A/N- This story was written for Cabepfir as part the 2018 round of the SSHG Gift Fest hosted over on LJ. It has been expanded and edited since the Fest, and the fantastic prompt will be posted at the end as to not spoil the story. Updates will be once a week. My warm thanks to the Fest Mods for hosting such a wonderful event, the uber-talented Cabefir for much inspiration over the years, and the truly amazing community that helped me both write and polish it into shape. Cheers to J and L who helped alpha the story, as well as Nate and Lolly, my original betas of goodness. Finally, hugs to WT, Fawkesylady and Q_Drew for helping me whip this into far better shape than I ever could have done. In particular, I want to credit Q_Drew for her tireless work with me on this and other items- she's proved to not only be a great writing partner but a lovely friend as well.

According to Wikipedia "...being between Scylla and Charybdis is an idiom deriving from Greek mythology, meaning "having to choose between two evils". Several other idioms, such as 'on the horns of a dilemma', 'between the devil and the deep blue sea', and 'between a rock and a hard place' express similar meanings."

This story is rated a hard M, and contains adult language and situations, as well as mild violence. As always, comments and concrit are gladly welcomed. Happy reading!

Between Scylla and Charybdis

Chapter 1

"Merlin's saggy ballsack, since when has Granger had decent tits?" Draco Malfoy exclaimed, his expression caught somewhere between intrigued and irritated as he stared across the length of the glittering ballroom.

"Oh, about midway through the winter term of sixth year," Theodore Nott drawled nonchalantly. "Pity she's never met a baggy jumper that she didn't like. Could you imagine how she'd look in an Acromantula silk blouse, gone slightly damp from the rain…"

"…and will you look at that, she has a properly fine arse to match! No wonder the Weasel put up with her for so long."

Pinching the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to ward off a brewing headache making itself known with the same three-four beat as the waltz currently being played, Headmaster Severus Snape glared down at his charges. Despite the almost dozen years that passed since Draco and Nott had graduated, he found himself in the unenviable position of acting as a mentor to the two unbelievably crass boys standing before him. "Can you at least pretend to possess some pretence of manners when in the company of your betters?" he growled irritably. "I can personally attest that you have been lectured on their importance on more than one occasion."

Reluctantly, Draco drew his eyes away from Granger's finer… assets and met his scowl with a smirk of his own. "Come now, Godfather, we are simply doing what you requested of us: keeping an eye out for anything unusual. And Circe knows that a bookworm of that magnitude having a body like that is quite unusual, indeed."

"And that is precisely the type of puerile sentiment that has kept the lot of you single," he retorted flatly.

Fighting the urge to rub his temples, Snape wished for the thousandth time he didn't have a streak of Gryffindor-esqe masochism in him that was so easily exploited. All it had taken was one pleading, tremulous look from Narcissa, and he had fallen back into old habits; in this case, helping her fix her 'teeny, tiny problem' of her missing heirloom jewellery.

"I don't want Lucius to know that it was stolen," she had confided in him the day before. "You know how protective he is. If he should find out that someone's taken La Guivre, he'll do something truly foolish, and we can't afford to keep him out of Azkaban a third time. Not and keep the château in France, at least…"

You could have told her no, he thought now with disgust. You could have told her to go to the Aurors or to hire an actual private investigator, not an ageing ex-spy turned overworked school administrator. Instead, you volunteered to look into matters and keep an eye on her wayward bachelor son in the process. So really, who is the foolish one in this drama? Alas, it's not Statler and Waldorf standing in front of you…

Draco's grey eyes were suddenly keen on his. "So tell me, then, what sort of puerile sentiment is responsible for keeping you single after all this time?"

The question, asked in a fashion that could almost be considered gentle from a Malfoy, still struck him like a slap to the face. For a fleeting moment, he smelt not the jumble of heavy perfumes and beeswax of the ballroom, but the far more elusive scent of lavender and sun-warmed cotton; heard a bell-like laugh and could almost feel the sensation of soft copper strands brushing his arm. Lily… If not exactly a puerile sentiment, then it was certainly an obsession of the juvenile variety that had kept him single for so many years. And while he no longer wished to be chained to that particular millstone, Severus had no notion how to begin the disentangling process. It wasn't as if he'd not tried over the years, but any liaison of his seemed to fade away by the time the season changed.

His head turned, seeking something in the shifting crowd to anchor his thoughts; unexpectedly, his regard returned to Granger. She was smiling at the man standing next to her, delicate hands gesturing wildly as she made some point or another. Displaying a latent sort of awareness, his former student met his gaze calmly enough. Some reaction- curiosity, he thought at first, and then revised it to calculation- flickered through her expression, and the oddity of it made him consider her anew.

It pained him to admit it, but Hermione Granger had been one of the brightest witches to graduate from Hogwarts in the last hundred years. Moreover, she had the cachet of being able to add 'toppled despotic reptilian-led junta before age twenty' to her CV, on top of scoring a highly admirable nine 'Outstandings' on her N.E.W.T.s. And as both Draco and Nott had finally observed, she also possessed a pleasant enough figure when one could see beyond the frumpy exterior. Yet for all that- for all her bright and shining Gryffindor promise- she had ended up as nothing more than an overlooked peon caught up in the never-ending institutional grind that was the Ministry of Magic. Hermione Granger hadn't set the world on fire, or created a cure for Spattergroit; she seemed to be perfectly content in her role as a minor secretary to a mid-level manager.

And for some reason, that left him rather disappointed.

Both Draco and Nott were shifting uneasily next to him. Aware that his mental meanderings had allowed the silence to stretch on revealingly, he sent his godson an icy look of reproach. "Unlike you two… gentlemen, I seek more than a woman with merely a proper arse and decent tits." Dismissing Granger summarily from his thoughts, he continued, "If you've any of that famed Slytherin cunning, you'd do the same. Now get out there and start observing. I've told you enough times what sort of things you need to be listening for. Go."

Nott immediately started for the crowded buffet table, but Draco lingered, a faint whiff of concern wrinkling his brow. "Severus-" Draco began, but he cut the boy off with a peremptory wave of his hand.

"I said go, or I'll inform your mother that you've formed an unfortunate tendré for Ms Granger."

"No need to get shirty," his godson grumbled and glided off to do his bidding.

The seating arrangements for the supper proved to be most ironic. He was not, Merlin be thanked, seated with his temporary compatriots; they had been put much further down the table, among the fermenting mass of unmarried and unranked pure-bloods and assorted other hangers-on.

Snape, as both the Headmaster of the Wizarding World's most famous school, and as the holder of one Order of Merlin (First Class), was naturally seated in the place of honour next to Alicia Greengrass, the hostess. To his right, however, was the only other person at the soirée that could claim the same Ministry recognised medal of valour- one Hermione Jean Granger.

Alicia had pulled him aside, just prior to entering the room, to warn him, "I truly am sorry, Severus; you know that we'd normally seat you next to someone far more… sophisticated, but the dictates of precedence are rather clear. Her Order of Merlin outranks every other supper guest. Other than you, of course."

By "sophisticated", Severus knew that Alicia Greengrass meant 'pure-blood', as well as someone preferably single and female; it would be quite the coup to be able to boast that you were responsible for introducing the elusive Headmaster to a wife. For his part, he wasn't opposed to such an introduction but could give a tinker's damn if the woman was pure-blood or not.

"If I didn't kill her after six years of insufferable behaviour in my classroom, I am unlikely to do so at your table, Alicia. Don't worry yourself." Casting a jaded eye over the assembled guests, he shrugged. "And she'll be a far superior supper partner to Edward Montblanc-Rowle or Maria Travers, who would have been your other options."

Alicia pursed her lips in a moue of distaste and leaned in a bit closer. "True. If I have to hear Sir Edward ramble on one more time about the breeding habits of his bloody precious crups, I'm liable to shoot one and serve it as the main course just to shut him up. And Maria's laugh does rather remind one of the shrieks of Merfolk once she's in her sherry. It's a pity they come from such illustrious lines."

He couldn't help the smirk that his hostess' comments elicited and decided to prime the pump for further gossip; Alicia Greengrass was the reigning Society Matron, after all, and he needed certain information. "As I said, my dear, Ms Granger will do well enough. It shall be entertaining if anything. I must say, however, that I am surprised to see her tonight. She isn't exactly a regular in this circle."

"No," the woman replied sourly, "but she begged an invite from Daphne at the last minute, and you know how soft-hearted my daughter is. Can't say no to save her life."

Snape raised an eyebrow at this. "Well, keep her away from Draco, then. He's made any number of questionable revelations tonight."

"Narcissa beating the marriage drum again, hmm?" Alicia sent him an amused glance.

"Something like that."

From the double doors of the supper hall, an ancient house-elf rang a gong. Turning to Alicia, he smiled as charmingly as he could manage. "May I at least have the pleasure of escorting you in?"

Offering her arm, Alicia Greengrass returned his smile with a warm one of her own. "Of course. You know, Severus, it's rather nice to see you out and about again. You so infrequently attend anything, and I know it must get lonely in that castle of yours…"

Dutifully devoting his attention to his hostess during the appetizers, Snape finally turned his regard over to Granger as the second course arrived.

She was a startlingly petite thing, a fact that was frequently overwhelmed by both her riotous hair and ferociously blunt manner. Her dress robes, Severus noted, were of a flatteringly deep blue, the rich midnight hue of it setting off her complexion and hair perfectly. But the fit of silky fabric was off; the shoulder of the gown kept slipping down the creamy skin of her arm, necessitating frequent adjustments. Unsurprisingly, the movement only drew the eye back to the low expanse of her décolletage.

Christ, but she does have lovely tits… Granger looked up from her plate then, and for a moment, he fancied that he saw something altogether smug and amused float through her expression as she caught the direction of his meandering gaze. Mustn't get caught being a perv, he thought a tad guiltily. Just because one's height advantage allows for the perfect viewing angle, doesn't mean one should use said advantage.

Knowing that he would not be able to pull off 'suave' with this particular woman, Snape settled for snide. "Remind me again, Ms Granger, as to what you currently do. For some strange reason, I can't recall."

That prompted the reaction he'd hoped for; eyes flashing and pointy chin jutting forward, she answered him swiftly enough. "I am the Junior Assistant to the Undersecretary of the Administrative Registration Department. That's within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, should you not be able to recall that minor detail, either," she added with a supercilious sniff.

Smirking at her ire, he said, "That's quite the mouthful. Secretary would work just as well, you know."

"I shouldn't have to remind you that the proper, gender-neutral term preferred by the Ministry of Magic is 'administrative associate', Headmaster. And for the record, I'm not a secretary. My role includes writing policy, as well as all the speeches for the Undersecretary."

"Fascinating."

"It is, actually. I have plenty of time for my own research and hobbies, and can sleep well at night knowing that I am working hard for the betterment of all wizarding kind." She gave him a guileless, easy smile, and Snape blinked at the Stepford-like response, hoping like hell that it was carefully crafted sarcasm and not the truth.

Whatever it was, he found himself suddenly wrong-footed. For if that was a genuine sentiment, then his desire for a decent supper conversationalist was about as likely to be satisfied as spotting a Crumple-Horned Snorkack on the way to the cloakroom. But if that was sarcasm… well, then, she has rapidly become more interesting. There's nothing to say I can't find Narcissa's thief and have a bit of fun, too. Let's see how long she'll let this game play out.

"And do your hobbies include the care of a husband and children?" he inquired silkily.

"Not at the moment, although that's something I am currently seeking to remedy." She leaned in, décolletage dipping further, and Snape fought to keep his eyes on her gleaming brown orbs, not the paler ones a bit lower. "I don't mind telling you, Headmaster, but that's why I'm here tonight. I've reached a certain age, and well, I don't wish to become one of those crazy cat women that one always hears about."

She's got to be having a laugh. Or she's been lobotomised. Repeatedly. "You are husband-hunting, Ms Granger?" Severus asked, mindful to not let his voice carry, lest Alicia hear and have a heart attack on the spot.

Dimples flashed appealingly. "I am on the hunt, yes."

Oh, sod it. Letting his eyes drift down slowly, Severus enjoyed the grand vista being so sweetly presented to him. Her skin was flawless, but for one, tiny, chocolate mole that dotted the luscious curve of her left breast, and Snape wondered at what the reaction would be if he were to lean down and run his tongue over it; somehow, he did not think that simply stating that he thought Granger's breasts would go quite well with the after-supper port would excuse the behaviour with his hostess or the woman in question.

As he dragged his attention upward again, Snape found himself quite certain of two things: he very much wanted to bed Hermione Granger, and she was undoubtedly up to no good.

It was almost too easy.

Hermione had caught Severus Snape watching her earlier in the evening; her notice had first been drawn by Malfoy and Nott's ogling, the shock etched on their gobsmacked visages infinitely more satisfying than a night off and a good bottle of red. Then the Headmaster's dark gaze had settled on her, less of a leer, and more of a neutral appraisal. She would have dismissed it but for one thing- a subtle flash of emotion just as he turned away. Snape was disappointed in her, and that more than anything had brassed her off.

She'd gotten that look before, from McGonagall and Flitwick and any number of her former professors. Hermione had been one of their star pupils, after all, and was supposed to be someone, and more importantly, do important things- not merely settle for mediocrity. It had been hard enough to field their genuine distress at her choices, but coming from Severus Snape—the only professor who had taken an unholy glee in shooting her down, time and again—it had been supremely… vexing.

When she was then presented with an opportunity for a little payback at the supper table, Hermione had eagerly jumped into the role of honeypot. It was not something that she normally played up; it was far better to be able to fade into the wallpaper when necessary. But Snape was a man, and unless she very much missed the mark, a man with a healthy appreciation for breasts.

His opening salvo had been pure Snape: condescension and spite rolled up in one tidy, seemingly polite question. Hermione had duly responded in the manner that was expected of her, all feminine indignation and hurt feelings… and then neatly turned the tables on him.

"…working hard for the betterment of all wizarding kind." Hah. Not bloody likely!

Snape had been utterly thrown by that little ploy, and it served her well; before making it, his attention had been shifting between the various conversations to their right and left and was only nominally on her. But with that one line, all his focus had abruptly snapped to her. And if stunning Malfoy and Nott with the knowledge that she had a good figure had been fun, making Severus Snape acknowledge her as a woman—nay, not just acknowledge, but lust after her—was as heady and potent as the finest elven-made wine.

Which was why it was almost too easy.

It had only taken a mildly subversive comment from her, and a flash of her bosom to make the man sit up and pay attention; she should not have been wildly turned on by the whole exchange. Yet… she was. Very much so.

And doesn't that just take the cake, wetting your knickers over a former professor? Snape, no less! Clearly, Granger, it has been entirely too long since you've had the opportunity to get a leg over if you have reached such desperate straits…

But, the voice of fairness and reason noted, he's not exactly the greasy dungeon bat of your youth, is he? He's greatly improved in looks, if not temperament, and you've always had a thing for the clever ones.

While not a conventionally handsome man, the several stone Snape had gained balanced out both his strong features and form to his advantage; he no longer resembled a walking skeleton with a monstrosity of a nose. Now he was a fashionably lean and broad-shouldered man. While his nose was still a corker, it only made Hermione wonder if that old adage about large noses ran true. And, that same voice whispered, you'd kill for hair as smooth and shiny as his. And he smells wonderful. And then there's his voice…

Having finally finished his methodical visual exploration of her chest, Snape offered up the next gambit. "Husband-hunting, hmmm?" he fairly purred. "Well, do let me know if you need a target to practice on, Ms Granger. I would be more than happy to… oblige."

I just bet you would, she thought, trying not to shiver at the promise in his tone. Should things work out my way, I might just let you oblige me. Repeatedly.

Hermione let her eyes drift over his chest as he'd done to her, taking special care to linger on what appeared to be a pair of rather healthy biceps and well-defined shoulders encased in the dark grey wool. "Tell me, Headmaster," she asked, letting her voice go breathy and channelling her best Luna Lovegood, "how do you feel about cats?"

The brief flicker of befuddlement she saw nearly made her laugh out loud.

"That depends-"

The rest of his reply was cut off as their bowls of soup magically disappeared and were replaced by the main course. Beef Wellington for two hundred? My, the Greengrasses are not sparing any expense, are they?

She turned back to Snape, hiding a smile as she took in the precise way that he was cutting up his meat.

"That depends on what?" she murmured, returning them to that matter at hand.

"On how many cats you have." The very corner of his mouth quirked up, and she fancied that he'd noticed her employment of his own dissection techniques to slice through the fascial layers of her beef.

Hermione pretended to give her response a bit of thought. "Well, now, that's a bit of a tricky question."

"Is it now?" Snape took his first bite, and an expression of pleasure blanketed his face. He licked his lips leisurely, and Hermione felt her palms go damp at the blatant show of sensuality.

Marshalling her wits, Hermione only just managed to maintain her focus on their spoken conversation. She said, "You see, I only have half a cat." The Beef Wellington was absolutely divine, the flaky crust serving as the perfect foil for the tender and succulent filling inside.

Snape put his fork down with a muted clink and raised an eyebrow. "Pray tell, Ms Granger, how does one possess half a cat?"

She smirked ever-so-slightly. "When said cat is also half-kneazle, of course." She took another bite, enjoying the way the rich flavours exploded on her tongue. God, but this is loads better than takeaway in front of the telly… "Perhaps you remember him from Hogwarts? His name is Crookshanks."

Amused black eyes met hers. "I am afraid that many felines have come through Hogwarts during my tenure. You will have to be more specific than that."

"He's a large, orange tom," she informed him pedantically, taking another slow bite.

"You always did have a thing for gingers," he rumbled.

So did you, she recalled and saw his own eyes go blank for a moment as he realised that the same could be said of him- and more importantly that Hermione knew all about that particular titbit of his personal life. His comment- moreover her unspoken retort- hung in the air between them, and for just a moment, he looked terribly… vulnerable.

Oh no, you don't, Hermione thought fiercely as she saw his mental shields firm and his expression fall into the severe lines she remembered. Let's see if this doesn't perk you right up!

Giving him the same doe-eyed glance that worked so well earlier, she started to twist sidewise in her chair, reaching for the small purse hanging on the back of her seat. Said manoeuvre, naturally, gave Snape a perfect view down her dress to her lacy black silk bustier. "Would you like to see a picture of Crookshanks? I do believe I have one in my purse…"

Hermione gave one more gratuitous wiggle of her chest as she fumbled for her bag and then froze as a strong, hot hand unexpectedly gripped her knee under the table.

Meeting Snape's blazing black eyes, Hermione's heart gave a lurch and then started running at double-time. He was angry at her for toying with him, of that she could tell, but he was equally as aroused as she.

His hand gently caressed her knee before sliding under the hem of her robes and up to the top of her stocking, a shiver skating down her spine at the covert contact. Deliberately, two of his fingers massaged the bare skin of her upper thigh, and Hermione barely bit back an audible moan.

Dark gaze never leaving hers, Snape leaned forward until his mouth was almost brushing the shell of her ear.

"Madame, should you desire to show me a picture of your pussy, I only ask that you wait until we are in private."

Vivid and visceral, Hermione had a sudden vision of him crouched between her splayed legs, those wonderfully strong hands coaxing her thighs further apart as he enjoyed a feast of a rather different sort.

Snape had the distinct pleasure of watching her bourbon brown eyes go wide with shock, the pupils nearly doubling in size… and then the full impact of what he said hit him like an out of control lorry.

He did not proposition former students; he certainly did not do so in a manner that could be considered both vulgar and crass at the dinner table with two hundred eager onlookers. What, and where the fuck did that come from? he thought a touch frantically, as frozen in place by his predicament as she was.

Then there was a sudden and deafening crash from his other side; reaching hurriedly for his wand, Snape barely managed to remove his hand from underneath Granger's dress without ripping the hem in two. Spinning in his seat, he started to rise and realised only belatedly that unless he wished to demonstrate just how much he was interested in the bushy-haired wench, it was best to remain sitting. Subsiding with a thump, Snape took in the scene of vegetable mayhem littering the formerly pristine table.

"Oh, my!" Alicia Greengrass was exclaiming. "How terribly clumsy of me. I didn't see that the platter of asparagus was so close to the carrot puree!"

Utter bollocks, Snape thought, annoyance mingling with relief. You caught me ogling Ms Granger, and decided to put a stop to it, post-haste. The only thing that is shocking in this entire debacle is that you were willing to sacrifice both your robes and your table setting to do so.

With a series of muted 'pops,' a veritable army of house-elves appeared to bring the table back to order. "I'm afraid," Alicia began, looking conveniently distraught, "that we will all have to shift around so that everything can be tidied properly. Sir Edward, Maria… Ms Granger- could I impose upon you terribly, and have you switch to the next table so that we may shift away from my mess?"

Oh, that was neatly done, Madam…

Alicia smiled sweetly as her three least favourite guests were banished to the lower table, and she appeared a trifle smug as she reoccupied her place.

The look she gave him was faintly chiding as the idle chatter resumed. "Severus, darling, have you met my good friend Emily Jacobs? I think that you would find her most diverting. She just moved back from Spain after a rather nasty divorce…"

Snape answered her mechanically, more focused on the way that his fingers continued to tingle from the silky heat of Granger's naked thigh. There was a part of him that was grateful for Alicia's interfering ways- he had been about to make a fool of himself, of that he was certain- but he found himself decidedly frustrated as well.

Well, a large part of that frustration can be chalked up to a good old fashioned case of blue balls, he mused ruefully. But it was more than that: he could not recall the last time a woman had tempted- and taunted- him into such an uncharacteristic reaction. Control had been his byword for so very long, and yet it had taken very little from Granger to disrupt his focus. She was playing me… but why? To what end? And more importantly, do I want to let it continue?

Hermione's food rather lost its flavour after her move; it was a struggle to do more than pick at the next several courses. She was more than a little shaken by how easily she'd been distracted by the lure of Severus Snape; while it was true that Hermione was here on the hunt, it assuredly wasn't for the husband that she'd implied.

You have a bloody job to do, and that comes first. Thinking of what all was at stake- and the consequences that would occur if she failed- Hermione firmed her smile and took a determined bite of her sticky toffee pudding.

"Ms Travers," she said with all the fawning appreciation she could muster, "that is quite the unusual necklace. I don't suppose that it is a family piece?"

The sallow-faced woman touched a possessive hand to her brooch of interlocking snakes at her neck. "Naturally, Ms Granger. It was given to my House by Abramelin the Mage in 1453 for services rendered to the Crown…"

Hermione was feeling far calmer as she rose from the table nearly an hour later. She'd learned very little of importance, but did have several possible leads; hearing a whisper of robes behind her, she turned, half-expecting to see the Headmaster in all his glowering glory.

She was wrong. Instead, Draco Malfoy stood before her in all of his blond glory.

"You promised me a dance, Granger, and I'll not let you back out of it." For all that his smile was friendly, there was a coldness in his gaze that she well remembered.

"Have you ever known me to break my word, Draco?" she asked sweetly, placing a hand on his lean forearm. Now, this is interesting… I wonder if he decided to come intercept me on his own, or if this is the further machinations of Alicia Greengrass to keep me away from Snape?

"Discretion being the better part of valour and all that rot, I do believe I shall decline to answer," he returned urbanely.

She laughed lightly. "My, aren't we playing the diplomat tonight?"

He just gave her that smile again and led her to the dance floor, which was already filling up. As if on cue, the familiar notes of a Russian waltz started, and Malfoy bowed to her politely before beginning the dance.

For a moment, Hermione let herself enjoy the purely feminine pleasure of the sensation of her dress brushing against her legs as she swayed in time with the rich music; Malfoy was, not surprisingly, a very good dancer, and had the decency to stay silent through the first several sections.

"Why are you here?" he finally murmured as he spun her gently.

"Would you believe that I'm husband hunting?" she asked, wondering if the same ploy would work on him.

"No, I would not." His hands were cool upon hers. "You don't belong here, Granger."

Hermione's reply lacked any heat; after so many years, that sort of taunt had very little power to wound her. "Ah, and here I had almost forgotten that I'm not good enough for this esteemed gathering."

"Don't put words in my mouth." As they twirled away from each other, she saw a hint of bitterness colour his expression. "No, what I meant is that you have no use for any of these people, or a party such as this. The Hermione Granger I went to school with didn't waste time on social niceties, nor the accompanying stultifying conversations."

"I'm impressed, Draco. Not only did you use some rather large words, but I do believe that there was almost a compliment in there." Perish the thought, but Draco Malfoy may have actually grown up. Harry isn't going to believe this. "As shocking as it may sound, I really am looking for a man," she continued blithely.

"And do you have a description of said man? Shall I help you put up wanted adverts?" With a theatrical flourish, he pulled her against him; her heels rendered them nearly the same height. Hermione's laugh was genuine this time. I swear he's faster on the uptake then Snape is. Of course, he doesn't seem all that distracted by my bosom, either. Odd, given that he seemed rather fascinated by it earlier.

In a teasing tone, she said, "Who am I seeking? Why, he'll be tall, dark, and fabulously wealthy, of course." And given who and what I'm looking for, it's God's honest truth.

"Pity. That rather counts me out as I am not the least bit… tall."

Looking into his dove-grey eyes and truly seeing him for the first time since the Battle of Hogwarts, Hermione observed the small signs of age and life that had marked him so indefinably from the callow, self-interested boy that he once was. "Nor Dark, either," she said simply.

He was quiet for several bars before speaking. "Ah… but I am fabulously wealthy. One out of three ought to count for something, shouldn't it?"

"Why else do you think that I consented to dance with you?" Hermione retorted tartly.

"And will you be seeking out my Godfather later? I do believe that he meets all of your stringent criteria."

"Is this where you warn me off, Draco?"

His hands tightened briefly before relaxing. "Again, I ask that you refrain from placing words in my mouth." Smoothly, he spun them out the path of another couple who was struggling with the intricacies of the dance. "No, if my Godfather is really the one you seek, then I have no objections. But if you are here for a spot of fun, then set your sights on someone else. I would be happy to provide introductions if you so wish."

"Your suddenly accommodating nature utterly astounds me," Hermione told him, painting the words lightly with sarcasm.

His reply was shockingly blunt. "I would not be alive today had it not been for Severus, and I will not stand by and watch him get hurt yet again."

My goodness, that was positively Gryffindor of him. Any more of that and I might actually find myself liking him. "And you think that I have the power to hurt him?"

The dance ended, and they both made their respective bows. Firmly placing her hand back on his forearm, Draco led them towards the refreshment table. His approach was an oblique one, however, and took them along the length of one long wall. "My godfather is a complicated man, with manners stuck somewhere in the nineteenth century. Now, unless I very much missed the mark, his hand was under your dress at the dinner table. As he is annoyingly pedantic about keeping to proper etiquette, this indicates to me that he found whatever you had to say rather… interesting."

"Oh, I was only telling him about my cat," Hermione interjected brightly, deciding to have a 'bit of fun', as he had put it.

Draco suddenly smirked. "Your cat, hmmm?"

Clearly, great minds think alike… "Why, yes, my cat. He's a half-kneazle."

"How… precious."

"Indeed." It was her turn to smirk.

"Anyway," he said firmly, trying to bring the conversation back under his control, "his reaction clearly demonstrates some level of interest. Given that, I humbly request that you put some thought into your next interaction with my godfather."

Reaching for a sparkling flute of champagne, Hermione used the pause to formulate her response. "I will take care, Mr Malfoy. You aren't the only one who doesn't want to see him ill-used."

Grey eyes met hers again, and for a moment, she fancied that they contained a flicker of warmth. "Thank you, Ms Granger."

Giving her a final, courtly bow he swept off.

It took another ten minutes to work her way to the balcony overlooking the gardens; the press of cool, damp air felt wonderful after the last several hours of humid and overcrowded environs.

The last of the season's jasmine was blooming, and the sickle moon illuminated the graceful lines and fountains of a Jacobean garden. It was altogether rather romantic and made Hermione oddly wistful. What would it be like, she wondered, if I really could give the Headmaster's interest thought? If I wasn't here purely to do a job?

She'd been single for the better part of five years. Granted, Hermione had not been celibate—a bookworm she might be, passionless she was not—but meeting eligible, fascinating men had been very low on her list of priorities.

For a fleeting second, she recalled the heat of his fingers on her bare thigh and the focused gleam in his black eyes. I would be interested. More than merely interested, as a matter of fact…

"What," a scathing voice hissed, "the fuck was all that about?"