A/N: This is a reposting of my original story I pulled after it languished unfinished for seven months on chapter ten. It is now complete (15 chapters and an epilogue), and has been edited by my wonderful Beta: Voldyhasnonose.

Thank you for your patience.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything (not even my house) ... it all belongs to JKR and Warner Brothers.

Hermione Granger ran her hand nervously through her hair while casually looking around at the other patrons of the Three Broomsticks and noted with some nervousness that it was surprisingly crowded for a Thursday. She had specifically chosen this evening because the pub was usually quite empty on Thursdays, and she hadn't wanted to advertise her presence. Thankfully, she didn't see anyone she recognized which was a relief considering what she was there for.

After five years of constant hounding and nagging by her happily married friends, she had agreed to a blind date with one of the new Aurors Harry and Ron worked with. His name was Jonathan Marks, he was from the states, twenty eight and according to Ginny, 'quite dreamy.'

He was also late.

Twelve minutes late to be exact.

Not that she was keeping track or anything … well, yes, maybe she was.

She toyed with the stem of her wine glass and looked around once more, her nervousness turning to agitation as the minutes continued to tick by with no sign of her wayward date.

Maybe he had come, taken one look at her, and left.

She knew she wasn't a raving beauty but she didn't think she was hideous either. After many years of frustration, she had finally found hair products that had tamed her frizzy locks into some semblance of order, she had a good complexion (if a bit pale from being buried in books all the time) a decent figure (if the covertly appreciative looks she had received from both Ron and Harry when she'd come downstairs in this uncomfortably tight dress were anything to judge by) and, of course, excellent teeth.

Sweet Circe, it was almost as if she were describing a horse. Maybe she did need to get out of her office and interact with real humans more often.

She didn't intentionally seclude herself away from other people, she just tended to get caught up in her latest project and time simply got away from her. To hear her friends describe it though, she was the hermit of Hogwarts burrowing in her cave for weeks (or months) at a time without sunlight or fresh air, living off cold tea and biscuits, surrounded by only her books and parchment for warmth and comfort.

Drama queens, the whole bloody lot of them.

She ate plenty of fresh food.

She couldn't help that she had an insatiable desire to learn, and, she had discovered to her own great surprise (but evidently no one else's) a desire to share that knowledge with others.

Apparently, all those years spent tutoring Ron and Harry (along with a good portion of Gryffindor House) had awoken her dormant 'know-it-allness,' and after graduating top in her class from Avalon University with dual degrees in Charms and Potions, she had chosen to share said knowledge by writing her own books instead of teaching (as everyone had assumed she would).

And now, at only twenty eight, Hermione had already written and published four books; two of which still made Flourish and Blotts annual 'Most Recommended Reads' list and were on the Daily Prophet's 'Top Seller' list.

Her first foray into writing had occurred quite by accident while doing research for a required final essay in her Modern Magical History class. She had been dismayed to discover, that even four years after the final defeat of Voldemort, not a single history book accurately portrayed what had really happened. Not a single book told the stories of the fallen witches and wizards that had fought, sacrificed and even died, fighting against the evil tyrant that had invaded Britain.

Not a single book told the true story. Voldemort was dead and people were still afraid to speak his name.

So she did.

She told a story of bravery, fallen comrades, a duplicitous and often oblivious government, double agents, friendship, suffering, loss and silent heroes.

What was originally supposed to be no longer than thirty thousand words, had taken on a life of it's own and soon exceeded one hundred and thirty thousand. Hermione felt almost a cathartic sort of healing as she wrote about people she had interviewed, some known, but most just names or memories, and about the boy Harry Potter who became the man that vanquished the Dark Lord with the help of his many friends. She became the voice for those that had perished and could no longer speak for themselves.

It had been a labor of love.

To her complete and utter amazement, her professor had been so impressed with her work, that she had convinced Hermione to publish it. Hermione, not really believing anything would come of her 'little book,' had sent copies to all her friends and everyone she had interviewed as a thank you, and promptly put the entire matter out of her head to concentrate on her other classes.

It wasn't until she arrived home from a fortnight spent in Italy with school friends, that she noticed her book prominently displayed in the front window of her favorite bookstore in Diagon Alley. Her friends had kept it a secret in order to surprise her.

It wasn't long after her return that she started to receive her first royalty checks from the publishing company; the amounts had left her almost speechless.

Her book sold out twelve times in the first year alone, and 'Hermione Granger' became a household name once again (much to her chagrin). She didn't care for the fame, but she had discovered her calling.

Writing.

Her second book, released two years after the first, was more technical and dealt with the symbiotic possibilities between healing potions and charms that tied in to a person's magical signature. Which, when used together, increased healing time by over fifty percent and greatly reduced patient aftercare.

Her findings, part of a senior project in Advanced Charms (which she had prudently been encouraged to patent) had been implemented by the Healers at St. Mungos to great success, and soon became the recognized 'norm' in all magical medical institutions (and the main reason her Gringotts vault was now very, very comfortably padded with galleons).

With her financial security intact, but her intellect continually desiring new challenges, she turned her focus back to spell creation, a topic that had always interested her.

Her third book, published barely a year after the second, was meant as a 'how to' guide. In it she explored the nature and history of spell work, and broken down to their individual components, she analyzed the twenty most commonly used spells and expounded on how, with slight alterations in either wand movement or pronunciation of the incantation, the effectiveness, power and ease of casting of individual spells could be improved.

That book, while well received by the masters of that particular field, had taken much longer to be recognized by the general public, but had lately begun to slowly increase in popularity as word spread (especially among students just starting at Hogwarts).

It was her fourth book, however, published just last year, that had been the most controversial, and consequently, her biggest seller to date. In a perverse desire to trace her own roots to determine if, as she had always suspected, muggleborns were actually descended from magical bloodlines (however many generations removed) she made some startling discoveries.

She had spent over a year working to improve the Bloodline Potion, a potion she hadn't even heard of until her third year Advanced Potions class at university. As it stood, the potion was ingested and then a drop of the drinker's blood was added to a specially prepared piece of parchment and the witch or wizards parentage would be revealed, but only back two generations. As this did nothing to support her premise, she had needed to alter the potion to reveal as far back as ten generations.

Between her study of biochemistry, human physiology, and potions itself (and after many, many, many, failed attempts) she finally succeeded. She had been incredibly pleased to discover that she was descended from a 'pureblood' family, but the magic had died out in 1872, when her great, great, great grandmother, Juliet Pierce, married Thomas Granger (a muggle) and her only child had been born a squib. According to what little family history she could recover, she was the first magical child born since Juliet.

Talk about recessive genes.

She tested her theory on every muggle born who was willing (or amenable after being offered a monetary inducement) and her hypothesis was proven with a 99.3 percent accuracy. She felt somewhat vindicated that she could finally prove that she did, in fact, come from magic.

Unfortunately, the purebloods were less than pleased with her findings and wasted no time trying to disprove her theories (which none had been able to do as yet) and added to her lack of popularity among the self-proclaimed 'elite' of the wizarding world.

But what was new?

After that, Hermione had been approached by her publisher to write a book aimed at improving existing beauty charms and potions, something she was loathe to do, even though she knew it would be a huge moneymaker if successful. She had grudgingly begun some preliminary research, but her enthusiasm was halfhearted at best; she wanted to do something more stimulating or groundbreaking than hair tonics and blemish cremes.

The whole idea made her uncomfortable … like she was channeling Lavender Brown or Parvati Patil.

Speaking of uncomfortable … the torture device, otherwise known as the dress Ginny had forced her into, was displaying her already generous breasts even more prominently than she was comfortable with, and she unobtrusively tried to adjust the corset to cover herself. She didn't want Jonathan (assuming he ever showed up) to think she was easy.

Especially as she was, in point of fact, the complete opposite of easy.

As pathetic as it was, at twenty-eight, she was still a virgin.

Hermione understood words. She also understood Arithmancy equations, deciphering runes in ancient texts, the theories and practical aspects of advanced transfiguration and charms, the logistics involved in spell creation and the intricacies of mixing different ingredients to create a potion.

What she didn't understand, was men.

She understood Harry and Ron and the rest of the Weasley males, because they were all like brothers, brothers she understood. Men, in a romantic sense, not so much. Her disastrous attempt at a relationship with Ron had proven that.

She had tried while she was away at university to interact with the few males she had been attracted to, but as soon as they discovered she was the reason for the grading curve, their interest invariably waned.

She couldn't help that she was intelligent, and she refused to 'dumb herself down' as Ginny had tentatively suggested on a few occasions, even for just a quick shag. Besides, she didn't want just a one-time thing, she wanted to meet someone she could connect with. She wanted a man who would appreciate all of her assets (not just the ones about to bust out of her decolletage). She wanted to be liked for her intellect, her admittedly perverse sense of humor, her tenacity and various other admirable personality traits she was fairly sure she possessed … well … mostly sure.

She glanced at her watch once again, her date was now twenty four minutes late. Six more minutes and she was leaving. She refused to wait any longer, and she was fairly certain the blond man in the corner that had been leering at her cleavage for the last ten minutes was gathering his courage to approach her.

Where in the bloody hell was he?

Ginny would not be pleased to discover that all her hard work trying to make Hermione look gorgeous would be for naught, since the wanker hadn't even bothered to show.

Spending so much time alone doing research (especially in light of her many failures) had added quite a bit of color to her once very prim and proper vocabulary. Yet another reason she needed to get out in polite society more, as she rarely had anyone to censure her language.

But enough was enough. Waiting fifteen minutes was courtesy, waiting thirty minutes reeked of desperation. She was leaving.

Slamming down a galleon to cover her drink, she grabbed her coat from the back of her chair just as the outside door opened and a tall, dark haired man entered the pub, quickly looking around until he spotted her. She decided he must be Jonathan because for one: he was quite good looking, and two: by the way he was eying her up and down appreciatively as he approached, it was obvious he recognized her, and three: Ginny hadn't lied … he was definitely dreamy.

She remained standing as he approached, still a bit angry and waiting to hear his excuse before letting him off the hook for being so late, and slightly uneasy at the almost predatory looks he was giving her.

"Hermione?" he asked as he reached her, his smile sheepish as he rushed to explain, "I'm very sorry I was delayed. I was in the middle of a case and it ran over. Forgive me?" he asked, dimples set to stun and dazzling white teeth blinding her in their brilliance. He could seriously have given Lockhart a run for his money for Witch Weekly's Best Smile award.

She, unlike the majority of the witch population, was looking for something more substantial than good looks in a man, even though (especially in Jonathan's case) they were definitely a plus.

She gave him a smile in return, although she doubted it reached anywhere near the wattage his had, and sat back down. He was very tall and appeared to be nicely built from what she could tell, but the way his eyes kept drifting to her chest as he settled into his seat was very disconcerting.

Damn Ginny, and damn her 'tight-arsed, bosom-popping, can't breathe and look like a proper tart,' dress.

She decided to try and give him the benefit of the doubt and ordered another glass of wine before settling back, (figuratively) as she could barely move in the dress, much less get comfortable.

"So Jonathan, why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself," she said politely, as a fresh glass of wine was settled before her along with a lovely cheese and fruit tray.

"Well, my beautiful Hermione," he almost crooned as he leaned closer, and taking a grape from the plate began to lick it in what she was sure was intended to be a seductive manner, before gently biting it in half and winking at her.

Was that supposed to be erotic? What did the wink signify exactly? Was she supposed to be imagining sharing it with him, or was he insinuating that he would do to her what he was doing to the grape? And if so, was it supposed to excite her? Was she expected to reciprocate somehow? Why, oh why, was there not a book that explained these things?

Maybe she should write one.

Or at least read one ... or two.

Of course that was no help in her current situation … at all, so she just smiled politely and nibbled on a piece of cheese until he was finished molesting the grape.

"I've heard so much about you from your mates, but they drastically understated your beauty and completely neglected to tell me how absolutely divinely you fill out a dress," he winked again and she wondered why she felt angry instead of flattered at his compliment. She actually felt more than a little squeamish, and not in a good way.

She discretely tried to cross her arms in front of her chest, but her actions only served to draw his attention back to the very part of her anatomy she was attempting to hide, and she huffed in annoyance.

"Thank you. I think," she mumbled in response to his compliment, unsure what the appropriate response was when someone complimented your physical attributes. Lavender would know, as she had never been shy about exposing her assets as often as possible. That was probably why Ron broke up with her, she wasn't very particular about who she exposed herself to and Ron has always been the possessive sort.

Hermione knew she should be flattered, she had never had anyone react to her body so positively before, of course she would have never been caught dead in a dress like this if Ginny hadn't practically blackmailed her into wearing it. It wasn't that she didn't want to be appreciated for her physique, she just wanted to be liked for her mind more.

"So Hermione … Her ... myon … eee," he spoke almost teasingly, "May I call you 'Mione' or 'Nee'? They roll off the tongue better," he wiggled his tongue as he said it. She was pretty sure he was, once again, trying to look sexy, but his tongue resembled nothing more than a flobberworm in it's dying throes.

Definitely not sexy.

The thin line of saliva that fell to the table was decidedly not sexy either.

"I would prefer you just call me Hermione actually," she hoped the faint disgust she was feeling didn't reflect on her face. "So Jonathan," she stressed his name, "where in the states are you from?"

At this point, she was fairly convinced that Jonathan only had one thing on his mind, but she would set her misgivings aside and make an effort for her friend's sake. If they discovered she'd cut out early, before even giving him a fair chance, she would never hear the end of it.

"You know," he said in a husky voice as he leaned in closer, "we don't have to do 'the thing;' the thing where we talk for hours trying to get to know each other to justify jumping into bed together. It's pretty obvious you're up for it," his eyes once again drifted down towards her abundant cleavage, and she could feel her face heating in embarrassment and anger. "So how about if we just cut to the chase and go somewhere and shag like hippogriffs," and then he winked. Again.

Anyone even remotely acquainted with Hermione Granger would have recognized the signs of an imminent explosion, but Jonathan was not one of these people, and continued to dig himself a deeper hole.

"What do you say luv? Wanna get outta here?" he asked as he reached across the small table to lightly brush a finger across the top of her breast; the trigger that finally released Hermione from all attempts at civility.

She stood up so fast he almost fell off his chair, but it was the crushing grip on his hand, a grip which currently had his fingers bent almost backwards and caused him to cry out in pain, that finally got his attention, and the attention of every other patron in the pub.

"Listen here you bloody pillock," she said, her teeth clenched and her magic almost crackling around her, "I did not give you permission to touch me, I will never give you permission to touch me. You will keep your filthy hands and your delusions of adequacy to yourself, do I make myself clear? If not, I will make it so that you aren't even able to wipe your arse for the next month," she had tried to speak quietly, but knew she had attracted attention. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done for it.

"I have no idea what Harry or Ron told you about me, and rest assured I will find out, but if I never have to see you again it will be too soon, you disgusting cretin."

She threw his hand down and grabbed her cloak before storming towards the floo. She was headed to Grimmauld Place; she planned to make sure Harry knew how very ... displeased she was with his choice of date, as well as Ginny's choice of attire. Her body was tense with barely suppressed anger and the hand holding her wand was itching to hex the bloody prat.

She finally activated the floo and as she stepped through, swore she heard a low chuckle in her wake.

"HARRY JAMES POTTER, WHERE ARE YOU?" she screamed as soon as she stepped into the empty kitchen.

ooOoo

Severus Snape continued to laugh softly as he watched the red faced man dust himself off and angrily exit the pub.

Who'd have thought that he, Potion's Master, ex-Death Eater and all around sarcastic bastard, would be impressed by Hermione Granger, the mousey little know-it-all Gryffindor. The girl ... woman actually, because there was no doubt she was no longer a little girl, had taken down a man twice her size with just her small hand and a few well aimed barbs.

It was really quite entertaining.

He had noticed her when she arrived of course, hell, every red blooded male in the place had noticed her arrival, and watched in amusement as she became more and more agitated the longer she waited (it had been very apparent by the number of times she looked at her watch that she was waiting for someone).

Had he been scheduled to meet with the doe eyed beauty, he would have not kept her waiting … the sodding fool.

He had known, from the moment the pretty boy walked in the door, that he only saw her full breasts (although he could definitely commiserate with the bloke on that count) so attractively displayed; he didn't even give her a chance to showcase her even larger intellect, which, as far as Severus was concerned, was her most appealing attribute.

Not that he didn't enjoy a beautiful witch, but those vapid females were a dime a dozen. Something he had come to discover for himself after his name had been cleared and his actions during the war revealed. Women suddenly began throwing themselves at him left and right, but they all lacked what he valued more than anything; a woman that could hold an intelligent conversation and think for herself.

Hermione Granger had proven herself to be just such a woman, to his immense surprise. Unfortunately, there was too much water under the bridge for her to ever see him as anything other than the man who tormented her and her friends for seven years ... well, six actually, he had still been healing when the trio went back to finish their final year. Afterward, he had opted to cash in on some of his new found fame to start his own potion's supply company and rarely saw any of his former charges.

He was done teaching idiotic children and being subjected to someone else's rules. The only master he planned to answer to ever again was himself.

It had been nice at first, to take advantage of the plethora of available witches anxious to bed the illusive spy and acclaimed war hero, but it had gotten old very quickly. The women were all eager, easy on the eyes, and he was happy to go along for the proverbial ride. He was a man after all, a man that had not felt the heat of a woman's body in longer than he cared to remember.

So why shouldn't he reap some of the spoils of victory, as it were?

He thought he had found someone he might be interested in seeing on a regular basis, Clarissa, a renowned Cosmetic Healer from France that had caught his eye (or at least her double D's had) and she had been relatively intelligent (if somewhat vain) company, at first. She had badgered him into having his nose and teeth fixed, and after a particularly enthusiastic romp, he had grudgingly agreed. It wasn't until later, overhearing her discussing him with a fellow witch, that he discovered she had only done it so she could parade him around on her arm like a trophy at the annual Victory Ball.

He found himself surprisingly unaffected by the revelation; had politely thanked her for her services, in and out of bed, and informed her that it would be in her best interest to never contact him again. He had been led around by the nose enough in his lifetime, and had no intention of ever letting it happen again.

Especially not by a woman.

As they say: been there, done that, have the pensieve memories to prove it.

He truly had never cared what he looked like; he had always known he was not an attractive man by any stretch of the imagination, but even he was surprised at the difference a smaller nose, straight white teeth and quality hair products could make to his appearance.

Evidently many witches agreed, if the renewed attention he received as a result was anything to go by.

After a while, he discovered that not one of the women he had bedded had an intelligent thought in their heads, and when the sex was over (no matter how good it was) there has to be something else, or what's the bloody point? He didn't feel guilty for taking advantage of what was so blatantly offered, but his enthusiasm had since waned, and it had been years now since he had last bedded a woman.

Seeing Miss Granger, looking almost edible, had made him brutally aware of exactly how long it had been.

He shook his head and finished his whiskey. No sense thinking about things that would never be. He had learned that lesson the hard way as well.