Anti-Litigation Charm: None of the characters of this story belong to me – even the original idea belongs to someone else. The characters belong to JK Rowling and Warner Brothers, who left my only reason for reading the Harry Potter Series bleeding to death, first in a dusty Shrieking Shack, then in a pristine boat house. I've stoppered death; I'm building a better world.

Special thanks to my sterling, beautiful, can't-live-without beta stgulik, who turned this around so fast I would swear she's got a time-turner.

This story contains explicit sexual content. Be warned - here there be fluff...

Hermione Granger had had a privileged childhood, no doubt about it. Her parents were hard-working dentists, with a bit of money and a love of travel, and she'd vacationed in just about every major city in the world with them. She'd watched a waiter walk out the front door of her hotel in Anacapri to pluck an orange for her breakfast juice. She'd danced with Cossacks in St. Petersburg. She had attended a formal tea ceremony in Japan and the Bolshoi in Moscow, and had touched history in the Parthenon.

She'd dined on the Left Bank in Paris; she'd had an audience with the Pope in Rome. She'd been to Brazil, Beijing, Barcelona, Egypt, Jerusalem, Morocco, Montevideo, the States, the Seychelles, the Caymans, the Orkneys, Oslo, Toronto, Toledo, Tokyo and Venice.

None of them held a candle to London.

Perhaps she was merely unapologetically British, but London was the one place, save perhaps Hogwarts, that made her blood race and her eyes bright with excitement. It was a city whose pulse you could feel beneath your feet as you moved restlessly from the West End to Whitechapel, and no matter what part of London in which she found herself, Hermione felt alive, right down to her fingertips.

In the ten years after what was called Voldemort War II, or VWII (which the Muggle part of her mind always processed as the latest Volkswagen sedan), Hermione Granger found herself in her favourite city, her adopted home, basking in a rare June heat that drove people out on the streets in great throngs around pub beer gardens and shady parks. London was shimmering with life.

Hermione had never felt so alone.

Sitting at a table on the sidewalk outside the lovely little Cypriote restaurant around the corner from Covent Garden, Hermione watched life passing her by. Oh, not that she so much minded being alone, but she did mind feeling lonely. As much as London thrilled and inspired her, it had a way of throwing her single, unattached state of affairs into sharp relief.

The trip to London itself was an exercise in loneliness. It was supposed to be a reunion of sorts between her, Ron and Harry, a sort of let's-get-together-and-reminisce-while-getting-pissed-and-eating-lots-of-good-food reunion, and she had been looking forward to it for months. She'd badgered Minerva into giving her a long weekend off from her duties as Professor of Muggle Studies (no mean feat this close to the end of school), and had planned the weekend as meticulously as she had once prepared their revision schedules as a student.

They were to meet on Friday at Waterloo station, then visit the Imperial War Museum, and follow up with dinner at the new Culinaire Alley eatery everyone was talking about, Le Sorcier Noir. It amused and dismayed Hermione in equal measures that a restaurant could call itself "The Dark Wizard" nowadays and no one batted an eyelid. Still, it had received a Wizarding Michelin Two Dozen Sparx Rating, and it had taken her a week of wrangling and owls just to get a table for three.

Then, Thursday evening, while Hermione was packing, she had felt her wards shimmer, indicating that a Floo was coming through. "Oh, no," she groaned inwardly. She was suddenly filled with an inexplicable certainty that it was one of the boys, and they were crying off the weekend.

She'd been wrong. It was both of them, sheepishly begging off with excuses so flimsy a Quidditch team could have raced through the holes.

Ron, it seemed, was stuck in Barcelona with the Chudley Cannons (still playing Keeper), and they were doing an exhibition and he just HAD to stay and there was NO way he could get back before Monday. From the amount of glass clinking in the background and loud, high-pitched female laughter, the exhibition mostly seemed to consist of how drunk they could all get before they passed out.

"I'm sorry, mate," Ron said, his voice already slightly slurry and whiny with regret. "I promise I'll make it up to you – leave it!" he laughed, gesturing playfully to the faceless, nameless girl at his side. "We'll all get together next month when I'm back in – that's my arse! – back in England, yeah?"

Hiding her irritation and disappointment, Hermione smiled brightly. "Yeah, sure, Ron. No problem. These things happen." Her voice could not have been more chipper. "Well, must dash. Another Floo call is coming through."

She had just enough time to compose her face when Harry Floo-ed in with an equally lame excuse. By then, Hermione was so disgusted by the two of them, she barely heard his feeble reason for being unavailable for the weekend. Let's face it, Harry, Hermione thought to herself, as the Floo line closed, Ginny isn't going to let you out of her sight long enough to enjoy yourself. Hermione already privately referred to Harry as The Boy Who Lived To Be Pussy-Whipped By His Wife.

Her own thoughts depressed her. These were her two best friends, after all. Well, they were her two best friends. As the years wore on, she had to admit that they'd drifted apart; weekly correspondence had become monthly, then every few weeks, then on birthdays and holidays, then the occasional Christmas card, hastily bought, scribbled with a few quick words while an impatient postal owl waited. She couldn't blame them; she was as guilty of it as they were.

And they were busy leading their lives. Harry was Head of the Auror Department and had a very high-pressure, high-profile position. In addition, he and Ginny had started a family almost the day they got married, and with two kids and one on the way, Ginny was understandably not that keen for Harry to take a trip down memory lane with Hermione and Ron while she stayed behind, nursing the two ankle biters - and with two swollen ankles.

Ron was busy, as well. As a rising star for one of the minor semi-pro Quidditch Teams, he was on the go constantly - a different town every day and a different witch to go with it. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Hermione would think about just how close they had come to getting engaged, and shudder. Better to be single than with a bloke who made his living travelling and making his way through every witch with a pulse who crooked her wand his way. No, thank you. Hermione treasured her peace of mind.

After ending the Floo calls with the boys, she'd almost cancelled all her plans, but decided at the last moment to go. In reality, she couldn't stand the thought of the well-meaning but slightly pitying remarks she would receive from her fellow teachers about 'best laid plans of mice and men' and 'we lonely old spinsters can get together for a wee dram.' As much as she loved Hogwarts, being its youngest professor by about fifty years sometimes made her feel like she was being buried alive.

So she'd caught the train to Waterloo Station (she wasn't exactly in a hurry now), and enjoyed a fascinating day at the Imperial War Museum. She spent a pleasant afternoon taking Muggle photos and jotting down notes. By the time the Museum closed, she'd been so tired she sneakily Apparated back to her hotel room.

Unfortunately, she'd napped so long, she completely missed her reservation at Le Sorcier Noir. She knew they would fill the table, but Hermione was still a young woman of manners, so she'd assuaged her guilt by ordering room service and watching a rather odd film on the telly about a singing barber who killed his customers and then assisted his neighbor into cutting them up for meat pies. Hermione grimaced. She'd never been one for meat pies.

Hermione signaled the waiter for Commandaria and Katmer, her favourite dessert, and one of the Cypriote restaurant's specialties. She smiled in anticipation as the amber-coloured dessert wine was placed on her table, alongside three lovely little phyllo cylinders, stuffed with almonds and drizzled in syrup.

It had been ages since she'd eaten katmer, and the confections were as lovely to look at as to eat. As Hermione savoured the anticipation, she idly wondered why she didn't treat herself more often. She rather thought that it was a metaphor for what her life had become. Long bouts of ennui, punctuated by the occasional treat to bolster and convince herself that there was something to look forward to besides the manic crush of the coming school year.

Looking up from this temple-aching mass of sugar disguised as flaky, buttery pastry, Hermione realized that the waiter was hovering, obviously wanting her opinion. She'd seen his type before: a good-looking fellow of Mediterranean extraction who fancied himself a lady's man.

"Well, don't be shy, tuck in," he said, smiling. He had a huge mouthful of white teeth; it was like being smiled at by a piano. She smiled back, and took a sip of her excellent wine.

"Do you live in London?" the waiter queried, pretending to clean the next table in order to give himself an excuse to hang around.

"No, just visiting for the weekend," she said, raising the first forkful of katmer to her lips. Just as she was about to take a longed-for bite, he interjected again.

"Oh, lovely. What do you do when you're not visiting?"

Merlin, why did I get the nosiest waiter in London? Biting back a retort, Hermione smiled sweetly. "I'm a school teacher."

The waiter looked very impressed, and gave her his eighty-eight key smile. Her parents would have drooled over his bicuspids. "A teacher, eh? Smart lady. I can see I'll have to watch my p's and q's around you," he teased.

"Yeah, you do that while I watch my diet go down the drain," she muttered to her dessert. So intent was Hermione in digging into her pastry that she did not see the tall figure approach her until his shadow fell across her table. Bringing a second forkful of katmer to her mouth, she was about to ask the waiter for some water, arsenic, anything, just to be left in peace. She glanced upward, saw the owner of the shadow, then promptly dropped her fork in her lap.

"Profes – Mist- Sever- SIR!" she babbled, and rose so quickly she caught the tablecloth on her belt buckle, jarring the table. Her glass of wine fell over onto her katmer, and the fork landed on the floor. She and the waiter dove to get it at the same time and bumped heads so hard Hermione saw stars.

Staggering to her feet, Hermione shot the waiter a look that would peel tomatoes and turned to her former Potions master. Mopping up wine with one hand while extending the other, she said happily, "Wow! This is such a lovely surprise!"

Severus Snape took the proffered hand with thinly concealed amusement. "Thank you, Miss Granger. It's comforting to know that some things never change." He looked down at her, still valiantly trying to keep her dessert wine from finding its way into her lap. "I apologise for startling you."

The waiter, instead of quitting while he was ahead, joined the fracas, and the commotion and attention they were stirring gave Hermione the impression Severus was wishing he'd kept his mouth shut and passed by his former student.

She decided to cut her losses and start over. "Sorry about that! This is such a surprise, after all! Won't you join me?" She gestured to the wrecked table, stained with wine and plated with soggy pastry. She slumped slightly. Or maybe I'll just slide out of London in a pool of my own humiliation.

"Would the Miss like a new table?" asked the waiter, smiling his second-best grin.

Snape, apparently deciding to give the situation the benefit of the doubt, replied in voice that Hermione remembered like Merlin Almighty's. "That would be lovely, thank you. The Miss and I will sit here, if it's available." He indicated a table nearby, and that was how Hermione and Severus Snape found themselves in a restaurant, sharing wine and pastry, on one of the finest summer days London could offer.

"I must admit you were the last person I expected to see today, no offence," Hermione said after they'd settled. In reality, she was stunned. When Severus Snape had provided the cover fire Harry needed to defeat Voldemort, he had at first been inundated by praise as one of the heroes of the hour. But almost as quickly as the dust had settled, Snape had turned in his resignation to Headmaster Dumbledore and left for parts unknown. It had been a long time since she'd seen him, and ages since she'd heard any gossip about him. In the Wizarding world, it was truly out of sight, out of mind.

"Yes, well, I was passing by and recognized you, and, quite frankly," he leaned in close, and Hermione felt her heart flutter as she caught the scent of his cologne, "you looked like you could use a little, shall we say, rescuing?" His mouth quirked up at the corners, and Hermione found herself smirking in return.

"Oh, you mean from Mr. Steinway over there?"

"Steinway?" Severus looked at the waiter curiously, and Hermione glanced at the offending waiter ruefully.

"Oh, I don't know his name, but he just keeps giving these huge, toothy smiles, and he just reminds me of a keyboard, all big white ivories." She made a dismissive gesture, smiling. "He's not so bad, but I don't usually come here by myself, so he must have thought I was a bit on the prowl." She felt instantly idiotic. "Not that I go on the prowl, alone, mind you, but since I wasn't surrounded by men, he must've thought – "

She stopped. What was it about this man that instantly reduced her to a gawky eighteen year-old? After the war, she had sought him out, to speak with him alone, and she ended up stumbling through a garbled thanks, trying to make him understand how grateful she was for all he'd done for Harry, how much she admired him and would love to get to know him. In the end, she'd just left him and walked away, feeling like the biggest prat on the planet. He had never said a word to her; but then again, she'd hardly dazzled him with her brilliance.

Looking at him now, expecting him to either scrape her off the sidewalk with a scathing remark, or sip his coffee and get the hell away from her as fast as possible, Hermione took a deep breath.

"I honestly believe it's my destiny to make a complete fool out of myself anytime I have the chance with you," she said.

To her surprise he smiled. Narrowing his eyes, he replied, "I do seem to recall our last meeting as professor and student did not show you in your finest light, Miss Granger." He sat back, and with a small shrug, he added, "And, in light of shared experiences in the past, the less said about 'destiny,' the better."

She nodded. "Agreed. But only if you call me Hermione."

He sketched a little bow. "Agreed. And since I'm no longer anyone's professor, and Mr. Snape makes me sound positively predatory, please call me Severus."

For a moment, they calmly studied one another. Hermione was stunned at the change in Severus Snape. "You know, the last time I saw so much as a photograph of you was last year at the Ministry's Anniversary Ball."

He managed to look pained. "Ah yes. One of the great reminders of why I never attend those dreary functions." He'd been standing between Minerva McGonagall and Harry, looking calmly uncomfortable as he allowed the Minister to pin his Order of Merlin, First Class on his dress robes.

"Well you looked good, but rather out of your element, if you don't mind me saying."

He acknowledged the compliment by saluting her with his water glass. "I don't recall see you there, Hermione. The 'Golden Trio' was represented by the ever-popular Mr. Potter and his wife. I understood at the time that you and Mr. Weasley had decided to go your separate ways."

Hermione nodded. With a sad little smile, she added, "I think in the end he and I realized that, if we got married, I would go mental and take him with me, so we both sat down and broke the news to the Weasleys." She wrinkled her nose.

Severus' eyebrows rose. "The news was not taken well?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I think Molly is still in mourning. Though why she ever thought Ron and I would have lasted longer than his first full Quidditch season is beyond me." She gave a dismissive glance at the new waiter who replenished her wine and katmer. "She actually did swoon a little when I mentioned that I wasn't planning on punching out a kid every other year, but hey, she wasn't giving birth to them or having to raise them, so I felt justified in telling her so." Hermione smiled crookedly. "Might have been a mistake."

"Indeed," Severus replied, taking another sip of water. He looked around casually, then returned his attention to Hermione. "So what brings you to London during a school week, Hermione?"

Without preamble, Hermione chatted about her failed reunion with Ron and Harry. This segued into work, and school, and students and professors and everything in between. At his subtle prompting, she forgot her awkwardness and began to talk about different subjects, off the beaten path of her regular, safe, bland conversations with friends, students and teachers, and into the murkier waters of real life.

"I confess, I understand you a little better now," Hermione said, as a new waiter refilled their glasses.

Severus picked up the glass with casual grace. Hermione noticed he made every gesture with elegance, as if he'd trained himself so well that it appeared to be second nature. In this case, however, he seemed more preoccupied in giving himself something to do rather than being genuinely thirsty. "Understand me? How so, Hermione?"

She took a moment. How to phrase this without offending him? She was honestly enjoying herself with Severus Snape. She was hoping to enjoy him more. "I understand the isolation a little more, now that I work at Hogwarts. Being up there, being the youngest teacher, being surrounded by – " She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Well, let's just say I know the length and breadth and depth of the definition of the word 'dunderhead' now."

His soft chuckle gave Hermione a pleasant little glow in her belly, and she ducked her head again. "Not that I can imagine how things must have been – "

"Let's stop there," Severus interrupted smoothly, with a tinge of sadness. "I would prefer we not dredge up ghosts of the past. Things change; people change." He leaned forward. "We've both changed."

Hermione looked at him closely. Yes, he'd changed, all right. Gone was the perpetual scowl, the angry, brittle resentment that leaked from every pore. He was still lean and pale; in the sunshine he looked striking, unique, dramatic. His black hair, gleaming with a bluish cast, was still long, and he still tossed his head to either cover or remove it from his eyes.

If anything, he seemed younger now, less tense, of course, but mostly more at peace with himself. He also looked rather rakish, and more than one woman gave him a cool, appraising look as she passed them by. Severus Snape could be called many things, but ordinary wasn't one of them. Hermione started to feel a little smug, sitting in the London sunshine with such an interesting-looking, appealing man.

He still wore black; Hermione privately considered that the world might just fall off its axis and roll away like a bowling ball should Severus Snape wear anything but his trademark colour. Black trousers were paired with a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to just below the elbows. When he moved, she could see the faintest line of his Dark Mark. He looked and sounded like a Bond villain: cool, calculating, suave and sexy. She wondered if he thought of himself that way. She then wondered what he thought of her.

She stopped that line of thought immediately. This interesting wizard has seen you trip, fall, hexed, humiliated and caught after-hours in a clumsy fumble with Ron. You've set him on fire, stolen from him, cowered behind him, been humiliated by him and at various times in your youth you've alternately attempted to kill him and save his life.

Their shared history loomed between them as large as a chasm, and Hermione felt a surprisingly sharp pang of regret at the realization Severus Snape would, in all likelihood, always see her as a goofy little girl who spent the first seven years of their association getting up his nose.

But, on the other hand, he'd indicated that he wasn't interested in revisiting the past. Perhaps they might find a new friendship in the future. Hermione decided to stop trying to meet him on old ground and forge ahead. Perhaps she and Severus could view each other as more than just former professor and student. If that was the case, he might at least be willing to meet her halfway as a friend.

In the few seconds she'd taken to roll this around in her mind, she felt his intense concentration on her, and looked up to meet his eyes. They were the same midnight-black eyes she remembered, but there was something new about them. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but it excited her, and Hermione hadn't felt excited like this in a long time.

So she did what she always did - started talking again. She told him all about the meticulously planned weekend, and how Ron and Harry had bailed at the last minute and the War Museum and lunch and…

Severus allowed her to babble on, covering old ground, until she simply ran out of steam and stared into the distance, feeling like a complete numpty. To compensate, she grabbed her knife and fork and stabbed at the katmer. "So, I decided the hell with the boys, I would treat myself for the weekend and pretend I'm royalty in exile."

Bemused, Severus toasted her with his glass. "Here's to a lovely weekend, Your Majesty."

She nodded regally to acknowledge his accolades, then took another bite of her dessert. Severus watched her with veiled amusement as she closed her eyes and savoured the confection. The combination of sugar, wine and her own insecurity hit her bloodstream at once, and without thinking, Hermione moaned, "Oh, gods, this is better than sex."

She shivered, and licked her lips lasciviously. "You really must try this!" She speared a forkful of the katmer and offered it to him. Their eyes met, and for a split second, Hermione heard her last two sentences in her head as if through a playback machine. She could not have felt more self-conscious if she'd taken lessons. She decided to brazen it out, and held the fork out to him challengingly.

He gave her a look so indescribable she felt as if something warm had been placed in her lap. In a tone of voice only he could produce, he drawled, "Better than sex?" His eyebrow translated what had been left unsaid. "Let's see then." With a strange glint in his eye he leaned forward, and instead of taking the fork from her hand, he allowed her to feed him the morsel. With his eyes locked onto hers, his lips parted and the tiniest hint of his tongue snaked out beneath the fork.

Hermione watched his lips in fascination, and when his mouth closed over her fork she released the breath she'd been holding. He closed his eyes in a slow blink, and when he opened them again Hermione found herself staring at him, biting her lower lip.

He gently pulled the dessert into his mouth and straightened, chewing slowly. For a moment, they simply looked into one another's eyes. With a smirk, Severus swallowed, licked his lips and leaned forward, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. He made a little moue of approval. "Very nice." His tone became more finely tuned with irony. "I'm not sure I can attest to it being better than sex, but perhaps that is a discussion for another time."

Hermione didn't want to blush, but she could feel the heat wash over her, down to the pit of her stomach. "How do you do it?" she said, before she could rein the words in.

His lips twitched. "Do what?"

Hermione momentarily closed her eyes. With a deep breath, she forced herself to smile, and she replied, "Perhaps that is a discussion for another time." He glanced off to the side and truly laughed. It was the sexiest thing she'd ever heard. "A person could get used that laugh, Severus."

He sobered. "A person could get used to that… katmer, Hermione."

Hermione held his gaze, then looked down at her plate. This chance meeting had gone better than she could ever have hoped, but she ought to end this now, rather than spoil it by doing something incredibly embarrassing, like asking him out and having to listen to the pity in his voice when he made his excuses and refused. For all she knew, he was already in a relationship and meeting her here was just a coincidence she'd already read far too much into. She moved in her chair restlessly, and reached for her bag.

He watched her, and something like alarm rose in his expression. Apropos of nothing, he briskly interjected. "And why, Hermione, if you're at such loose ends, did you not show up last night?"

The question zoomed so in so far of left field Hermione didn't completely process it. She settled in her chair. "Show up where?" she asked.

"For your dinner reservation."

She blinked. "Reservation?" She shook her head. "I don't remember mentioning a dinner reservation."

He gave her a steady look of expectation. "Le Sorcier Noir?"

Hermione grew very still. "How – how did you know about that?"

"I'm the owner," he replied.

All her breath left Hermione in a huff. "You're kidding! I had no idea!"

Severus dropped his head so characteristically Hermione felt a rush of nostalgia. He was pleased with her reaction; he just didn't know how to show it. Through the curtain of shining hair, he said, "Well, I'm a co-owner. A silent partner, if you will."

Hermione was completely nonplussed. "I can't believe that Minerva didn't mention it! I've been talking about that reservation for weeks." Realisation dawned, and Hermione felt the breath rush from her lungs. "Is that how you found me – the Headmistress?"

Severus shrugged modestly. "Well, I wouldn't be much of an ex-spy if I couldn't winkle information out of an old hag like Minerva."

Hermione gasped in pretended shock and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "Old hag? I'll tell her you said that."

He smirked. "It's nothing that she hasn't heard me call her before. Old friends can get away with that, you know."

Hermione shook her head, then fixed him with a steely gaze. "You're changing the subject. So, how did you become the owner – excuse me, co-owner - of the most popular restaurant in Wizarding Britain?"

He gave her an incredulous look. "As popular as that? I must remember to tell Lucius. He'll be thrilled. He's my business partner." Hermione was about to remind him of his Wizarding Michelin Sparx, but realised he was teasing her, so she bit back a retort and let him continue.

"After the war I wanted to retire from teaching and leave Wizarding Britain. I had planned on moving away permanently, but fate had other plans, it seems."

Hermione nodded, willing him to go on, to regale her in his beautiful voice. "I moved to Tuscany. Lucius had a villa there, and while I was sitting around trying to decide what I wanted to do with the next hundred or so years of my life, I started cooking. I found I had an affinity for it. What's more, I enjoyed it."

"Not surprising. A Potions master has to understand ingredients and quantities," Hermione interjected. With a smile, she added, "I'm surprised you hadn't realized your cooking abilities sooner."

Severus shrugged. "You know as well as I that Hogwarts encourages laziness in its staff; house-elves do everything for you, including preparing your food. Before that, well, let's just say my parents weren't the sort to indulge that kind of hobby." He dropped into a thick Mancunian accent. "To my late, not-to-be-lamented father, cooking was women's work and practically guaranteed you to become a homosexual if you were a bloke."

Hermione smiled sadly. "Like that, huh?"

He nodded, and said placidly, "Like that. Until I was eighteen or so I was afraid to boil an egg. I was convinced if I did I'd automatically transfigure into the arch-poof of Slytherin. It was about that time that I -" He stopped suddenly, and favoured her with a look that could almost be considered coy.

Charmed at this sudden discomfort, Hermione wheedled, "You what? Do tell, Professor."

He glanced at her shortly, then gave her a little cat-like smile. "Let's just say that around that time I was afforded the opportunity to discover that I wasn't in any danger of cooking myself gay."

Hermione's laughter floated out onto the street, causing several men to look her way approvingly. Severus looked down at his hands and smiled. "Anyway, I started creating my own dishes and started consulting with other, more established chefs in the area, and decided to open my own restaurant. It was Lucius who convinced me to locate it here in Wizarding London."

Hermione nodded. "Of course! Culinaire Alley almost closed down completely during the last days of the war." She was impressed. "I remember how Le Sorcier Noir helped to stimulate the economy there. Smart move."

Severus shrugged modestly. "It pays the bills."

Hermione shook her head, incredulous. "It does a little more than just pay the bills! It's marvelous." She beamed. "Congratulations, Severus. If anyone deserves success, it's you."

He looked at her keenly, as if trying to sense any condescension on her part. After apparently detecting no jeering tone in her voice, he accepted her accolades modestly. "That is kind of you. But now you are attempting to change the subject." He pretended to scowl. "Why did you not come, Miss Granger?"

It was Hermione's turn to duck her head shyly. "Would you believe I fell asleep and forgot?"

"Not. Good. Enough." He sat back. "We held your table for over an hour. My maître d' was crushed that the lynchpin of the Golden Trio never showed up. I was most disappointed in you."

Hermione, hearing the silky, teasing note in his voice, felt a little frisson of pleasure. Blimey, Severus Snape was flirting! With her! And he was good at it. Hermione smiled at him, and saw immediately that beneath the confident exterior, there was that certain something in his eyes again. She recognized it this time. It was insecurity. Severus Snape may have changed his dress, his appearance, his manner, but he was still just a man, trying to impress a woman. Hermione suddenly felt a bit empowered.

She tilted her head, and stroked the rim of her water glass. "Oh, dear, I do so hate to disappoint you, sir." She favoured him with a contrite little pout. "How ever can I make it up? I'm afraid my days serving detention are long gone."

As if sensing the game was afoot, Severus sat back and smirked. "Would that it were not so! I suppose you'll just have to come tonight. I can't have my maître d' upset."

"No, we can't have that." Hermione found herself enjoying this little game, and from the way he was looking at her, he was enjoying it as well.

Severus replied, "Then shall we say eight o'clock? My treat. The Lobster Thermidore is the chef's special this evening."

"Lobster Thermidore? My favourite!" Hermione's smile faded. "Oh, don't get me wrong - I'd love to but – you see, I have tickets tonight for the Proms at the Royal Albert Hall." She bit her lip. Now or never, Granger. "Look, why don't you come with me? I've got a whole box to myself."

He pretended to consider, then leaned forward, his voice warm and soft. "I'd be honoured to share your box, Hermione."

Gods, he makes everything sound like sex, she thought. Then again, it's been so long since I've had a good shag anything sounds like sex.

"Excellent. In fact, better than excellent!" Confidentially, she added, "In all honesty, I wasn't really looking forward to having the boys there; I knew they would hate it, so I got a box in case they fell asleep. Going to a music concert's really no fun by oneself. You need to be able to sit beside someone and kibitz about it."

Severus regarded her thoughtfully. "In that case, why don't we plan to eat afterward? I'm sure chef could hold a few lobsters back."

Hermione smiled. She loved lobster. She also thought she might end up nibbling on Snape Thermadore if she played her cards right. "It sounds like a plan, Severus. I'll see you in front of the Royal Albert Hall at 7:30 sharp. I'll be the one surrounded by admirers throwing flowers at my feet." She pretended to preen imperiously, hoping to make him laugh again.

He gave her a long, penetrating look, then made to stand. "Half seven it is, then. I have some errands between now and then, so I'll take my leave now, Your Majesty." He reached for her hand, and kissed it, his eyes never leaving hers. In a voice so creamy and smooth she felt it trickle between her breasts, he purred, "Wear something pretty, Hermione Granger. I'm planning on sweeping you off your feet."

With that, he turned and strode away, and Hermione sat for a moment, shaking her head, wondering exactly what had just transpired. She looked around self-consciously, but London was bustling around her; no one took any notice of the pretty young witch smiling to herself.

Finally, she closed her eyes and popped the last of the katmer in her mouth, sighing happily that there were such things in the world as a lovely dessert and the intriguing wizard disappearing around the corner.