Chapter Four

The Cushioning Charm was not as good as the one she had cast the night of the Yule Ball, the last time she had worn really high heels. Hermione bit her lip and adjusted the grip on her wand. She pointed at her feet once more, tracing the symbols with mind-crunching intent. The charm strengthened, and her feet rode a little easier in the strappy five-inchers.

She sighed in relief and wriggled her toes. The shoes Draco had chosen to go with her dress robes looked wonderful, but after two years in canvas prison shoes, Hermione found the stilettos were sadistically painful, and impossible to get used to, even with a Cushioning charm. She had already turned her ankle once while in her flat; she couldn't afford a faux pas like that in public.

Regarding herself in the floor-length mirror, Hermione adjusted her bra strap, applied another layer of lip gloss, and left the women's washroom. As she made her way back to the main staging area for the evening's ball, she longed for the safe haven of her broom cupboard of an office. Alas, that was not to be; according to the Minister, she had a lot of schmoozing to do.

She entered the main area of Shacklebolt Hall, the seat of Kingsley Shacklebolt's family since the mid-nineteenth century, when his family fled the Caribbean and its superstitions and persecutions to make their way in England. Judging from the manor, they had succeeded and thrived here, until the final war destroyed the family and ended the Shacklebolt family line.

It was a modest, but very tasteful house. With a pang of sorrow, Hermione pictured Kingsley here, hands on hips, looking tall and imposing and regal. He had been a true warrior, but now all the warriors were gone. In their place were these shifty-eyed politicians, diplomats and sycophants. With a bitter smile, she realised she was in the latter category. Lovely.

Fairy lights hung over every doorway, corner and table. They festooned the ceiling and even looped around the portraits and fireplaces. Hermione's nose wrinkled in distaste. Dolores Umbridge, she thought. Only Umbridge would take a simple, elegant space and turn it into a fraternity common room. Gods, the woman was the scourge of good taste.

"Feeling better?" A familiar voice asked from behind. Hermione turned with a smile. Draco and Blaise were returning from the loo as well, and judging from the hazy look in Draco's eyes, they had been using a Cushioning Charm as well, for a rather more enjoyable reason.

Hermione smiled at the couple. They looked like they should be on some illustration for Pureblood perfection; two demi-gods who'd decided to go slumming for the evening. "I'm hanging in there," she said, trying not to shout over the music and din of voices.

Hanging in there was about right. The music was overly loud, which meant the hosts were trying to kill conversation and encourage the guests to drink and eat more, but the combination of music, liquor, lights and rich food made Hermione feel a little queasy.

"Well, you look absolutely beautiful," Blaise said, saluting her with his champagne flute.

Hermione beamed at him. Blaise was rather beautiful himself, now that she took a closer look. Six foot one, built like a brick shithouse, he had the wide shoulders and trim hips of a Quidditch player, but the rugged good looks of a movie star. He pampered Draco shamelessly. It was small wonder Draco adored him.

"I agree," Draco said, clinking his glass with his partner's. "Lovely frock, by the way. You must give us the name of your fashion consultant," he added with a devilish little smile.

"If I do, will you hex him for suggesting these shoes? I'm going to be limping around like a gnome by the end of the evening. And don't tell me to use Cushioning Charms because I already have," she added warningly.

Draco cast a surreptitious spell toward Hermione's feet. Instantly they felt a hundred percent better. "Thanks," she replied gratefully. Gods, it would be a great day indeed when she could rid herself of this wand and get one that actually worked properly.

"Don't mention it," Draco answered with a smile. He stiffened slightly, and unconsciously stepped back toward Blaise. "Are you enjoying your evening, Father?"

Hermione turned to see a flute of champagne being offered to her from Lucius' outstretched hand. "Very much, Draco." His smile never quite made it to his eyes. "Your mother has been asking for you. Why don't you and Mr. Zabini take her a glass of champagne?" He turned to Hermione and his eyes briefly flicked over her in a way that made her wish she'd bought dress robes with a more modest neckline. "She's been cornered by Madame Umbridge, and I'm sure she'd appreciate being rescued, don't you think?"

Draco and Blaise took the hint, after giving Hermione sympathetic looks. Draco's was particularly pensive, and Hermione felt even more exposed after the two younger men left.

She turned back to her benefactor and gave him her practiced, winning smile. Minister Malfoy had been treating her differently all night: friendlier, more familiar, less the Minister and more the man. It made Hermione uneasy. Ever since the speeches and the congratulations and toasts made and drunk, the Minister had been looking at her strangely, as if he'd never quite seen her before.

Her speech had gone extremely well...her best yet, she thought. Talking to people had never been much of a hardship for her, but then again, knowing failure meant a one-way ticket back to prison was a hell of an incentive to perform well.

"As I look out onto this sea of people this evening, do you know what I see?" She had begun. "I see the greatest Wizarding nation on this planet," she answered, her voice powerful and passionate. Many had looked at her obliquely, as if unsure they should agree with her or not. "Ours is the nation of Merlin, of Nimue, of Morgana. We are the nation of Lord Voldemort!"

The crowd applauded. She waited as they watched her, wondering if she believed what she was saying, or was just mouthing the party line. For her sake, she hoped that they thought she was sincere. She changed her stance, and lowered her voice, so that they leaned in closer to hear. "I know that I was not born into the history that many families here tonight share. I realise that the great and powerful Pureblood families of Wizarding Britain represent the world's finest.

"Isn't it fitting then, the Nation that gave the world Merlin and Lord Voldemort should encourage its citizens to embrace all that Wizarding Britain has to offer, by urging them to remain here, for their children and their children's children to enjoy the finest Magical education that our civilisation has to offer? Isn't it fitting, that the greatest Nation on earth is the vanguard for the world in Wizarding values and harmony between all its Magical citizens?

"I urge you to speak to your families, your friends, your loved ones, and reassure them: we are here for you. Wizarding Britain is never going to let you down, never going to forget how important you are, never going to take you for granted." She raised a glass to the assembled. "Welcome home, Wizarding Britain, welcome home!"

As the applause died down, Lucius posed with her for the Prophet, telling anyone who would listen how pleased he was that Draco and Hermione's generation had set the standard for the future of their kind by ushering in a new dawn of enlightenment. Hermione had stood there, smiling, being passed around like one of Lucius' trinkets, feeling soiled by his implications that she had somehow helped the Dark Lord win the war. At least he was not mentioning Harry's name.

And it helped that Voldemort himself was not at the ball. Locked away in his massive mansion, the Dark Lord and conqueror surrounded himself with his favourites. He had finally stretched forth his hand and made Bellatrix Lestrange his consort, thus freeing her and her husband from one another. Now, they ruled together from afar, rarely seeing anyone, but rather relaying the Dark Lord's edicts through go-betweens and other drones like Percy Weasley. Rumours spoken in very quiet conversations hinted at Bellatrix's worsening psychosis, and the Dark Lord's increasing paranoia. Voldemort, like Alexander the Great, seemed at a loss now that he had no more worlds to conquer. The gods sometimes punish us by answering our prayers, Arthur used to say, when referring to Percy.

And so Hermione had smiled and blushed prettily at his side as Lucius preened during the evening, and had dutifully joined him on the dance floor as his second dance partner...after his lovely wife, of course.

"So, Miss Granger, another triumph. You should be very pleased," he had drawled, moving with her gracefully across the floor.

"I am, sir," she replied demurely, her eyes locked on the silver buttons of his immaculate robes. "I'm particularly glad to have pleased you."

"Of course you have, dear girl," he purred, and the hand on her waist changed position imperceptibly. Suddenly she could feel his entire palm pressing against her ribs. "I couldn't be happier. Well, I could, but," he rewarded her with a lazy smirk, "perhaps that is for a more private conversation."

Hermione's face grew numb. She had been expecting something like this, had probably unconsciously wondered why it hadn't happened sooner. It was one thing, though, to think your boss might make a play, it was quite another to hear the national anthem just before the kickoff.

Lucius lowered his head until his lips practically grazed her ear. She shuddered, which only seemed to amuse him. "Remember, you have complete run of the Ministry office. My staff requested it to expedite working with you on your speeches. But if you should ever feel the desire to speak to me about anything, you have only to drop by, my dear. Anytime."

He gave her one last squeeze before releasing her. "Ah, there's the Polish Ambassador for the Wizarding Court of St. James. I must have a quick word with him." Lucius smiled down at her, ever the opportunist. "We've had a large contingent of families move to Poland in the last few months. I've been working to find a way to encourage him to persuade our people to return to Britain." He became all business. "Why don't you use that considerable charm and ask him to dance, my dear? I'm sure your powers of persuasion could be used to aid us in our cause."

Receiving the message loud and clear, Hermione nodded, and the Minister escorted her from the dance floor to the Ambassador's side. He was a short, balding man who seemed thrilled to dance with the young lady who was the talk of the evening. He'd eaten a great deal of garlic prawns at the buffet.

After extricating herself, Hermione danced with Draco and then Blaise, and was just settling in with an a minor dignitary of some note when she heard a familiar voice.

"Excuse me. May I cut in, Mr. Rotherhyde?"

Her partner, who'd been a lovely conversationalist, looked up in annoyance, a refusal on his lips. When he saw his rival, however, he blanched and relinquished Hermione with all the charm of a hot potato. Hermione turned to face the newcomer, ready to do battle.

"Well, well, well. Severus Snape."

"I see your powers of observation are still as sharp as ever," he drawled, and held out his arms in the attitude of the dance. She hesitated, wanting more than anything to say no, to feel some deep satisfaction of denying him, of all wizards. One silken eyebrow rose; it was a blatant challenge to her, and she wished she had the luxury of spitting in his face and stamping on his feet to show him what she thought of his arrogance. Instead, she pasted on her practiced smile, and allowed herself to be drawn into his arms.

The music was slow and dreamy, and they floated together effortlessly. The hand that held hers was large and warm, and the one gripping her waist strong and confident, knowing and proprietary.

They danced in silence, even as the tension between them ratcheted skyward. "Why aren't you dead?" she said finally, as the slow dance propelled them into the middle of the dance floor. "How is it that so many good people have died and you aren't one of them?"

"Am I to take from that question that you consider me one of those 'good people,' Miss Granger? In that case, I thank you for your compliment."

"It wasn't a compliment and you know it," she bit back, looking around for someone, anyone, to cut in and rid her of his presence.

Snape, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy her discomfort. "Well, I will say, the Ministry does make for some interesting bedfellows," he drawled, and Hermione looked up into the eyes of the man she swore she never wanted to see again.

He looked better dressed and groomed than his Hogwarts days, when she had last seen him. His dress robes were beautifully tailored, setting off his slender figure. A deep midnight blue, they were topped with a stunning silk sash as wide as her hand, brocaded in the same colour thread. She risked a look at his face, falling into those black, black eyes, so deep and luminous they seem to engulf whole worlds within. They had always mesmerised her, those dark eyes; they were at once incredibly expressive, and maddeningly unreadable.

His hair was longer than she remembered; it spilled down from his widow's peak and over his shoulders like black rain, shiny and iridescent in the multi-coloured fairy lights. His large, hooked nose and thin-lipped, sardonic mouth looked the same, however; and for a moment, she was little Hermione Granger again, desperately wanting his approval.

"Turning your coat obviously becomes you," she quipped, hating the nasty tone in her voice. "It's given you a cushy job in the Diplomatic service, not to mention all the prestige and power you ever wanted." She cast a glance over at the lovely blonde witch she'd seen on his arm earlier. "I see it's even bought you a trophy date for the evening."

Snape followed her gaze over to the edge of the dance floor, then nodded to the blonde, who sketched her perfectly manicured lips into a slight pout. It was clearly a parody of a kiss, and Severus turned back to Hermione, a secret smile on his lips. "Yes, Diana is quite lovely, isn't she?"

"At least she looks old enough not to be taken advantage of by predators like you."

Her words wiped the smile from his face. He sneered, "You knew what you were doing."

Hermione hated him in that moment. She wanted to hex him, flatten him to the ground and dig her impossibly high heels right into his...

"Oh, yes, that's why I let you..." Hermione forced her temper down, swallowing it like bile. "So am I to take it that this is love?"

His eyes grew brightly malicious. "Of course it's not love, but," he looked down at Hermione and purred, "it doesn't have to be. Two consenting adults can have a physical relationship without going through a charade of pretending unending devotion, or even trust. Perhaps one day you'll be old enough to understand that."

"That must be a relief for you, I'm sure. Seeing as love is something you've shown to be incapable of giving or receiving. I'm sure when I'm as old as you, I will have had many years to practice lying about it," she replied, her voice level and measured. He shot her a strange look, which she couldn't quite define, then looked back over her shoulder toward the Minister's table.

"Your speech was quite stirring," he said, his rich voice reverberating between them. "One would almost believe you meant every word you said."

Unable to meet his eye, she stared down at an ornate silver pin on his breast. It was a head of Medusa cameo, wrought in silver and obviously very old and very valuable. She idly wondered which dead wizard's spoils had yielded that trinket to the victors. Stubbornly, she willed herself to say the words. "Of course. I mean every word I say." She made herself look up again. "I have always meant every word I say, Snape."

He sneered faintly. "Of course. A paragon of Gryffindor integrity. Some might say the very last."

Hermione felt a great lump of ice form in the pit of her stomach. She had never been able to match his callous cruelty. "Why are you doing this?" she whispered, and to her surprise, he pulled her closer, his warmth enclosing her, protecting and smothering her at once.

"Doing what? I'm merely stating that you seem to be singing a different tune than the one you sang with me," he hissed, his lips close to her ear. His body was warm against hers, a deep, familiar weight that pressed against her heart.

"I'm not the one who lied to everyone about his loyalties," she shot back, trying to pull away. He denied her, and held her fast against him, as if it were a punishment.

He chuckled in her ear, a low, dangerous sound that made her shiver. "I'm not the one who was sleeping with the enemy, my dear."

She began to breathe hard, trying to stem the tears that threatened to spill. She had to get away from him or she would make a fool of herself. Once again, she tried to push him away, but he was too strong. "Careful, Miss Granger! All eyes are upon you tonight. Is this really the time to make a scene?"

Suddenly, it was all too much. The speech, the overly-rich food, her aching feet, and now this contempt. "Do we have to do this, Severus?" When he did not reply, she added, "To be perfectly honest, I'm tired, my feet hurt and I'm a little overwhelmed. Hearing you gloat over my misfortunes and foolish choices is just one step too far."

"It's going to take a little more begging than that to convince me of your sincerity, Hermione," he intoned, his voice angry and cutting. "Where is that oh-so-famous Gryffindor sense of honor? Why would you do such a Slytherin thing and bargain your way out of Azkaban just to become a whore for the Ministry? Did prison change you that much?"

"Prison changed everything," she hissed with sudden venom. "If the war had gone the other way, you might know that first-hand, Snape." When he didn't reply, she closed her eyes. "Whatever. Just let me go, please."

"Can't wait to get back to your generous benefactor, eh?" He stepped back, and led her off the dance floor, his fingers on the small of her back. As his hand fell away, he turned to her, his dark eyes hard and pitiless. "Go ahead, then, Hermione. Run back to Lucius. But I warn you, he gets bored very easily." His black gaze swept over her body, his mouth twisted in contempt. "Today, you're his golden girl. One little slip, and you're the Prophet at the bottom of a birdcage."

Hermione turned, feeling as if she were drowning. She had to get out of the room. She needed air. As she moved away, she heard Diana's plaintive voice. "Oh, Severus, you promised to introduce me! I thought you said you knew her." Hermione glanced over to see Diana possessively clutch Snape's arm. Even her pout was gorgeous.

Snape looked up and met Hermione's eyes. He turned his attention back to his companion, and put his arm around her tiny waist. "I'm sorry, pet. I was mistaken."

Hermione started for the exit. She was fucked if she was going to stay another minute.

"Ah, Miss Granger, there you are!" She turned to find the Minister beckoning to her. He and a portly wizard were standing by the door. "Fancy old Severus monopolising your time, when the Editor of the Daily Prophet is pining to speak with you," Lucius remarked. He was looking at her with a mixture of suspicion and cool disapproval that made Hermione's already-churning stomach cramp. She had the overwhelming feeling he had missed nothing of the encounter between her and Snape.

The other wizard, however, was beaming at her, and Hermione rewarded him with the smile she'd been coached to produce on command. It was cheery and warm and fooled almost everyone except herself. "How do you do, Mr. Postlethwaite. Are you enjoying the evening?"

"Indubitably, my dear, indubitably!" The wizard enthused.

"Excuse me, won't you, Miss Granger?" Lucius interrupted smoothly. "I think one of my deputies is trying to get my attention." He left them alone, and Mr. Posthethwaite and Hermione exchanged a self-conscious glance.

"It was a lovely speech," he said, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence.

"Thank you," she said, her smile firmly plastered in place.

Another moment drifted by. Dancers glided by like swans, and Hermione stared longingly at the bar, wanting something hard but not daring to. If she was going to have to deal with this...

"I understand that you saw Arthur Weasley in his last days."

Her eyes snapped back to Mr. Postlethwaite. There was none of the jolly fat man about him now. He was all business. Uncertain, she looked around.

"This is entirely off the record, my dear. Arthur was a good friend of mine," he said, lips barely moving behind his raised glass. "How badly was he treated...as a blood traitor?"

She stiffened. This was the editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet. "Mr. Postlethwaite, if I were to be quoted, it could cost more than just my job."

He looked upset. "This isn't about the paper, dear girl! This is about a friend of mine who was jailed for being...why hello, Mr. Brewster! Have you met the Witch of the Hour?"

Hermione smiled at yet another wizard who had spoken to her earlier in the evening. Troubled by Mr. Postlethwaite's remarks, she turned back as Mr. Brewster nodded, spoke a few words and moved on. She saw the Minister talking to Snape, and as if they sensed her, both men looked up at her almost at the same time. Hastily she turned back to her companion.

"Look, I'm not sure I can tell you anything new, but he died of a heart attack. It was a couple of days before the Minister approached me."

Postlethwaite looked pensive. "His poor wife had died right before he went to prison...of a broken heart, if you ask me. And he was survived by two sons, I believe: Percy ... and Ronald."

Hermione felt the last vestiges of her self-control fracturing. In a moment, her shredded nerves would snap and she would do something from which she could not recover. Her voice shook as she replied, "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're trying to do but I really don't want to talk about Ronald Weasley to anyone. He's with relatives now, which is all anybody can do for him."

Shaking, she placed her hand on the door handle and made to leave.

"No, Miss Granger," Postlethwaite replied, surprise in his voice. "Ronald Weasley is in St. Mungo's."

Hermione stared at him. "What? I thought he was at the Burrow with his father before Arthur was incarcerated."

His voice was warm with concern. "Oh, my dear Miss Granger, it has been too long since you have heard news of your friend. As you remember, he received an unknown, very serious hex during the quashed rebellion."

Hermione made herself nod. She hated the way the Order was referred to as 'the rebellion.' Postlethwaite continued, "His mental instability steadily deteriorated over time, but Arthur refused to have him committed. Well, when Arthur was sent to Azkaban, the poor boy completely fell apart. Finally, he ... he burned down the family home."

Hermione felt the floor tilt beneath her feet, and she grabbed Mr. Postlethwaite's arm for support. She closed her eyes, praying for just one more minute of strength. The Burrow had been her home away from home. She had hoped to return to it one day. And now it was gone.

The editor nodded. "He was committed soon after, of course, so as not to be a danger to himself or others. The poor boy," he murmured. "He doesn't even know where or who he is most of the time. A sad, sad thing. A waste of fine old Wizarding stock, even if he was part of the rebel..."

"Thank you, Mr. Postlethwaite. Thank you for telling me." she said brokenly.

He looked very concerned. "Of course my dear," he said kindly. "Although I'm surprised you didn't know. Of course, we at the Prophet don't print these sad stories very often. It's not our place to benefit from others' misfortune, you know."

She swallowed back a sound of derision. Postlethwaite patted her arm. "I'm told he is greatly cheered by visitors, although he receives very few now. Only family and friends are allowed on his ward, and since Percy Weasley is the only living relative, well..." He gave a little shrug, as if the sentence finished itself.

Her heart felt heavy, but she hitched up her smile again. "I'll go see him first thing tomorrow. I appreciate you trying to help me."

He waved a chubby hand in the air dismissively. "Think nothing of it. Happy to help one of my oldest friend's few remaining children." He smiled, then made a gesture, as if suddenly receiving an idea. "Oh, and if you do decide to go and visit him, my dear, would you be willing to grant the Prophet an exclusive interview afterward?"

Hermione froze and looked at him stupidly. He nodded enthusiastically. "I mean, can you imagine how much our readers would love to be a fly on that wall, the poignant, tearful reunion of the last living members of the Golden Trio? I can see the headlines now!" He swept his arm from one side of his fat body to the other, as if spelling out his front page story. "The Golden Girl and the Lost Boy...two sides of the war! Your popularity would rise into the stratosphere!"

She turned on her heel and strode out of the ballroom. Let the fucking Minister ride her for walking out early. If she had to stay in the same room as Postlethwaite, Malfoy and Snape one more moment, she was sure she was going to rupture something.

Pansy was outside, smoking a fag while chatting up a large black wizard with a green mohawk.

"Did you know Ronald Weasley was in St. Mungo's?" Hermione demanded without preamble.

Pansy took a deep drag of her cigarette and blew a plume of grey smoke into the air. She shrugged indifferently. "Yes. I heard he was taken there after his dad was shipped off to Azkaban and he burnt down that hovel of theirs."

Hermione stared at her, too stunned to speak. Finally, she found her voice. "Why didn't you tell me? You said I was the last Order member."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "No, I said no Order members were at large. They're all either dead ... or they don't have all their Gobstones in one pouch."

She turned back to her companion, who seemed to be weighing the possibilities of getting Pansy on his flying carpet. "Now, pretty lady," he said, his voice like dark rum. He smiled, flashing impossibly white teeth against his blue-black skin. "Allow me to take you on a ride. I can show you the rings around the moon."

"Take me home," Hermione said, interrupting Pansy in mid-pull. The dark-haired girl looked at Hermione with narrowed eyes.

"It's too early," she retorted. "Go back and have some more champagne." She dismissed Hermione and turned back to the green-haired wizard.

Hermione immediately threw up her hand, and a three-decker, purple bus shrieked to a halt in front of the mansion. She gave Pansy a threatening look. "Either take me home or explain to the Minister why I went home on the bloody Knight Bus."

After Hermione left his side, Severus felt capable of breathing easier. Seeing her here was bad enough, but he'd steeled himself for that. Then, he had gone and destroyed everything he'd prepared himself over by cutting in and dancing with her. That had been an exercise in the type of masochism he'd thought himself long past indulging.

It hadn't helped that Lucius, sniffing out weakness like a shark smelling blood in water, had cornered him shortly afterward.

"So, the former professor dancing with the former student," he drawled, and together they looked up to see Hermione watching them carefully. "The rose has bloomed, hasn't she?" Lucius murmured in his ear. Severus made himself turn away and face his old colleague.

"It seemed the correct thing to do, as we are both working on the same Ministry-sanctioned initiative," Severus replied neutrally, trying to force himself to look at something, anything but her. "I'll admit that, amazingly, she hasn't changed that much. Azkaban didn't seem to leave any lasting impressions."

Lucius snorted. "Believe me, it left an impression. She's surprisingly vulnerable. My sources tell me of nightmares she suffers. The occasional panic attacks that she tries to hide in the female lav." He smiled possessively. "But she is a beauty, you cannot deny it, Severus. You, who observes everything, must have noticed how lovely she has become."

"I noticed her," he replied, stonily, wondering where this conversation was leading. If Lucius suspected...

"And simply begging for attention. She's obviously looking for someone to take her firmly in hand. A father figure, perhaps. A daddy, even." Severus casually followed the line of Lucius' gaze. Hermione was engaged in a very intense conversation with that man from the Prophet. That talentless hack, Pritchart Postlethwaite. "I've been working very hard with Miss Granger to help her express herself in the manner befitting a rising star of the Ministry. She's a very, very quick learner."

Severus looked at Lucius, hating his smug smile, the way his eyes roamed over Hermione. It sickened him, mainly because he, too, had looked at her with covetous eyes. Seeing the familiar look of conquest in his eyes made Severus want to smash his handsome face in.

He kept his voice deceptively casual. "A quick learner, eh? Have you taught her how to duck Narcissa's hexes when she finds out?" Severus asked. "Because you'll be the one seeing rising stars if she learns about all these so-called 'private lessons.'"

Lucius looked at him, genuine surprise in his eyes. "Why Severus, you sound positively concerned over my welfare. Haven't I told you time and again that the mark of a good politician is knowing how to cover one's tracks?"

Severus looked toward where Hermione was standing, trying to ascertain for himself if Lucius had just been baiting him, or if he really had gotten his leg over. Somehow, he knew he'd be able to read it in her stance, her eyes. But she had quit the ballroom.

Telling himself he was relieved, Severus looked around for his escort, who was chatting with a group of harpies in the guise of wives of several Ministry officials. She caught his eye, extricated herself from the crones and approached him, a smile of invitation on her perfect lips.

"You look a little tense, Your Excellency," she purred playfully, her long-nailed finger toying with the ornate pin at his breast. "Why don't we go to your place for a little relaxation therapy, hmm?"

Severus regarded her. She was a lovely witch: tall, leggy, built for speed, and she looked like she wanted it. But behind those eyes were things he didn't like; avarice, shallow calculation. She was in it for what Snape could do for her, not what they could share.

She was a dead cert as far as the sex was concerned. It might even be good. Some of the things she'd whispered in his ear on the dance floor had made him grateful for his voluminous dress robes, but still...

"Perhaps some other night, my dear. I am swamped with work, and the Minister will have my head if I don't get my reports in tomorrow. Please forgive me." He sketched a bow, kissed her hand, and left her, ignoring her look of disappointment as he strode toward the front doors.