione blinked and stared at him. Her eyes wandered over their dungeon quarters, falling on numerous Slytherin items, all bearing snake emblems.

“You’re surrounded by them,” she whispered delicately.

“They’re just designs,” he uttered back. “And even then I have to tell myself they’re not real.”

“Okay,” Hermione said soothingly. “If it makes you feel better I’ll put up a perimeter ward around her. And then tomorrow, I’ll take her back. Would that be alright?”

Severus nodded stiffly, his eyes still riveted to the large brownish-grey snake coiled around a branch in his living room. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. They’d always have a fresh supply of Boomslang skin, with one as a pet. A light sheen of perspiration had broken out on his forehead, and this was rapidly becoming the worst birthday imaginable.


4. "Don't you start with me," she growled, dropping a burlap sack between them with a wet thunk. "I'm in no mood—the bloody thing bit me." She lifted the hem of her torn pants leg to reveal a sickening bite.

"Should I start stocking silver filings now?"

"Don't worry, I was protected. I won't turn Were on you, though I could develop a fondness for carrots."

"And you killed it out of spite?" he asked with a smirk, relishing in her uncomfortable wince.

Hermione hated killing creatures, even in self defense. He had assumed the battle-hardened hero who'd fallen Dark wizards twice her size under her wand would get over her reluctance, but that hadn't happened. She was disgustingly an animal lover—one of those sodding, bleeding hearts types, too. What she was doing in Potionry was beyond him. Where the devil did she think 'eye of newt' came from? Regardless, the witch fancied Potions and—astonishingly enough—almost seemed to fancy him. Or at least she put up with his regular bullshit, which was saying quite a lot. Even he was willing to admit that one.

"You could have Stunned it," he pointed out.

"Yes, well, the plan changed when thirty of them bolted from the cave and swarmed me," she grimly acknowledged.

"Tsk! Tsk! Hermione, I know I taught you better than that—never allow yourself to become overwhelmed and always assess the working conditions. Pity this couldn't have been avoided. Who knows, perhaps this Wererabbit was protecting a liter of little fluffy bunnies."

Her lower lip quivered as tears threatened to gather in the corners of her eyes. She sniffed and rubbed her filthy sleeve on her cheeks before bucking up and lifted her chin in defiance.


5. In his kitchen, everything was perfect and to his specification. It was new, modern, and entirely efficient. Much like the rest of his new metropolitan flat. He'd set out to find a place that did not resemble his childhood home in any way, shape, or form, and found it.

Hermione giggled from behind him, and Severus smiled. His head was bent over the herbs he was crushing, and nobody could be any the wiser for it.

Hermione was... a true gem. He'd been damned near apoplectic when the Ministry, in their infinite wisdom, had condemned him to 'Death Eater Sensitivity Training.'

When his therapist, Hermione-bloody-fucking-hell-Granger, walked into his session carrying a clipboard and ordering the lot of them to gather in a circle for 'sharing time,' Severus swore his life had flashed behind his eyes.

The classes were... enlightening.

Mulciber spent every damned 'sharing time' monopolizing the tissue box and whining like a little girl with a skinned knee about his cow of a mother. Goyle actually withdrew from the classes and demanded to be brought back to Azkaban.

And Severus? Midway to graduation he got to discover first-hand just where Hermione herself was sensitive. And that was without being forced to sing campfire songs.


6. Three days later the mirror in my back pocket burned. Ron was sprawled out on one of the cots; Harry was out wandering the woods or more likely off wanking, and nobody noticed my high-pitched yelp as it burned me in the ass. In retrospect it wasn't the smartest idea I've ever had. Running for the loo I pried the closed circuit mirror out of my snug jeans and stared at the black and foreboding face of my ex-professor. His eyes were narrowed menacingly at me, but the entire effect was quite diluted via mirror.

"Miss Granger," he hissed sibilantly. "I think you had better explain yourself."

"Of course Sir," I said with as much false enthusiasm as I could muster. Appearing like a cheerful know-it-all schoolgirl was my stock in trade. People expected it; it was a persona that people found comfortable and easy to like. Well, most people, current company excluded. All that aside, most people found the predictable happy schoolgirl disarming and easy to overlook, which of course is just fine with me.

"I've decided to go off board Sir."

"What?" The incredulous way he uttered that one word was enough to tug a genuine smile from my lips. I do so love putting people off kilter. And yet nobody listens when Ron claims that I'm mental.

"I'm tired of all this. Camping really isn't my style."

"How unfortunate for you."

"At any rate, I've decided that I'm sick of all of this. Waiting for the final battle. Waiting for Harry to be ready. Trying to figure out all the nonsensical clues Dumbledore left us. It's stupid, and it's pointless and I don't want to play anymore."

"Indeed?"

"So I'm changing the game. I've decided to forgo the Final Battle and just kill Voldy myself."

His arched eyebrow was kinda sexy in a deadly and psychotic sort of way. But it hinted that he was curious, and curiosity was a good thing. Indeed.


7. He didn’t want her around at all. And it had absolutely nothing to do with the wank-fodder she provided him when he walked in on her naked in the Grimmauld Place lavatory.

If she had raised her hand once or twice as a student, Granger harassed him non-stop now that he was supposed to be ‘accessible’ to her.

She followed him constantly, yapping at his heels, and stepped on the hem of his robes - twice. Insolent chit. She failed to respect the robes. The billow was another protective layer. It created a circumference around him – a barrier between him and the unwashed, nose-picking masses. She was nattering on about new textbooks, or some such nonsense when he wheeled on her.

“Write me a note.”

The Granger girl blinked stupidly, caught off guard by the non-sequitur. “I’m sorry, what?”

“A note,” he growled impatiently. The Falmouth Falcons were playing on the Wizarding Wireless, and he had twenty good ones on the game. “It’s comprised of words and sentences, with the primary purpose of conveying a message.”

“Oh.” Her mouth gaped unattractively, showing off a pink mouth and perfectly white teeth. Idly he wondered if they’d feel slippery against his tongue.

That was how Severus Snape became Hermione Granger's fucking pen pal. Oh, she sent him a note alright. The first one was nearly four feet of cramped handwriting regarding the proper procedures of handling rivalry in mixed Slytherin/Gryffindor classes.


8. “Fucking kids,” he muttered before heaving himself off the couch.

He slung his crumpled dress robes over his shoulders and tried to muster the ‘givadamn’ to stare down the hormonal students, no doubt fornicating on his dueling mats. It was the tail end of the Halloween Ball and unlike his blessed dungeons, the DADA classroom was conveniently located near the Great Hall.

Severus loudly banged his classroom door open, hoping to scare the little shits senseless.

“Get over here!” he barked.

There was no answer.

“If you don’t present yourself front and center in exactly three seconds, I swear I’ll give you so much detention you’ll wish you had been expelled!”

His ears detected a slight whimper, and Severus’ predatory eyes narrowed at the dueling dummies stacked against the corner.

“Gotcha,” he whispered with a smirk.

The stinging stunner he sent towards the dummies resulted in a satisfying yelp.

Slowly, a lone figure emerged in the moonlight, and Severus’ eyebrow arched in amusement.

“Professor Granger,” Severus addressed smoothly, “Trysting in abandoned classrooms are we?”

Hermione winced and rubbed the scorch mark on her bum. The delicate material was puckered and no amount of spellwork would undo the damage. Damn the man.

She hobbled into the half-light streaming through the high windows, and Severus grimaced. The scant contents of dinner and copious quantities of scotch soured in his stomach. She was gorgeous in her champagne colored gown, but no more so than any other day. The very idea that some sweaty male would get his palms on her silken thighs, and in his classroom no less, was a curdling thought.


9. Professor Snape stormed through the castle in high dudgeon, scattering frightened children left and right as he entered the Great Hall. His bootsteps echoed ominously as he approached his place at the High Table and sat down.

“Professor Granger,” he said icily, addressing the witch to his right. She looked up from the brussel sprouts she was spooning onto her plate, bewildered and vaguely alarmed. It had been many years since he last took that tone with her. “You were in my office today.”

Slowly she wiped her lips, formulating a response to his accusatory tone. “Yes, that’s right. Is there a problem, Professor Snape?”

“A problem? Yes, it is a problem when you help yourself to my library, then leave a mess everywhere.”

Hermione’s brows furrowed. “Oh honestly, Severus,” she hissed. “Relax; it’s just a bit of research. I’ll clean it up after pudding.”

“Don’t bother. The damage has already been done.”

Hermione’s head shot up, giving her the appearance of an animal caught in cross-hairs. Severus swooped in for the kill.

“I had to counsel young Mr. Collins after classes today. Can you imagine what it’s like to lecture a fourth year on responsibility while there’s a full page glossy of cunnilingus propped up on my desk?”


10. "Oh Gods, I can't take this!" he cried out, rocking his hips into the mattress where only a scant half hour before her soft body had lain. His thumb pushed against the swollen pulsating vein that stretched the underside of his shaft. He could feel her building, knew she was touching herself, and could only hope, only imagine she was thinking of him. That his Vixen was crying out for his touch. Severus' palm stroked across his sensitive skin, his grip tightening as he saw himself driving into her. Hermione's slack jaw opened wide and moaning his name, taking him deep. Receiving him.

"Oh shit…" she cried, and plunged a finger quickly into her damp heat, crooking her finger to work the sensitive spot inside, her thumb still eagerly working the bundle of nerves that made her twitch and shake. Her head thrashed, and her hips bucked of their own accord, but it wasn't quite enough. Her sex responded as Hermione madly drove three fingers in. In her mind she pictured Severus grinding atop her, his scent, his dark eyes locked onto hers, his flesh pressing against her… her fingers weren't enough… not nearly enough… As her voice broke and she shrilly called out into the empty room for him, Hermione stiffened and shuddered.

"Hermione," he roughly panted, as thick milky jets of his essence hit the mattress.

Severus rolled over on his back, unconcerned about the wet spot, and stared at the ceiling through heavy eyelids. He could feel her sated rest, as Hermione hugged a pillow and buried her head into the covers. In the morning he'd work on rationalizing their relationship. In the morning he'd worry about what this might mean for them. But for the moment, sleep. Severus' eyes closed firmly as sleep quickly overtook him.

Hermione wasn't so lucky. She spent the night sated, but frustrated. Angry. Not for giving over to the urge to masturbate. No, there was nothing wrong with masturbating. It was perfectly healthy and normal. Especially since Severus would never find out that she touched herself, much less that she fantasized about him while she did it.

Her frustration stemmed from an entirely different direction. Three fingers weren't enough. Not nearly. There was no substitute for a good hard fuck. There was nothing in the world like a warm velvety cock sliding home. Nothing like the first piercing thrust that always made her breath catch. Not even generously sized, humming, rotating, battery-operated cocks fit the bill.

Yes, she had brought herself to orgasm, the first in several years. But it many ways it was pathetic and sad, and hardly deserved to be called an orgasm. Without the warm rush of a wizard's come wetting her core, it just wasn't the same. It was completion without satisfaction.

Hermione was screwed, and not in a good way.


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