Disclaimer: Not mine, I just borrowed everyone for a little while.

A/N: This fic was written as a response to a challenge at Sycophant Hex, where they do a Dirty Dozen one-shot challenge for each month. There are twelve required objects or actions for each fic. This one was written at Christmas, and I just revised it and thought to post it here.

The requirements for the challenge were to include the following twelve items: Pear Tree, Dove, French Hens, Calling Birds, a Ring, a Goose, a Swan, Maids, Dancing, a Lord, a Drummer and an Adult Present.

Enjoy!

Invitations to Life

The invitation was smooth and gilded, a formal invite to what promised to be an informal occasion.

You are most cordially invited to attend Hogwarts Sixth Annual Heroes Gala…

Hermione tossed the pristine envelope, gold still peeking out the top, onto her coffee table and started for her study. An almost predatory smile curved her mouth. She would be going.

The gentle, pleasant smell of pine greeted her as she stepped into the room that Harry and Ron fondly called "Hermione's Heaven". Potions brewed on three separate fires on one wall, two of the other three were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, leaving room against the last wall for a desk and cases full of rare magical items that she was studying. Seven years out of Hogwarts and she already had a well-established reputation as the most competent woman on any continent to bring any kind of magical research. Her planned, organized clutter was part of the eccentricity that her clients expected from a brilliant mind, so different than the neat girl of her school days.

She sniffed the farthest potion, her smiled deepened, and she waved her wand. The fire underneath the cauldron changed from white-hot to faint, electric green. As one of the heroes of the Second Voldemort War, she had always received an invitation and was well prepared for this one. Since going to the first, she had not attended, but it seemed to her that another attempt at gaining what she had long ago settled on having was over due. The Potion was near completion.

She really would have to go.

888

"Potter."

Harry's heart pulled into his throat, and he knew he was breathing rather harder than necessary as he continued reaching for the book he had selected for his best friend.

"Never thought to catch you in a bookstore." His one-time enemy and long-time antagonist stepped around him, a smile quirking on thin-oh-so-kissable lips. Harry's tongue flickered out to wet his own.

"Hermione," Harry murmured, afraid he wouldn't even be able to get the one word out.

"Ah. Of course. Wouldn't want you getting any intellectual stimulus yourself, of course."

Harry swallowed. Six years ago, the two boys had worked in a triad with Severus Snape to directly destroy Lord Voldemort. Guided by magic from the most powerful witches of the Order of the Phoenix, the three had been the muscle that infiltrated the Riddle house and accomplished the job. But after the battle, Harry and Draco had been separated from Snape, and, lying low in a broom cupboard for fear of one kind of discovery, they had made a different connection.

Draco glanced sidelong at him, and Harry could feel the other boy shaking. He reached out a tentative hand to touch Draco's shoulder. The other boy caught it with his hand and, grey eyes never leaving Harry's green, leaned against him, shoulder meeting chest, their mouths almost touching.

They stayed that way for a long moment, Harry's heart resolutely lodged in his throat, his robes straining with an unexpected and sudden erection.

Footsteps. Draco instantly withdrew, hand dropping, cold covering Harry where Draco had been. The broom cupboard opened cautiously, and they blinked into the bright eyes and purple hair of Nymphadora Tonks.

"Blimey! Hermione! Ron! I found them!" She turned back to them. "You two been snogging while we've been looking for you?" Her grin told them she didn't mean it, and her own obliviousness allowed their awkward failure to reply to go unnoticed…

For six years, Harry had cursed the interruption, sure that Draco would have finished what he started had they not heard Tonks' creaking along the wooden floors.

"See you at the party, Potter," Draco said, flipping a book off the shelf and starting towards the register.

"Party?" Harry repeated, following the other wizard.

Draco turned, the amused curve of his mouth sparking upwards into his light eyes. "Party? Ministry-Hogwarts sponsored Heroes' Ball? Christmas? As the Boy-Who-Did-The-Job, surely you have to be going?"

"Oh. Erm…right," was all Harry could pull out of his mind. "Hogwarts party. Definitely going. You?"

"Just told you I was." Draco's book landed on the counter, and he peered at the cover of Harry's present for Hermione. "Transfiguration, Grade Five? Don't you think she's a little past that, Potter? I mean, even you passed that class."

Harry's eyes dropped to the book held loosely in one hand, all but forgotten in his desire to stand nearer to Draco for just a few seconds longer. Indeed, the strict, straight letters of their standard Transfiguration text met his gaze and he blushed. "I grabbed the wrong book."

"Clearly." The blond lifted his purchase, flashed a smile at the witch and headed for the door. "Good luck finding what you want, Potter."

Late-fall sunlight glinted in a gold halo around Draco as the door closed on what Harry most wanted.

888

"You should be in charge of something this year, Severus." Severus Snape was staring into the commanding eyes of his employer, and knew that he wasn't going to escape Minerva's determination this time. "You were one of the heroes." His snort did not deter her as she continued, "And I think that it's time you were seen to be taking an interest."

"I come every year," he replied.

"You live here and chaperone the students every year," she corrected. "That does not qualify as 'taking an interest.'"

"Then what, pray tell, could I possibly be in charge of?" he asked smoothly, reaching for his coffee.

"Well, the invitations have already been sent, so you can't do that…why don't you organize the music?" He choked on his now-lukewarm beverage.

"You must be joking."

"I'm not. Why?"

"Minerva, I don't know the first thing about music. Of any kind. I always work in silence. Other than the gruesome stuff that Lucius Malfoy liked to play while torturing his victims, my exposure to music is rather lacking, to say the least."

"Hmmm. Indeed. Perhaps someone with slightly more taste should fulfill that task… If not music, then what…? Décor," she announced after another moment's thought.

This time, his hand jolted violently, and several splatters of coffee appeared on his robes and chair. "What?"

"Décor. You will decorate the Hall."

More coffee went down his front. "Minerva, I can't do that either- I'm no good at planning this kind of event. That's why I don't."

"No, you don't because you're a sour old bat who is in danger of becoming exactly what his students call him. But I fancy I know you slightly better than that." She busied herself with tea, pouring cream deliberately to ensure he couldn't see her face when she changed tacks completely. "The RSVP owls are already returning. It seems that Miss Hermione Granger will be joining us this year."

Hermione Granger. Faint annoyance stirred along with a much deeper, disturbing emotion. Severus had spent months alongside Hogwart's best pupil at the end of her seventh year up to the day they had launched the final offensive against the Dark Lord and he had gone into battle with Potter and Draco. The willful child he had seen since her first hand-waving day in his classroom was gone, replaced by a resplendent mind and also- here was where his traitorous thoughts had to be tamed- a luscious, curved body.

The defeat of the Dark Lord had ended their association. She had vanished into Ron Weasley's arms without a backwards glance or anything much longer than a simple, "You were magnificent. Goodbye."

He had been slightly heartened when, nine months later, she had attended the first of these now-yearly galas without Ronald Bilius Weasley. She had appeared tired, worn thin, as if she were stretched over something too vast even for her vaunted powers. A peculiar pain touched her features when Ron had entered, a blond girl of some foreign nationality giggling on his arm. But Remus Lupin, Neville Longbottom, Harry Potter and even Draco Malfoy had approached to laugh with her, dance with her and offer her comfort. Her spirits had been bolstered without him, and he had not tried to speak to her.

She had not returned in the years that followed. By now, he had stopped looking.

"Granger? Interesting." The silence behind her was long, and Minerva began to fear that she had miscalculated, that the name had not struck the chord she had thought it would… "What kind of decorations did you have in mind?"

Over her tea, the Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry smiled before turning back to her colleague.

888

Hermione picked up the goose, petting it gently, magic soaking into the bird through her fingers, calming it. It was a large creature, necessary for the fresh ingredient it offered- it's feathers. Crookshanks hated it, and so was locked out of the tiny lab-study where she was working. She could hear him now, yowling at the door, insulted by this affront to his freedoms.

She took a hold of one feather, sent a line of magic to loosen it from the goose's skin, and yanked. The bird squawked angrily, and she instantly let it go, waving a hand in a non-verbal spell to confine herself and her cauldrons, ignoring the bird as it bounced off the shield.

The feather would bring the potion to its final stage, and make it ready for use by the new moon in three days. Dream walking.

It was a difficult art, one with few practitioners and more than a few dangers. Had Harry or Ron indicated any intention of being so reckless in school, she probably would have reported them.

But it was nearly seven years since the defeat of Voldemort, and she had only seen him once since. At the first ball, where he had remained aloof and untouchable and she had understood that it was too soon to try, too soon for herself, for the utter chaos of her life in the wake of her predictably disastrous relationship with Ron. The crush she had developed for her professor-spy had been ruthlessly suppressed in the months leading up to the battle, and afterwards there had been Ron. There had always been Ron.

But Ron was not what she wanted for always. Now she wanted something else.

The potion turned an inky black as the feather submerged, individual strands of light grey dissolving into the cauldron, added irrevocably to the mix.

By the time he saw her again, Snape would want her.

888

Draco drummed the table, his fingers finding crisp, embossed paper he sought.

"See you at the party, Potter." One of the Ministry's Aurors and the Reserve Seeker for the Chudley Cannons, Harry Potter appeared everywhere smooth, confident, muscular. A string of dates, all female, had graced Witch Weekly's and occasionally even the Prophet's front pages, his unruffled smile composed on his mouth with each of them, no woman appearing in that same position more than once. Draco had not failed to notice that the smiles bestowed on the camera never touched those emerald eyes.

But cool, unflappable Potter was not the man Draco had seen at Flourish and Blotts earlier today. Potter had stammered uncertainly, blushing, clumsy, much more the school-boy-turned-hero than the comfortable, settled man who was both Quidditch star and a Dark wizard catcher.

Interesting.

The women paraded in front of cameras, at Ministry and team events, had warned off the heir to what had been the largest and most powerful fortune in Britain. The moment in the broom closet, so close to his blood's desire that Draco could feel Harry's accelerated heartbeat, had been broken and never restored. Their meetings after that had been few, accidental and glaringly public. Potter had never given any indication that he either wanted or condemned Draco's attention that day, and the slate-eyed young man wrapped himself in isolation, working for the Ministry, ignoring the loneliness that sometimes threatened to overwhelm him.

Christmas was always the worst time of year. He had gone to each of the Ministry's commemoration balls, knowing that he would find some, though not all, of his comrades in arms there. After the first, many had never returned. Hermione Granger and Luna Lovegood had not been seen since that year, and Potter's attendance had been sporadic at best. If he came to this one, it would be his fourth. His old Potions master and defender, Severus Snape, was always there, though, and in the absence of his dead parents, his old mentor was the last of anything he had like family.

He turned the envelope over in his hands. He had been thinking of not going this year. It was time for the Ministry to stop erecting monuments to a past disaster that had narrowly turned triumphant and concentrate on the present. Under Rufus Scrimgeour the legislation had grown no better, and a groundswell of irritation against the Minister in particular and the Ministry in general indicated that it was time to move past the slogan that Scrimgeour was the Minister who had won the war.

But perhaps this year there was something to be said for established traditions. Potter was going. The sincerity in his voice and the blush to his cheeks told Draco as much. Maybe the broom closet event had more to it than Draco had previously thought.

He stood decisively, smiling as he called his owl to him to deliver the silver-gilded RSVP slip. If Potter couldn't make a move with all his Gryffindor courage, Draco would make one using his own Slytherin cunning.

888

Hermione ladled the midnight-black potion into a cup, carefully measuring until it was three-quarters full. She glanced at her clock as the second hand ticked towards one o'clock in the morning. A few more seconds. Surely he would be asleep by now. She walked back to her own bedroom and slid into her small bed. The Dream Walker Solution would put her own real body instantly to sleep, allowing her to move with the potion where she wanted to go.

The clock tolled one, a single, mournful sound. With a deep breath and a swift prayer, Hermione downed the contents of the vial.

888

Severus shucked his outer robe carelessly. That was one of many beautiful things about having house-elves. One's clothes could fall anywhere at the end of the day.

Organizing the decoration of the Great Hall and teaching classes was no mean feat, and he was still sorry he'd allowed his moment of weakness regarding Hermione Granger to persuade him to use this opportunity to impress her. Cursing his vain impulse, he shed the rest of his clothing, donned a nightshirt and fell into bed.

The clock next to him read twelve forty-five. He was asleep instantly.

As he slid deeper into sleep, a peculiar feeling pervaded him, the presence of another in the room, quite close by. He started, and began swimming towards consciousness, but the presence soothed him instantly, pulling him back into sleep.

As his breathing evened and slowed, the feeling of another solidified next to him, in his bed. He rolled over to face her- it was most definitely female- to find himself facing Hermione Granger, just barely covered by a flimsy black negligee that left him ample access to view her round, firm breasts and strong, slender thighs.

She was so close that her breath whispered across his forehead as he stared, unable to take his gaze from the body that had punctuated his dreams for the past seven years. In previous dreams she hadn't cared if he looked, or even touched-

-he reached a hand out, and was gratified to find that like his other dream Hermiones, this one did not flinch away from him, but instead arched as one fingertip delicately traced the edge of the lace dipping along her breasts, coming closer to him, giving his hands easier, fuller access to her body.

"Hermione." It was a whisper as one hand came up to push down the silk strap holding her covering in place. It slid down her arm, bearing her left breast completely for his thumb to run over, bringing it instantly to hardness and inducing a moan from his dream-partner.

The other hand slid up the inside of her thigh, reaching damp curls that already smelled thickly of arousal. One finger found the bud of her clitoris and pressed, massaging gently as she opened her legs wider, reveling in the sensation.

Dimly, through a haze of lust, Severus knew that this dream Hermione seemed somehow more solid, more real than the rest of them. As her hands found his cock and tight balls, he forgot his amorphous dreams and abandoned himself to delight of this one.

888

Draco studied the delicate bird. It was beautiful, white-breasted with grey-feathered wingtips that darkened as they swept outwards. It chattered at him merrily all the way home from the Emporium.

"This girl, sir, she's a bargain for you. Calling birds are the smartest, best message carrier-pets for this time of year. Bit romantic too- is this for a young lady, sir?"

"Something like that," Draco replied, amusement tingeing his voice. If this man knew what the bird was to be used for, he'd probably turn a deep brick color and refuse the sale.

"You just send her with a message and she's the young lady's pet from then on, sir. Not at all like an owl- she won't be returning to you."

Owls were for many things. Business. Packages. Arranging meetings and appointments. But they were not romantic. And Potter could be amazingly thick. He wanted the Boy-Who-Lived sufficiently off-balance when they met. That meant no possible misinterpretation of Draco's invitation as purely business.

He worded his letter very carefully, crumpling three pieces of parchment into the fire before writing it to his satisfaction. He tickled under his purchase's chin and she cooed at him.

"Take this to Harry Potter," he instructed, tying the note to her leg. She chirruped at him, knocked her tiny head against his fingers, and jumped off the table, dark-grey wings carrying her out the open window.

Draco prepared to Apparate to the Ministry. It was the middle of the night, but there was no chance of his sleeping now. Potter could reply in a matter of hours, or a matter of days. But he would respond. It was three weeks to the gala. Draco had left himself plenty of time.

888

Severus startled awake, breathing hard, his penis most definitely, embarrassingly, sticky. He heaved several deep breaths, still out of breath.

Almost reflexively, he rolled his head to his left. But Hermione Granger was not there in reality, as she had never been there.

He shook himself and gingerly rose from his bed, casting a Scouring Charm on the sheets. That dream had been very different. His hands could still feel the woman on top of him, the weight of her breasts, the texture of her nipples on his tongue, the first gentle and then fierce pressure of her own hands on his shaft. It was probably the most vivid dream of his life, and he winced at the thought of what it meant.

Three weeks to the gala. He had to get himself in order. No more dreams like that- even if it meant resorting to potions.

888

Harry looked up at the tapping on his window. But no owl greeted his vision, just a tiny grey-white bird fluttering outside. He dropped his head to his work again, the candle-light burning low. It was well past midnight, but it was not rare to see Harry Potter working well into the morning hours. An important Death Eater, the last of the Circle of Pure-Bloods, had holed up in Oxford, using the Muggle students as a cover. The effort of storming the college unnoticed and uninterrupted was the work of many departments, and Harry was currently studying an extensive sewer system that serviced the college. Unpleasant it would undoubtedly be to travel underground this way, but another solution had yet to present itself.

The tapping continued, persistent. Frowning, he lifted his eyes again. The same grey and white creature seemed determined to beat itself to death on the glass. As he squinted through the lattice-work, he saw it had something tied to its leg. Chagrined, he let it in. Just because it wasn't an owl didn't mean it wouldn't carry something important. Sirius had once sent him letters via brightly colored parrots. He reached to untie the rolled parchment attached to one foot and the bird surprised him by willingly hopping onto his arm and settling to be perfectly still. Unlike the weight of an owl, Harry could barely feel the feet and body of this tiny burden as he fumbled the tie. It finally came off and he broke the seal.

Potter. Seeing as two days ago you hadn't thought of going to the

ball, allow me to assume you have no partner yet. Meet me for

dinner at the Rashada on Christmas at six.

Ever yours,

Draco

His breath caught in his throat as he stared at the message, blinking. It took him several seconds to realize there was a postscript.

P.S. Don't try to send Portia back, she's yours now. Happy

Christmas. I await Hedwig with your reply.

That would explain the tiny bird and her comfortability with him. She cocked one bright eye in his direction, as if ordering him to respond. Harry set the parchment down on the desk.

Should he? Should he go out to dinner with Malfoy prior to going to Hogwarts? Or should he do what he had always done? There were no lack of women available to the hero of the wizarding world who also happened to be an expert Quidditch player. He could get himself a date without any trouble.

He had waited for years for Malfoy to indicate that the broom closet incident hadn't been a fake out, a Slytherin trick. The blond hadn't been forthcoming. But now he was.

Quill twirling in his hand, Harry considered the letter in front of him, the assault on Oxford thoroughly forgotten.

888

Hermione gave her vial of potion a queasy look. She had already plucked the next goose feather, the potion required adding more every other day to keep it fresh and working.

She had been thrilled with her initial success. She had dreamwalked, wearing a skimpy negligee that her mind had invented to mold her body correctly. The magic had been perfectly executed, no damage done to body or mind.

No, it was her ex-professor's eagerness that had shocked her. When his dream-eyes had opened on her, she had expected him to withdraw, to demand explanations, to scramble away and order her out. The relief and pleasure she had seen in his gaze as it had traveled the full length of her barely-clothed body had been both re-assuring and disturbing. Perhaps the effort that had gone into studying this method and making the potion had been wasted. He had seemed perfectly happy to touch and be touched, no persuasion of any other kind required.

But oh…how he touched her. Her body heated at the thought and she dropped the feather into the solution, ready to ladle out another serving. His willingness had been gratifying as well as unexpected, and if she didn't have to seduce him round to her point of view, so much the better.

888

The twenty-fourth of December. Draco paced in front of his fireplace, throwing glances at the window. His little calling bird had vanished through that glass twenty days ago, and no snowy-white owl had brought Harry Potter's reply.

The blond ran slender fingers through his fine hair. He had been certain…but perhaps Harry did have a lover, a real one, not those fake models adorning the covers of magazines.

No. No- the encounter in the bookstore had been genuine. Potter had been sincerely out of breath, surprised to see him, pleased, flushed…it was real.

Then why no response? Another glance at the window showed nothing coming out of the clear blue. Had his request not been straightforward enough for Potter to feel comfortable? His fingers stretched towards his quill and he schooled them. He would not write again like a lovesick child waiting impatiently for a floo call.

However long it took, he would be waiting.

888

Harry glowered at the parchment on his kitchen counter. He had brought it home and set it aside, meaning to think about it over a good night's sleep and write his response the next day. But every morning and evening after that, he found himself holding the thin sheet in his hand, oils from his fingers smudging the corners as the ink offered him no more guidance now than it had nearly three weeks ago.

Why not?

Because he doesn't mean it. Not the way I mean it.

I don't know that. What if he does? What if this is his second offer, and I never get it again?

For seven years, Harry had awakened with the blond's face in his mind, drifted to sleep with Draco's voice in his ears. Seven years.

It was the twenty-fourth of December. The Rashada would be booked well in advance. He had to choose now.

He seized a quill and dashed off his hurried reply, clicking his tongue to call Hedwig as sentences slashed the page. He was a Gryffindor. If he could handle Voldemort, surely dinner couldn't be too terrifying.

His heart pounded in his chest as he watched his white owl depart, praying fervently that he had not just made a mistake.

888

Severus wearily leaned against the doorframe of his rooms. The ball was tomorrow. The Great Hall was completed, the decorations for Hogwarts fully finished. They were the most elaborate the Great Hall had ever seen in living memory, and he was stumbling from exhaustion.

His fatigue came from not only organizing the event but from his sleepless, exertion-filled nights. Every other night, like clockwork, she came to him. Dreamless Sleep hadn't deterred her, nor a half-dozen other sleeping draughts. She arrived to tease him, to coax him into new and different games, and to vanish as he awoke, sweating beneath once-more-sticky bedclothes. He had taken to sleeping naked those nights- it at least saved the tangle and cleaning of his nightshirts.

She was not due again tonight- she had been here last night- but somehow, he didn't think that would stop his mind from kicking into overdrive. He would, after all, see her tomorrow for the first time in five years.

His groin stirred hopefully as his mind replayed their dreams. They were shockingly vivid- containing details he didn't know of her, pleasures that he hadn't known existed. He hadn't ruled out the possibility that they were magic-induced, but end-of-term grading had coupled with party planning to make other research impossible.

And he wasn't entirely convinced he wanted it to stop. Though his tiredness weighed on him, the free, loving, arousing touch she gave him were things he had not experienced in many years. Even if they were brought about by magic, and happened only in dreams.

He left all his clothes on his chair by the fire, where the house-elves knew to acquire them and slid into his bed, waiting for sleep and the dream.

She did not disappoint.

This time, she appeared in the doorway to his bedroom, and the shape and color of her nightgown had changed. This neckline plunged slightly deeper, deep red lace allowing the dusky aureole around her nipple to peek through. Red fringe swayed with her hips at the bottom of the gown, barely covering her.

Her voice was much lower than it had been as his student as she glided up to his bedside. His dark, wide eyes never left her, drinking her in, roaming over the curves he had come to know well, the body he never tired of, delighting in the accents of her new attire.

"Happy Christmas, Severus."

It was the first time she had said his name. Wordlessly, he reached out one hand to divest her of her fetching, but entirely too interfering nightdress, mouth trailing from the hollow beneath her neck to trace the curve of her breasts before coming to one tight, hard nipple and giving it a flick with his tongue. Her satisfied sigh brought his head up and he dragged a hand up her thigh, making gentle circles as he drew closer to her folds, her sensitivity making her squirm closer to him, urging his hand to reach her faster.

"Happy Christmas, Hermione."

888

Draco stood just inside the double glass and cherry wood doors of the candle bedecked Rashada, the light emitted by the tiny creatures circling his head glinting off his white-blond hair, nervousness belied by his cool exterior, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

Resplendent in the time-honored colors of his old House, the patrician features inherited from his father made the still young man resemble marble more than flesh as he waited, eyes fixed on the massive gold and obsidian clock on the opposite wall. He had received a shy wave from Justin Finch-Fletchley and his young wife a few moments ago, and they were not the only veterans of the war present. Much of the Weasley clan was gathered- Bill and the twins with their wives, their parents and their younger sister. Both Percy and Charlie had been killed in the final stages of the war, and the red-head that Draco had known best was likely here with his own bimbo-of-the-moment. Distaste soured in the young man's mouth. The last of the Weasley sons went through almost as many women as graced the tabloids with Potter – except that for Potter's sidekick, they were real instead of on display.

"Good evening, Malfoy." The voice behind him was the casual one of his interviews. Harry Potter was precisely on time. Draco pivoted slowly, sure that his features did not betray his nagging fear that Potter would not come, that the acceptance received just yesterday had been a fake and that the young man would not arrive…

An awkward silence descended before Draco jerked himself away, hand raising to catch the eye of the maitre'de.

"Sir's reservation was…"

"Malfoy. Two."

The list flipped to a second page, one white-gloved finger trailing down, stopping to punctuate other names briefly before finding the right one.

"Sir's reservation is for 6:00. Precisely on time. If you will follow me?" He started towards the back of the restaurant and Draco was relieved to see that their path thoroughly avoided the Weasley's, and that they would not be visible to the large family from where they were being seated. He thought he saw relief flash in Potter's eyes as well, but forbore to ask as they were handed the wine list and their menus.

"Champagne?" Draco suggested, testing the waters slightly.

"What for?"

"It's Christmas, Potter. And we're attending a ball tonight in our honor. This is a season for celebration."

A smile quirked Harry's mouth. "Celebration, indeed. I haven't spoken to you for six years. Champagne seems quite appropriate."

Draco's mouth dried as he searched his long-time antagonist and some-time obsession for a hint. But Harry Potter played his cards much closer to his chest than most Gryffindors, and Draco could discern nothing certain from the comment. Was he being flip or serious?

"Well, you have seemed so busy," he drawled in reply. "It seems every time I pass a newsstand, Witch Weekly is displaying you with your catch of the day. Is it always blonds, Potter?"

"I'm afraid so. Blonds usually have such delicate, smooth, sensitive skin," Harry responded. "Consequently, they are so much more…satisfying."

Draco's slate eyes widened fractionally. Potter was baiting him, wanted him to make the opening assault, fencing words back until Draco had to say it or switch topics.

Their waiter arrived, tray in hand. Draco smiled charmingly up at the man. "Two glasses of champagne, please. Pixie-made." He leaned back, assuming a position a shade too proper to be described as indolent, and asked with that slow smile that Harry adored, "So, Potter, other than new women every week, what have you been doing?"

888

"Severus, you seem rather more nervous than usual," Minerva murmured, sipping her gillywater over the small staff dinner that had been arranged in haste. Most of them were scattered over the stuffed armchairs of the teacher's lounge where the house-elves had served them, the Great Hall immaculately clean and decorated for the evening.

"'Nervous' is not what I would call it. Dreading spending an evening in the company of dunderheads both past and present is presently making me quite queasy."

"Only the sixth and seventh year students are here, Severus." He returned her purposefully innocent air with a withering glare. He had never trusted Minerva not to know as much as their mentor and friend, whom he had killed atop the Astronomy Tower a year before the end of the war. But he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing that Hermione Granger's imminent arrival was what had destroyed his appetite, his composure and, thanks to the dreams, much of his iron-fisted self-control.

He surged up from the side table where his untouched tea rested. "If you'll excuse me," he said coldly, striding from the room wrapped so thickly in his own worries that he didn't notice Minerva's dark eyes sparkling with the same amusement that had twinkled in Dumbledore's blue gaze. The Headmistress sat back with a satisfied grin. It was high time they both realized what they wanted.

888

Harry watched Draco put the last chunk of hen in his mouth, mesmerized by the lips closing succulently around it, wishing that mouth were closing on something else…

He jerked his eyes away, embarrassment creeping up to blush his cheeks. One glass of champagne and one of wine did not give him license to lust after Malfoy.

Not that I haven't been for years.

Draco noticed Harry's gaze, the tenor of it and the red coloring his face after he hastily looked away. The blond worked to keep from smirking. Potter was his for the asking. He waved down the waiter. "The bill, please."

"Of course, sir."

Draco smiled easily at his dinner companion. "No plans for Christmas with the Weasleys tonight?"

"If I had plans with the Weasleys, would I be sitting here?"

"After the ball, Potter."

"Ron might be up for a round at the Three Broomsticks, but I hadn't thought about it," Harry replied bluntly. Slytherins and their games. Why couldn't Malfoy say what he wanted to?

A scroll appeared quietly on their table, green and red ribbon twined around it for the season. Harry put his hand in his pocket for his money, but Draco tapped the scroll smartly with his wand, checked the bill and pulled out his bag, emptying Galleons on the table.

"My treat." Three fat gold coins were slid to one side as tip, the rest stacked on top of the scroll. Gold and parchment vanished before Harry could estimate the considerable sum. "Shall we go? It's nearly seven-thirty. The party will have been in full swing for half an hour."

888

Hermione took a deep breath and stared up the winding path to Hogwarts. The castle glowed, light pouring from mullioned windows on the fresh snow, the only clear patch the frozen ground from decorated gate to the front doors. Apparition had delivered her here, just beyond the boundaries of the school's wards, neither lessened nor breached since the Final Battle that had taken place on the Hogwarts lawn.

"Hermione Granger!" The delighted, aging voice of her Transfiguration professor and friend reached her, and Hermione twisted, searching for the sound, biting her lip as her soft dragon-hide boots slid on the ice.

Hermione craned her neck to see her former professor hurrying across the slick ground to her, her boots clearly charmed to ignore the ice. The Headmistress was dressed entirely in tartan, though Hermione was pleased to see that this year, the wreath of thistles on her hat had been replaced by a weaving of holly with a pair of live doves cooing from the brim.

"We haven't seen you in so long, my dear." Minerva hugged her warmly.

"Hello, Minerva." Hermione smiled, subduing the initial, sharp disappointment that it had not been Severus Snape. She had visited his dreams twelve times in the past three weeks, each successive dream bringing him closer to her. But it was like the withdrawn Slytherin to make her come to him, even now. "Have you been out here waiting for me?"

"Of course not. Your Apparition signature leaves a print though, so I modified one of the protection spells to alert me when you landed near us."

Hermione laughed, her first genuine laugh in a long time, and the sound echoed from the stones. "Isn't that an abuse of power?"

"An arrangement of convenience," Minerva replied, utterly unperturbed. "One time only. The charm will undo itself now that you are here."

They fell in step as they started up to the castle. "Has Severus spoken to you lately?" Minerva asked after a short, comfortable silence.

Hermione's heart found its place in her throat and she had to swallow down, making her response subdued. "No. I haven't talked to Professor Snape since the end of the war. Why?"

Minerva smiled, and leaned on her former student. Albus Dumbledore had long ago taught her how to add a nudge or a touch of encouragement to steer a person in the right direction. The brisk, stern, straightforward, taskmistress Minerva McGonagall was no more her entire personality than cold, brutal Potions master Severus Snape. "I believe he's been thinking of you recently. You were his best mind in Potions for five years, and we have had none to replace you since your graduation."

Hermione arched an eyebrow at her one-time Transfiguration professor and tried to read the lined face. Did Snape speak of her? Had he spoken of the dreams? If he had, she couldn't possibly face this party. But Minerva's thin mouth and dark eyes remained as guileless as ever.

"Really? I would have thought he would be grateful to see our backs at the end of the war," Hermione murmured noncommittally.

"You of all people should know us better than that, Hermione. Viviane Vector is always so pleased to hear from you, and I adore getting your owls. When one starts aging, one does treasure those minds and lives that you have influenced- especially those like yours." They had reached the great double doors and a flick of the Headmistress' wand brought them open. A warm smile sparked in Minerva's eyes. "Make an effort tonight, my dear. I think you will find yourself pleasantly surprised."

They walked up the wide stone stairs, and Minerva patted her arm. "Go ahead in. I have some guests to wait for out here."

888

She was here.

From across the hall, through a sea of students, alums and Ministry-defined heroes, he watched her enter alone, her hair set with rubies and diamonds, her dress a rich, deep red, darker than the color of the nightgown in his dream-

He halted that train of thought, taking pleasure instead, in watching her react to his work.

888

Hermione's dark eyes widened as she entered the Great Hall, Minerva forgotten as her hand flew to her mouth, covering her 'O' of surprise.

The castle looked like it had been designed for her, and her alone. On the raised dais where the Head Table had been, there flowed an ice-fall that ran a river of frozen water the length of the stone hall, crystalline and sparkling in the light of the candelabras. Framing the fall were glittering rocks, studded with geodes and surrounded by pear trees. She could smell the ripe fruit from where she stood and she closed her eyes, breathing the luscious scent. Pear trees bore her favorite fruit...

Room-temperature, non-melting snow drifting from the ceiling around couples as they danced on the main floor, a glittering pool of ice charmed for traction. Pine branches stretched over the walls, a tangled, dark-green mass pouring their scent into the air and curling out from the wall at table height to support rows of drinks, foods and favors. Pristine, delicate icicles and ice-crystals dangled from them, catching the light from the fairies that fluttered through the air, casting shafts of rainbow on stone and wood.

As her gaze swallowed the whole view she had fantasized about her entire life, her eyes came to rest at last on her former Potions master and fellow Order member. Obsidian met chocolate, and she had a flash of insight. He had done it. For her.

The Great Hall was generally warm, the colors of the décor hot, as if hanging red tapestries could cover the chill of a thousand-year-old castle. This was entirely different- and somehow seemed much more appropriate.

The band was playing to one side, their platform an extended version of the pine-bough tables running along the walls. Hermione skirted the edge, grabbing a glass of punch on her way to the architect of the evening where he was standing, deep in conversation now with a tall, handsome black boy.

As Hermione reached them, the boy graciously shifted, allowing her entrance to the conversation. She flashed him a smile, one that faltered briefly before widening again. Blaise Zabini. He wore Voldemort's brand on his left arm, a permanent reminder of his brief service before Severus and Draco together had talked him round.

"Granger," he greeted her civilly.

Severus took in the beauty before him, the form-fitting gown that flared at her knees, the neckline that scooped to not-quite-reveal anything, the glittering gems that adorned her hair, her neck and wrists, curls escaping in a fetching fashion, kissed already by the non-melting snow that drifted from the ceiling.

"I have not seen you at one of these parties in several years, Miss Granger. Getting bored in your old age?" His question was all the greeting he gave her.

Hermione's mouth twitched. So this was the game. She would play it. For now.

888

Minerva's sharp eyes scanned the snow, waiting, smiling absently as the guests streamed past her now, more and more filling the hall. The entire living Weasley clan was here, the Longbottoms, the Macmillian's… She was seeking a pair of glasses crowned by a thin, faded scar and messy hair. She had not seen Harry Potter for several years, and unlike his friend, she had not been receiving regular owls from him either.

But he had sent an RSVP for tonight…

She spied him coming up the walk, well behind the crowd arriving at the same time, feet careful on the slick ground. She smiled proudly as he drew closer. His double career suited his body well. Navy-blue robes snuggly fitted the form of a grown, filled-out man, not the gangling teen that she had watched grow to adulthood, nor the hardened, lanky young man who had defeated Voldemort.

It was only when he stretched his fingers outward to touch a green-clothed elbow that Minerva noticed his partner. Her eyes traveled over the rich emerald-with-silver-lining, taking in the owner, surprise keeping her gaze fastened on the sleek, patrician features of Draco Malfoy. The blond bent his head to Harry's ear as he whispered something, and a smile graced his features as they drew closer, and his reply made Harry laugh. Her eyebrows hit her hairline and she chose not to interrupt the couple, giving them a nod and a warm smile as they waved and flowed past her into the Great Hall. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Lucius was rolling in his grave.

888

"Look who's dancing," Draco murmured, pressing pumpkin juice into Harry's hand as they soaked in the warmth of the Great Hall.

The faint mist of snow barely blurred the outlines of those on the floor, and as Harry followed Draco's gaze and discreet flick of his hand, he saw the high, dark cheekbones of one Blaise Zabini, dancing over the curly, gem-studded head of his best friend.

"Blaise and Hermione?"

"I don't know. Did they come together?"

"I'll ask her for the next dance and see," Harry resolved. Both men sipped their drinks, eyes traversing the crowd, seeking those they knew. A bright light buzzed by his head. He jerked away from it, lifting one hand to swat at it furiously as it continued to circle him, only to have Draco clasp it, bringing it down gently.

"It's a fairie. They're everywhere in here, lighting the hall. Don't strike them. The whole tribe will attack."

Harry's fingers tightened around Draco's reflexively as the creature spun away, seeming to skate on air, iridescent wings beating madly.

Neither Harry nor Draco let go as they continued to stand, thumbs gently rubbing each other's hands, not looking at each other, thinking of nothing else.

888

Severus watched the object of his dreams dance merrily with his ex-house-member, followed by Fred Weasley, then Remus Lupin, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Ron Weasley…he could not watch her enough, marveling at the enjoyment she radiated, eyes out-shining the rubies in her hair. He saw one of the fairies take up permanent residence in the center of her bun, the curls stretching out from the middle like the rays of a tiny sun.

His mouth dry, he struggled to squash the sensation of jealously as she partnered man after man, laughing and talking, her eyes never once flickering in his direction. Violently passionate though his nights had been, he did not own her- and what would people say to see her dancing with her old, ugly ex-Potions master?

Turning his head from her as she grinned at Neville Longbottom, his eyes found a sight previously unnoticed. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were dancing, fingers entwined, gazes locked in a way that told the old spy that this was anything but casual. Curiosity piqued, his look swept outward from there, and he saw a growing number of pockets of people talking in low voices, eyes centered on the oblivious famous duo, some blatantly pointing, questions tumbling faster than the snow drifting over them.

Perhaps it would not be so difficult to get away with dancing with Hermione. Potter and Draco were providing more than adequate cover. He slowly started to move towards the floor, trying to gauge where the madly fast dance would leave her.

But as the song ended and he started forward, the young woman a tantalizing ten feet away from him, the drummer from the band passed his sticks to another member, and vaulted down from the stand, bowing low in front of Hermione and leading her to the floor. Severus glowered. At this rate, she would leave without so much as thinking of him again.

888

Ginny caught Harry's hand on the way to the refreshment table. "Care to dance? For old times' sake?" Her eyes sparkled, and Harry acquiesced gracefully. Ginny Weasley had long since moved past him, though it seemed that she, like Ron, wasn't looking to settled down in the near future.

"So. Draco Malfoy, huh?" she asked, tossing her long red hair over her shoulder as she eyed him mischievously. Harry's mouth quirked into a smirk and she rolled her eyes. "You've even adopted his smile."

Harry spun her so that he could better see his date for the evening, and a squirm of jealousy invaded his heart. Draco was in the arms of a tall young, extremely handsome young man who was paying him very close attention.

"Excuse me," Harry heard his voice, which sounded nothing like his normal speech, say tightly. He swiftly left Ginny to Neville Longbottom, who gladly picked up exactly where Harry had left off.

"May I cut in?" Draco heard Harry's smooth voice on his right, and deftly turned from one partner's arms to another. He did not suppress the smirk that turned up the corners of his mouth.

"Envious, Potter?"

"Who was that?" Harry eyed Draco former partner, who was standing in the middle of the floor glaring at them, suspiciously.

Draco laughed. "Lord Ivanesyck. He's from Prague. He got an Order of Merlin, Third Class for his work with turning the dragons of the region into the cavalry we used in the battle."

"You know him?"

"We met when we were children, and haven't seen each other since." Draco deliberately teased the boy, "What do you think, Harry? Good-looking, isn't he?"

Harry leaned closer to Draco so that their foreheads touched, and he could feel the other boy breathing on his nose and mouth. If that was the Slytherin's game, he would gladly beat him at it.

"What did I tell you," he purred, "about blonds?"

Draco laughed softly and, in full view of the entire dance floor, moved his mouth to finish what they had started in a tiny broom closet seven years ago.

888

Hermione's head twisted as she sought her one-time professor. She had been certain, right before the drummer had so eagerly asked her for the next dance, that he had been about to approach, ready to ask, ready to break…and now she couldn't find him-

-there! Her mouth thinned unconsciously in displeasure for his choice of dance partner. The young woman was lithe, tall, dark and graceful. She was one of Lord Ivanesyck's seven maids that he had brought with him, all of them stunningly beautiful. Britain had long ago removed the titles from the wizarding elite, but all of Europe had not felt the need to follow that example, and now one was here with his retinue…

Severus' eyes lifted, and black orbs encountered hers over the heads of the dancers for the second time that evening. Wait, they seemed to say.

Grabbing another glass of punch to save herself the necessity of partnering yet another man, Hermione settled herself next to the refreshments to await the end of the song.

888

"Hermione, I believe it's my turn," George Weasley swept up to her as the music finished, robes made of dragonhide rustling around his feet. "My dear brothers have all had the honor-"

"Miss Granger," a deep voice interrupted his boisterous invitation. "I believe you owe me a number."

She turned, one eyebrow arched to consider him. He had made her wait long enough tonight…

Severus' hand remained extended awkwardly, his mouth dry with the abrupt return to schoolboy nervousness, in spite of his more than forty years.

"You can be next," George told him factually.

Severus' hand remained extended, but a cool light in his dark eyes told Hermione that if she refused him now, she had wasted the effort of researching and making the Dreamwalker Draught. It was now or never.

"I'm sorry, George, but I did promise. I'll be happy to dance with you next," she told him, placing her small hand into the calloused, warm fingers of the older man and allowing him to spin her deftly onto the floor of glittering ice.

Hermione had never touched Severus in the firm reality of waking life beyond the impersonal, functional taps she had needed to get his attention when they worked together. And his sometimes gentle, sometimes fierce, aroused, passionate caress of their dreams was a touch only half there, like a footprint instead of the actual person. But as her hand rested on his shoulder, and she felt his long fingers settled on her back between her shoulder blades, an enormous sense of peace and homecoming settled over her, and she leaned her forehead against his lanky torso, listening to his heartbeat in time with the beating drums, forgetting that outside of her dreamwalking, their personal contact had been nonexistent.

Severus looked down at the top of her head, where her curls were beginning escape their bonds, surprise darkening the often cynical and always closed eyes of the ex-spy. He had never been a dancer, and it was surprisingly pleasant to feel his feet floating over the floor, body close to hers, the shimmering silk of her gown under his fingers, her firm breasts against his chest. He smiled faintly to himself. He had seen the wonder in her eyes, the appreciation of the décor, the knowledge that he had done it for her – his intimate reproduction of her fairytale worlds a result of information he had gleaned while working alongside her all those years ago.

It had taken all those years to reach this moment when certainty, plotting, and a measure of daring coincided, completing that which he had been seeking since before the end of the war.

Peace and love were bundled together under his hands, wearing red silk and hair laced with diamonds and rubies. He could see the tiny fairie snoring gently in its nest of Hermione's hair, its light gradually dimming.

He cradled her gently as the tune slowed to waltz time, and he cast a wordless, wandless spell. The snow gradually ceased falling on the dancers, until the floor was filled with couples swirling on ice under a pristinely black, starry sky.

888

"Come on," Draco's mouth grazed Harry's ear. "Severus and Granger are dancing – no one will noticed us leave."

The gossip mill had turned one hundred and eighty degrees as the crowd noticed Severus' next dance partner, and the easy intimacy they shared.

Harry smiled at his date and they slid out of the hall via a side door. "Did you end up in the gardens during the Yule Ball?" Draco asked, taking Harry's hand again in his own.

"Yes," Harry replied, and sadness caught in his throat. "Ron and I ended up overhearing Madame Maxime and…Hagrid." It had been hard at the end, harder in some ways than seeing Dumbledore's tumble from the lightning-struck tower, to see Hagrid's great body, sliced open in over two dozen places and bearing the marks of the many curses he had taken in his desperate attempt to defend Hermione, Ron, Ginny and Neville from the Death Eaters. He had succeeded in his mission, paid for by his life.

Draco squeezed Harry's hand, bringing him back to the present. "He died the way he wanted to – dignity intact, protecting some of the most valuable witches and wizards in the war. Honor him – but you do not need to grieve any longer." The soft tips of Draco's other hand caressed Harry's face, soothing the angular cheekbones, thumb running gently over the other boy's lips. Harry kissed Draco's thumb, each of his fingers, before bringing up his own hand and turning the blond's head to kiss him full on the lips.

Their first kiss, on the floor, had been gentle and teasing. This kiss bespoke need, passion and eagerness. Draco returned it fully, noticing that Harry was backing him up only when he hit the thorns of the bushes.

"You're going to skewer me, Potter," he said dryly as Harry released his mouth in favor of breathing.

"Sorry," Harry replied, but the grin on his face indicated that he was anything but. Draco's lips curled looking at the mischievous look on his face, so like the boy before the hard times of the war.

Draco reached for him again, fingers running lightly over Harry's neck, making the hairs stand up and sending tingles through the young man's spine, his eyes falling shut. "Follow me," Draco whispered, his breath shooting further spikes of desire down Harry's back.

Touch and heat were withdrawn, and when Harry opened his eyes, Draco was already four strides away in the snow, heading deeper into the gardens. Harry followed curiously, their strides evenly matched so that Draco stayed ahead in the twisting rose bushes.

He led Harry to the same fountain where Harry and Ron had witnessed Hagrid's bumbling confession and Madame Maxime's subsequent cold refusal. Unlike the water inside, it was charmed to continue flowing, and it burbled over tiered layers softly, splashing quietly into the large basin at the bottom before cycling back up again.

Draco seated himself facing the fountain, slate eyes reflecting the light of the stars.

"My mother loved water," he volunteered slowly, and Harry sat very still, feeling the hesitance in Draco's words, knowing that he could not interrupt. "We had them everywhere, fountains big and small, inside and outside the manor. She and my dad kept one studded with amethyst and silver in their bedroom. I would sit and listen to it when she read to me.

"Father would give her fountains as presents, and for their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary…" He halted. Twenty-five years. Neither of his parents had survived to the date that would have marked their twenty-sixth.

He felt soft fingers stroking his, and turned his head slightly to catch the green, empathetic eyes of Harry Potter. "For their twenty-fifth, he installed a new one, about twice the size of this, in the top terrace of our main garden, and that summer, the fountain watered the whole hillside."

Draco was playing with something in his other hand, rolling it around and around in his fingers. Suddenly, he picked up Harry's hand and pressed the object into the other man's palm. Harry uncurled his fingers.

It was a ring, bands of gold set around an irregularly shaped piece of black opal. The stone caught the starlight and sent red, green and blue slivers back into Harry's eyes.

"The fountain was made of solid black opal. When the manor was stripped, they took it to be cut apart and auctioned away, the money dedicated to those most damaged by the war. In their carelessness, they nicked a corner. I found it under what was left of my mother's lilac. I had it set in that ring." He finally looked Harry square in the face. "I would like to give it to you."

Harry stared at Draco, glanced down at the ring, and swallowed. "I couldn't take this from you, Draco, it's your last reminder of your mother."

Draco's smile told a story of old pain, sweeter now than bitter, the struggle to overcome it long since fought. "My parents belonged to a world that excluded you. The world is gone. They perished with it. I did not. This world – your world – is where I want to live."

Harry's heart wrung in his chest as he threaded the beautiful gift onto one finger and leaned forward to press his mouth to Draco's, reveling at the softness of his partner's mouth. He could feel his lips curving into a smile even as Draco's tongue slid in, euphoria filling him, spilling out of his and into the man next to him.

"Slytherin," he murmured affectionately as they parted, and traced the outside of Draco's ear with his tongue. "You planned this."

"Mmmmm. Yes. What is all that cunning and ambition for, anyway? I just landed myself Witch Weekly's most eligible bachelor."

"You have been welcome in my world since Voldemort's death," Harry replied seriously. He kissed Draco again, hair this time. "Come take your place in it."

888

"This hall is a little crowded for my tastes," Severus murmured, his last test as another slow dance ended. She was willing to dance – would she leave with him.

"I agree," she responded, brown eyes sparkling.

"Come. I think there is something you might enjoy out of doors."

They slid towards the exit, their passage largely unmarked except by one twinkling, satisfied pair of eyes that watched them from behind square-framed glasses.

The snowed-in grounds glittered under the lights of fairies and lanterns as Severus led her down a slope to the lake, still gripping her hand. Hermione's smile, though unnoticed, was luminous. She had felt the pace of his rapidly-beating heart, and knew that the dreamwalking potion had done the job she required. Or perhaps he had fancied her anyway. It didn't matter now.

He had melted a path before them to the water. Cold as it was, the lake never froze, and it moved sluggishly tonight, waves slopping to freeze over the snow that encroached on the surface.

And in the water…Hermione gasped, breath completely taken as she stared at the marvelous creature watching her with one dark, liquid eye, light glinting off the white so brightly it was like a second moon.

A live swan large enough to carry Hagrid paddled slowly in the ice-cold water, so close to the bank that Hermione could reach out and touch it.

"Stroke her," his deep voice resonated next to her, and she could hear the amusement there. "She is for riding."

"Where did she come from?" Hermione breathed, making every effort not to turn back into a squealing schoolgirl. Not that she had ever been one, but had almost turned into one as she buried his fingers in the warm, soft feathers.

"The giants. She is a special breed, impervious to the cold of the mountains where she was born."

"And we can ride…?"

"Unlike her smaller cousins, normal-size swans, she is extremely even-tempered," he told her. And then his hands were on her waist, hoisting her onto the pure-white back of the elegant bird. She felt him clamber up behind her, straddling the swan and loosely looping his arms about her waist.

Without instruction, the swan began to swim serenely, making no sound and disturbing nothing.

"Do you like her?" Severus asked after a long while. Her back against him, she could feel his voice rumbling even as it reached her ears.

"She is beautiful," Hermione answered quietly.

"She's yours."

Hermione sat bolt upright, twisting to stare at him. "Mine?"

His mouth twitched. "I am not in the habit of repeating myself, but, yes – yours."

Hermione stared at him, and shook her head slowly. "I can't believe this. You planned everything, didn't you? You intended all along to do this tonight."

"Yes," he admitted, bowing his head in admission. He looked at her candidly, almost hungrily, and Hermione felt herself stir in response. "I have wanted you since I worked with you."

"All that time? And you kept silent?" Hermione pinned him with an unbelieving stare. Seven years of wasted time, of one-time dates, of failed encounters…and it could have been spent with him?

"Look at me, Hermione," he said softly. "I am old, pale-faced, hook-nosed, with crooked teeth. I am an ex-Death Eater who murdered his employer. Both of them. Why should you want me? You, the beautiful heroine of the war, with men falling all over themselves to do your bidding should you wish, had no use for your professor."

She laughed throatily as they glided through the middle of the lake. "Severus, I have spent seven years trying to find the time and the nerve to speak to you. I was grateful when I finally found it. In my dreams."

He started to smile, gave her a sharp look. "Your dreams…"

"The dreams you've had since the beginning of the month are the result of Dream-Walker Draught. Dangerous to make and even more risky to take, but it was easier to seduce you in dreams than in reality. Or so I thought. I was surprised, and not at all displeased, to find you willing. You made the potion unnecessary."

"Very Slytherin of you, Hermione Granger, I am impressed. And you returned," he added smugly.

"Indeed." She placed one hand behind his head and, her own head against his shoulder, pulled it down to kiss him thoroughly. One hand tangled in her hair, and another neatly hooked the strap of her dress and pulled it down as he had been doing in his sleep for a month now, fingers grazing her nipple and causing her to arch into him.

"I wanted to know," she panted breathlessly, "if I could turn my dreams into waking moments."

He smirked and whispered, "I think we could arrange that." Again without orders, the swan turned in the lake and moved back across the iron grey water towards the shore.