Prolific Author Series: Lady Rhian
I first met Lady_Rhian in Chicago, IL, at a fangirl gathering. We were able to room together, laughed and dined together, and just plain had FUN! She’s got a wonderful personality, a bubbly laugh, and is a fantastic author.
I’d say that our friendship is GOLDEN! ;-)
Make yourself something hot to drink, pull up your favorite story of hers, sit back, and enjoy. I promise; you won’t be disappointed.
(Our heartfelt thanks go to deemichelle for writing this lovely introduction.)
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 EST. 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 picking the red herring titles:
A Hero’s Worth
An Unlikely Prince
Run to the Water
Awkward Entanglements
Beneath the Cedars
Fighting With Honey
Sage
A Mess in the Kitchen
From What I’ve Tasted of Desire
Know Me Not
The Witch’s Snare
Dark Roast
The Birthday
The Tenant of Lyonesse Hall WIP
1. "I could curse that chairman for refusing your request; you would have gone to Lisbon if not for the challenge that Vienna posed for you."
"Didn't you read Minerva's letter? It was worth speaking at a lesser conference just to see the look on Lee Kong's face when he Floo'd me to ..."
"It's a fine conference, Hermione, but your research was far too specialized to be presented there."
"I presented it. Successfully, too. And you said it couldn't be done."
"Well." He crossed his arms. "It couldn't. You required much assistance to speak there."
"Don't start with me, you bastard," she said playfully.
"Out of retorts, Miss Granger? Must you resort to calling me childish names?" his voice intoned, eyes piercing but dancing with a familiar light. Hermione's eyes locked with his, the fireplace crackling behind him.
"Would you like some coffee, Severus?" she asked, not listening for his reply as she turned and walked back over to the kitchen. Damn how attractive he was when they argued. Damn his appeal ...
"Dark roast, but you already knew that."
2. “I know what I saw, Pip. A ghost on a ghost horse.”
“Pip is not being sure, Miss Hermione.”
“It was a ghost, Pip, and it looked like Snape,” Hermione continued, but her tone lacked conviction.
Interesting.
He thought for a moment, considering the brief exchange he’d heard before they turned their conversation to how Pip shouldn’t prepare coffee for Granger in the morning.
A ghost. She said she’d seen a ghost on a ghost horse. Bloody hell, hadn’t the girl learned anything at Hogwarts? She knew what a ghost looked like! What was she playing at?
But. He paused, vaguely listening to the mundane talk now coming from the kitchen and considered the circumstances. Fact: she had seen him at a distance. Fact: it had been years since she had seen ghosts with any regularity, and her experience was entirely limited to those at Hogwarts, who were not exactly a representative group. Fact: she had just woken up and obviously possessed at least a glimmer of doubt about what she’d seen. The mist had been heavy, and he had been riding Perdita, which was perhaps the most pertinent fact of all. Depending on the light, Perdita did indeed look like a ghost. That was the nature of her breed-she was of le fantôme d'Arabie, after all-and she inevitably lent some of her nature to her rider.
Now his thoughts coalesced quickly as he weighed the pros and cons. Granger thought she’d seen a ghost, and a ghost that only looked like him. She hadn’t asserted that it was him.
It would be so easy.
3. Selena the Slothful, Sebastian the Spy,” Severus mused. “No relation to me at all? Sebastian?”
She raised an eyebrow at him playfully. “None at all.”
“Will you read this book to me, as well?” he asked lowly.
“Of course,” Hermione murmured.
“What would the Department of Mysteries say, were they to know that their prize Unspeakable wrote Muggle erotica on the side?” Severus asked.
“I think my supervisor knows, but he’s too much of a prude to ever ask about it,” Hermione said cheerfully.
4. Damn it. Everything felt real. Fleur was right.
This intuition, this trusting-nothing about this process was logical. Fleur had told her not to “check” her reality, just to remember. Hermione still had no idea what that was supposed to accomplish.
“Remember a memory that links you directly to Severus, one that is fraught with emotion-soak in the memory-think of as many details as you can. Nature will know what to do.”
Hermione sat down on the edge of the cliff. Remember. There were so many memories to choose from … and then, she thought of the perfect memory. The first one. The first time they met-again.
5. Let me take you to dinner.”
Well, fuck.
*
That hadn’t been quite what he’d had in mind, but it certainly did the trick. She clammed up and gasped.
“Um -” she stuttered. “Ah, okay?”
Silence.
“Why?” she asked suddenly.
‘To shut you up’ did not seem like a good answer.
Neither did ‘Because your dress looks like cling-film and it would peel off nicely.’
“Ah - I’ll explain tomorrow.”
Surely he could come up with a reason by then?
6. Ten minutes later, Ron was still sitting with his back to the wall, holding Hermione. Her sobs were gradually lessening.
Ron looked up at the sound of the door cracking open, thankful that Hermione didn’t notice. Tonks peeked her head in. Ron shook his head.
She shut the door quietly and walked over to where Remus and Minerva stood.
“How is she?” Remus asked, a worried crease streaking his forehead.
“Not good,” Tonks said. “She’s still sobbing. Ron’s holding her. A right good mate, that boy is.”
“How serious do you think it is, Minerva?” Remus asked.
“I wish I could say I was optimistic,” Minerva said quietly. “But Percy knew what he was doing. And a permanent Obliviate…”
They stood in silence, contemplating the consequences.
7. He’d been gone when she woke up the next morning.
Serves me right, Hermione thought, letting him seduce me with pretty explanations before taking me to bed. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Angry with herself - again - she rose from the chair, walking to the kitchen. She had a bit of a walk. Her flat was large - too large for her. Too large for one person.
She poured herself a glass of elf-made wine, trying to banish thoughts of that night. They’d had sex twice and had spent most of the night talking about the war, talking about each other’s lives. He’d been remarkably open and unguarded.
That was my first clue, she thought miserably, downing her glass in one gulp.
She poured another.
8. 7:59 PM
Rose arrived on the lawn of her parents’ house with a huge sense of relief. I didn’t splinch myself. Thank Merlin.
She put her hand on her stomach and took a few deep, calming breaths. She was entirely nervous and, to be honest with herself, was scared shitless.
No need for honesty. I know what I feel.
This was the dinner she’d been working herself up to for the past month. Rather funny it had taken her so long, as she’d spent countless hours dwelling over the letter, her conversation with her Uncle Harry, and the presumed contents of that mysterious box. She pulled her jacket tight around her body and shivered, partly from cold but mostly from nerves.
2000. 2005. Five years were missing in the timeline of her mother’s life. Five years she’d been gone - in Paris working with Arithmancers, Harry had told her - five years she’d been engaged to Ron that Rose hadn’t known about.
Rose hadn’t asked anyone else about her mother, but had rather put her money where her mouth was and done the legwork herself. That day in Harry’s office had been more than enough to tell her she wasn’t going to get any help from her parents’ friends. Hell, if the letter was to be believed the only ones who had known something was immediately amiss were her father, Uncle Harry, Ginny, and Auntie Luna.
Well, Uncle Harry had been no help (alright, a little help, she acknowledged), and her father was gone (she gulped), Ginny (who detested being called ‘aunt’ by her adult nieces and nephews) was far too busy with Wizengamot work to be bothered with such questions, and Auntie Luna… well, getting a straight answer out of her was like finding a flock of Nargles in Devonshire. Bloody. Fucking. Impossible.
9. “The Abbot seems young, in spite of his white hair,” she remarked, and Severus visibly relaxed.
“Yes. He’s younger than I am,” he said mildly.
“You said he took orders the first summer you were here. He wasn’t the Abbot that allowed you in, then?” Hermione asked, leaning against one of the stone benches.
Severus held her gaze before dropping his eyes. “That would be Father Tomas. He passed on several years ago.”
“You cared for him?” Hermione asked softly. Severus didn’t respond. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Father Tomas was a kind man, a good man. He knew what I was and what I came from,” Severus said slowly. “He knew me when I was a boy. He was a young monk when he volunteered in our parish.”
Hermione gaped at him. “Are you religious?”
10. “Severus!” she cried, running to leap into his arms. She was elated to see him, and certainly the way he looked did nothing to discourage her. Fitted black dress pants, a crisp white shirt with unbuttoned cuffs, and that mane of black silk that hung barely inches from his shoulders … it was enough to drive any woman completely mad with lust, let alone love.
He had, for one heady moment, returned the embrace, before stiffening and removing her arms from his neck. It almost killed him to do so.
Hermione looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Is anything wrong?” Their eyes seared into one another’s.
His eyes had flickered, she noticed. They now had assumed their cold, steely stare, but what was it that had been in them before? Alarmed, she realised it had been painful regret.
“I’m leaving England tonight,” he said, at last.
“What?” she gawked, the words not registering in her head.
He ran a hand through his hair, looking to the floor for a miraculous explanation. “I have to go. This place … this country … it is too full of memories, too full of …” he caught the words before they formed. Too full of pain. He cleared his throat. “A continued existence in this land is not something I can do right now, nor is it something I want to do. I desire some remnant of peace; I need rest,” he finished, slipping into his classic professor voice.
I’d say that our friendship is GOLDEN! ;-)
Make yourself something hot to drink, pull up your favorite story of hers, sit back, and enjoy. I promise; you won’t be disappointed.
(Our heartfelt thanks go to deemichelle for writing this lovely introduction.)
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 EST. 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 picking the red herring titles:
A Hero’s Worth
An Unlikely Prince
Run to the Water
Awkward Entanglements
Beneath the Cedars
Fighting With Honey
Sage
A Mess in the Kitchen
From What I’ve Tasted of Desire
Know Me Not
The Witch’s Snare
Dark Roast
The Birthday
The Tenant of Lyonesse Hall WIP
1. "I could curse that chairman for refusing your request; you would have gone to Lisbon if not for the challenge that Vienna posed for you."
"Didn't you read Minerva's letter? It was worth speaking at a lesser conference just to see the look on Lee Kong's face when he Floo'd me to ..."
"It's a fine conference, Hermione, but your research was far too specialized to be presented there."
"I presented it. Successfully, too. And you said it couldn't be done."
"Well." He crossed his arms. "It couldn't. You required much assistance to speak there."
"Don't start with me, you bastard," she said playfully.
"Out of retorts, Miss Granger? Must you resort to calling me childish names?" his voice intoned, eyes piercing but dancing with a familiar light. Hermione's eyes locked with his, the fireplace crackling behind him.
"Would you like some coffee, Severus?" she asked, not listening for his reply as she turned and walked back over to the kitchen. Damn how attractive he was when they argued. Damn his appeal ...
"Dark roast, but you already knew that."
2. “I know what I saw, Pip. A ghost on a ghost horse.”
“Pip is not being sure, Miss Hermione.”
“It was a ghost, Pip, and it looked like Snape,” Hermione continued, but her tone lacked conviction.
Interesting.
He thought for a moment, considering the brief exchange he’d heard before they turned their conversation to how Pip shouldn’t prepare coffee for Granger in the morning.
A ghost. She said she’d seen a ghost on a ghost horse. Bloody hell, hadn’t the girl learned anything at Hogwarts? She knew what a ghost looked like! What was she playing at?
But. He paused, vaguely listening to the mundane talk now coming from the kitchen and considered the circumstances. Fact: she had seen him at a distance. Fact: it had been years since she had seen ghosts with any regularity, and her experience was entirely limited to those at Hogwarts, who were not exactly a representative group. Fact: she had just woken up and obviously possessed at least a glimmer of doubt about what she’d seen. The mist had been heavy, and he had been riding Perdita, which was perhaps the most pertinent fact of all. Depending on the light, Perdita did indeed look like a ghost. That was the nature of her breed-she was of le fantôme d'Arabie, after all-and she inevitably lent some of her nature to her rider.
Now his thoughts coalesced quickly as he weighed the pros and cons. Granger thought she’d seen a ghost, and a ghost that only looked like him. She hadn’t asserted that it was him.
It would be so easy.
3. Selena the Slothful, Sebastian the Spy,” Severus mused. “No relation to me at all? Sebastian?”
She raised an eyebrow at him playfully. “None at all.”
“Will you read this book to me, as well?” he asked lowly.
“Of course,” Hermione murmured.
“What would the Department of Mysteries say, were they to know that their prize Unspeakable wrote Muggle erotica on the side?” Severus asked.
“I think my supervisor knows, but he’s too much of a prude to ever ask about it,” Hermione said cheerfully.
4. Damn it. Everything felt real. Fleur was right.
This intuition, this trusting-nothing about this process was logical. Fleur had told her not to “check” her reality, just to remember. Hermione still had no idea what that was supposed to accomplish.
“Remember a memory that links you directly to Severus, one that is fraught with emotion-soak in the memory-think of as many details as you can. Nature will know what to do.”
Hermione sat down on the edge of the cliff. Remember. There were so many memories to choose from … and then, she thought of the perfect memory. The first one. The first time they met-again.
5. Let me take you to dinner.”
Well, fuck.
*
That hadn’t been quite what he’d had in mind, but it certainly did the trick. She clammed up and gasped.
“Um -” she stuttered. “Ah, okay?”
Silence.
“Why?” she asked suddenly.
‘To shut you up’ did not seem like a good answer.
Neither did ‘Because your dress looks like cling-film and it would peel off nicely.’
“Ah - I’ll explain tomorrow.”
Surely he could come up with a reason by then?
6. Ten minutes later, Ron was still sitting with his back to the wall, holding Hermione. Her sobs were gradually lessening.
Ron looked up at the sound of the door cracking open, thankful that Hermione didn’t notice. Tonks peeked her head in. Ron shook his head.
She shut the door quietly and walked over to where Remus and Minerva stood.
“How is she?” Remus asked, a worried crease streaking his forehead.
“Not good,” Tonks said. “She’s still sobbing. Ron’s holding her. A right good mate, that boy is.”
“How serious do you think it is, Minerva?” Remus asked.
“I wish I could say I was optimistic,” Minerva said quietly. “But Percy knew what he was doing. And a permanent Obliviate…”
They stood in silence, contemplating the consequences.
7. He’d been gone when she woke up the next morning.
Serves me right, Hermione thought, letting him seduce me with pretty explanations before taking me to bed. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Angry with herself - again - she rose from the chair, walking to the kitchen. She had a bit of a walk. Her flat was large - too large for her. Too large for one person.
She poured herself a glass of elf-made wine, trying to banish thoughts of that night. They’d had sex twice and had spent most of the night talking about the war, talking about each other’s lives. He’d been remarkably open and unguarded.
That was my first clue, she thought miserably, downing her glass in one gulp.
She poured another.
8. 7:59 PM
Rose arrived on the lawn of her parents’ house with a huge sense of relief. I didn’t splinch myself. Thank Merlin.
She put her hand on her stomach and took a few deep, calming breaths. She was entirely nervous and, to be honest with herself, was scared shitless.
No need for honesty. I know what I feel.
This was the dinner she’d been working herself up to for the past month. Rather funny it had taken her so long, as she’d spent countless hours dwelling over the letter, her conversation with her Uncle Harry, and the presumed contents of that mysterious box. She pulled her jacket tight around her body and shivered, partly from cold but mostly from nerves.
2000. 2005. Five years were missing in the timeline of her mother’s life. Five years she’d been gone - in Paris working with Arithmancers, Harry had told her - five years she’d been engaged to Ron that Rose hadn’t known about.
Rose hadn’t asked anyone else about her mother, but had rather put her money where her mouth was and done the legwork herself. That day in Harry’s office had been more than enough to tell her she wasn’t going to get any help from her parents’ friends. Hell, if the letter was to be believed the only ones who had known something was immediately amiss were her father, Uncle Harry, Ginny, and Auntie Luna.
Well, Uncle Harry had been no help (alright, a little help, she acknowledged), and her father was gone (she gulped), Ginny (who detested being called ‘aunt’ by her adult nieces and nephews) was far too busy with Wizengamot work to be bothered with such questions, and Auntie Luna… well, getting a straight answer out of her was like finding a flock of Nargles in Devonshire. Bloody. Fucking. Impossible.
9. “The Abbot seems young, in spite of his white hair,” she remarked, and Severus visibly relaxed.
“Yes. He’s younger than I am,” he said mildly.
“You said he took orders the first summer you were here. He wasn’t the Abbot that allowed you in, then?” Hermione asked, leaning against one of the stone benches.
Severus held her gaze before dropping his eyes. “That would be Father Tomas. He passed on several years ago.”
“You cared for him?” Hermione asked softly. Severus didn’t respond. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Father Tomas was a kind man, a good man. He knew what I was and what I came from,” Severus said slowly. “He knew me when I was a boy. He was a young monk when he volunteered in our parish.”
Hermione gaped at him. “Are you religious?”
10. “Severus!” she cried, running to leap into his arms. She was elated to see him, and certainly the way he looked did nothing to discourage her. Fitted black dress pants, a crisp white shirt with unbuttoned cuffs, and that mane of black silk that hung barely inches from his shoulders … it was enough to drive any woman completely mad with lust, let alone love.
He had, for one heady moment, returned the embrace, before stiffening and removing her arms from his neck. It almost killed him to do so.
Hermione looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Is anything wrong?” Their eyes seared into one another’s.
His eyes had flickered, she noticed. They now had assumed their cold, steely stare, but what was it that had been in them before? Alarmed, she realised it had been painful regret.
“I’m leaving England tonight,” he said, at last.
“What?” she gawked, the words not registering in her head.
He ran a hand through his hair, looking to the floor for a miraculous explanation. “I have to go. This place … this country … it is too full of memories, too full of …” he caught the words before they formed. Too full of pain. He cleared his throat. “A continued existence in this land is not something I can do right now, nor is it something I want to do. I desire some remnant of peace; I need rest,” he finished, slipping into his classic professor voice.