Hermione swallowed thickly as she peered through the foreboding cast-iron gate. The house on the other side was enormous—which, to be honest, wasn't all that surprising. People with little or no money didn't hire nannies. Hermione knew that better than anyone. But the house at which she now gazed was three stories high, with more windows than she could count, four chimneys, and a front door the size of a small truck standing on end. Ivy draped the grey stone walls, and a covered entryway, complete with two authentic-looking Greek columns, framed the door. And off to the side, just in front of the garage, sat an exceptionally clean, old-style Rolls Royce, sparkling in the sunlight. If that didn't scream "I'm rolling in money," she didn't know what did.

Swallowing for the second time, Hermione glanced down at the letter in her hands. She'd read it countless times on the cab ride here, and had served to settle her nerves to a point. Now, as she skimmed over the words she nearly knew by heart, they seemed to make her more anxious.

Ms. Granger,

Thank you for your interest in the advertisement. If you can make yourself available at five o'clock on Sunday, the twenty-first, I will arrange an interview with Mr. Potter.

Cordially yours,

N. Longbottom

When first she read this peculiar response, Hermione had wondered why Mr. Potter himself did not write her. But of course, those with means never spoke (or wrote) for themselves. That was why they had servants, wasn't it? In any case, she was delighted simply to have an interview. It had been hell trying to find a suitable position to pay for herself and Caleb. Having no previous work experience, and having only made it through a year and a half at university, she tended to be of little interest to employers.

This hadn't been the plan, of course. When she started at university, she'd planned to finish her Master's degree in Education, with a minor in Communications. She couldn't remember a time she hadn't wanted to teach. It had been her dream since she knew what a teacher was. And teaching children, or even teenagers, to communicate could only benefit them, and the whole of society. She was eager to make her mark, in a way that only a teacher could.

Marrying Ron Weasley hadn't necessarily been part of the plan, but she'd been more than willing to fit him in. The first four months of their marriage seemed as happy as any, and when she discovered she was pregnant, she was sure Ron would be just as elated. However, his sudden disappearance and insensitive note—"Sorry, love, not ready for this just yet. I'll send you a check in the mail to help with expenses. Good luck."—proved otherwise. And as Ron had been the main provider in their home, she was left with no way to pay rent, unless she used the money her parents had set aside for school.

Unfortunately, the account was only set up to last for the six years it would take her to obtain her degree, and though rent was less expensive than school, by the time Caleb was five, she was out of money. Thus, the frantic job search, culminating in standing before this particular gate.

You need this, she reminded herself. Do it for Caleb. And with a deep breath, Hermione set her jaw, and pressed the button for the intercom.

"Yes?" a tired, male voice crackled on the other end.

"I am here for an interview," she said with a confidence that belied her true feelings.

"Name?" the voice asked, just as wearily.

"Hermione Granger."

"Oh!" He seemed to perk up instantly. "Wonderful! So glad you could make it! Come right in!"

There was a buzzing noise, and then the gates swung slowly open. Hermione's stomach flipped over as she made her way along the stone walkway toward the front door. Before she had even reached the entryway, the door opened, and a tall, lanky man with dark hair and a kind smile appeared. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, creased trousers, and a tie hung loosely around his neck. Was this Mr. Potter, or N. Longbottom?

"Ms. Granger!" he beamed. "Delighted to meet you! I'm Neville."

She smiled in return. "Pleased to meet you, as well," she replied, holding out a hand for him to shake. His grip was firm, but somewhat reserved. Hermione guessed Neville must be Neville Longbottom. Employers and rich executives tended to be almost obnoxiously confident.

"Well, come in, by all means!" Neville gestured toward the house. "Mr. Potter's in busy in his study at the moment, but he'll be ready for you shortly."

Knew it, Hermione mentally congratulated herself. "I'm in no hurry," she assured him, then followed him inside. The sight nearly made her gasp aloud. The house's interior was just as grand as its exterior, albeit a bit less prim and polished. It appeared to be a bit dusty and grimy, as if no one had bothered to clean it in several days. Not that Hermione could say much; her flat was typically a disaster zone. Having a five-year-old son did that. And Hermione reminded herself that there were two children in this house. The advertisement had very specifically stated that, though she did not know their ages.

"Sorry for the state of the place," Neville said. "The last nanny left near a month ago, and I've been the one minding the children. Keep me busy, they do. Haven't had time to tend to my usual duties."

Hermione grew instantly wary. "Why hasn't Mr. Potter hired someone before now?"

"He's tried," Neville said, his voice tired again. "None of them seem to want to stick around long enough. Most just storm out in the middle of the interview. A few have made it through one afternoon, then they storm out."

That certainly didn't bode well. Either the children were utter monsters, or their father was. Whatever the case, Hermione was determined not to back down.

"Well, you can count on me," she said with what she hoped was a confident smile.

Neville's weary expression didn't change. "That's what they all said."

Hermione's heart sank. But before she could make any inquiries, Neville instructed her to wait in a small sitting room, while he went and told Mr. Potter she had arrived. She glanced around the quaint room, brushing her fingers along the mantle. Dusty, of course. Poor Neville. It was bad enough that he was expected to do all the housework, but to add the care of two children to his plate certainly seemed to be taking its toll. Hermione doubted the elusive Mr. Potter would be half as happy to have a nanny to tend the children as Neville would be.

A moment later, Neville reappeared, stating that Mr. Potter was ready. She followed him along the main corridor, passing several smaller corridors and closed doors, stopping at the last. He knocked softly, and a low, sharp voice called, "Come in." He gave Hermione an encouraging smile, then opened the door.

"Ms. Hermione Granger," Neville announced, and Hermione stepped into the room.

It wasn't at all what she'd been expecting. She had expected to see large, ornate bookshelves, filled with dusty, leather-bound volumes, with a globe in one corner, dim lighting, a desk in the center, and a stuffy-looking man seated behind it. What she found instead was a room filled with books, new and old, but also an entire wall of vinyl records, with a record player just in front of a window, looking out into the backyard. The room seemed to hum with life and long-forgotten stories, as if it were telling of the years it had seen. There was a desk, covered with what look like mountains of paperwork and letters, and a laptop in the center. The man at said desk was somewhat a surprise, as well. His raven hair was unkempt, as if he couldn't be bothered to tame it, and his dress was fairly casual—if a dark green polo and khakis could be considered casual. And when he looked up, she was briefly stunned into silence. Not only were his striking emerald eyes the most beautiful she'd ever seen, they were also the coldest.

"Ms. Granger," he greeted her, standing up. "Thank you for coming."

Hermione nodded. "Thank you for the interview."

He gestured toward a chair in front of his desk. "Please, sit." She did so without question, and he sat as well. "Now, I assume you know all about the status of my family, and will be peppering me with questions about it, yes?"

Frowning, Hermione shook her head. "All I know is that you're looking for a nanny, and I'd like the job."

His eyes narrowed. "Really? That's all? No probing inquiries about my children, my home, or my marital status?"

Yes, thousands. "None that I can think of."

Those eyes became slits. "You don't have any questions for me at all?"

"Forgive me, Mr. Potter, but as you are the one conducting the interview, I assumed you would be asking me the questions."

In an instant, his eyes were wide as saucers. Hermione mentally berated herself and her perpetually sharp tongue. She'd always had trouble keeping her wit to herself, which was part of the reason it had been so difficult for her to find and keep a job. This is where he tells me I can see myself out, she sighed inwardly. However, much to her surprise, Mr. Potter merely cleared his throat, and began interviewing her.

"Right, then. Ms. Granger, what makes you believe that you are qualified to be a nanny to my children?"

This was the easy part. Hermione answered his questions easily, her answers prepared and rehearsed long before she'd even applied for the position. If he was impressed, he didn't let on; his eyes remained cold and cutting. By the end, she was certain he would send her away with only a false promise to call, and a dismissive wave of the hand. But to her surprise, as he concluded the interview, he said, "Can you start tomorrow?"

Hermione felt her jaw drop. "Y-you mean I'm hired?"

"Of course you're hired, why else would I ask that?" he spat rather rudely.

Ignoring his waspish tone, Hermione stood, shaking his hand vigorously. "Thank you so much, Mr. Potter! You won't regret this!"

"You'd better make sure I don't," he growled, then spouted out a list of instructions—or rather, demands. "You're to be here at six every morning, so that you can wake the children in time for school. They will be in school from eight-thirty to three-thirty, Monday through Friday. Every other weekend, they visit their grandfather in Ottery St. Catchpole. You'll need to stay with them, of course, and make sure—"

"Wait, stay with them for the whole weekend?"

Mr. Potter stared, seemingly amazed that she dared interrupt him. "Do you expect me to leave my children unattended?"

"They won't be unattended," she pointed out. "They'll be with their grandfather."

He stood slowly. "Do you honestly expect—"

"And I have my own child to worry about, Mr. Potter," Hermione interjected. "I can't possibly leave my son unattended for an entire weekend."

She could have sworn she could see smoke coming out of his ears. "Very well. You may bring your son along."

"Thank you for giving your permission to care for my child," she deadpanned.

"I'd advise you to keep your tongue in check, Ms. Granger," he snarled. "You are my employee, not my therapist, nor my counselor. You do as I say, not the other way around." He paused, then resumed his previous string of orders. "You will receive a check from me at the end of each month, including the remainder of this month. And you will have Sundays off, barring the weekends you take the children to their grandfather's. Is this acceptable?" he asked, but his scowl seemed to be warning her not to refuse.

"Yes, sir," she answered politely.

His eyes narrowed marginally, but he gave a terse nod, then sat down. "Very well. You may go."

Hermione hesitated. "Erm... Mr. Potter?" He sighed, but met her eyes. "I do have one or two questions of my own."

Mr. Potter's entire frame tensed. "My personal life is none of your business, Ms. Granger. And I thought you said you didn't have any questions."

"I don't care two pennies about your personal life," she scoffed, and he blinked, clearly stunned. She pressed on, "but I do have questions concerning my employment. Firstly, when might I have the pleasure of meet the children I'm meant to be looking after?"

A muscle in his jaw twitched briefly, but he appeared far more relaxed than a moment ago. "You will meet them tomorrow morning."

Hermione nodded. "All right. Secondly, do you happen to have a piano?"

"What the devil do you want with a piano?"

"Well, considering it is a musical instrument, one can safely assume that one motive would be to play said instrument."

"What did I say about holding your tongue, Ms. Granger?"

She did not apologize, but she bit back the retort that popped into her head at his words (with some effort). "So, do you have a piano?"

Mr. Potter sighed again. "Upstairs in the gallery. It might be in need of tuning. No one's played it since... well, a number of years," he amended his phrase, his eyes tightening.

"Oh, I know how to tune it," she assured him. "That won't be a problem."

He eyed her carefully, then gave a dismissive shrug. "It's all yours, then. Just don't interrupt the children's studies, or my work."

"I won't."

Hermione was beginning to feel unnerved by how much this man stared at her. And the look he gave her… it was as if she were a puzzle he couldn't figure out. She didn't like it. She wasn't sure she liked him. But at least he was willing to give her a job. That was all that mattered.

"Until tomorrow, then," he dismissed her again. This time, Hermione remained silent, and with a quick nod of the head, left the study. Neville was waiting in the sitting room, and stood when she entered.

"How'd it go?" he asked eagerly, as if he were a close friend. Hermione couldn't help but smile at him, and that smile seemed to say enough. He heaved a sigh, and some of his tension eased. "He hired you. Good. One hurdle down, another to go."

She frowned at him. "Are the children truly so terrible?"

He gnawed on his lip for a moment. "They're… lively."

Hermione's heart sank momentarily, but she refused to let it sink further. "I can handle lively."

"I hope you can," Neville warned, "because if there is even a hint of unhappiness from either of those children, you'll be packing your bags."

"I haven't got any bags," Hermione protested weakly.

"You know what I mean," Neville said firmly.

She nodded. "Well… I'll just bring sweets for the children and keep my mouth shut, will I?"

The corner of Neville's mouth twitched, then a full smile stretched across his face. He was quite a handsome man, now she took a closer look at him. He was clearly a gentle sort of man, clearly well-mannered and well-groomed, and must have had some education, though perhaps he, like her, was unable to finish. Of course, this was an assumption, and she'd do well to learn the truth from his own mouth, but based on what she could see, she instantly liked Neville Longbottom.

"You know," he said, and she snapped back to attention, "I think you might just be exactly the kind of person this family needs. I wish you luck."

Humbled, Hermione could only smile and blush, as Neville escorted her out. Once outside, it took all her self-control not to perform a happy-dance right there on the porch. She refrained (but only just), and pulled out her mobile phone to make two phone calls—one to call a cab, and the other to the most important person in her life.

"Great news, Caleb," she said when her favorite voice answered the phone. "Mummy has a job."

A/N: Ahh, a tale as old as time. Dad hires nanny, nanny straightens out family, dad falls for nanny, and chaos ensues. It's been told so many times, it's almost dull. But that's okay, because I like dull, predictable love stories. Please review!