Author's Note - Hi, guys. It's been a while since my last chapter, but this one seemed really difficult to write, for some reason. Again, I want to thank my lovely Beta-Reader Marston Chicklet for all her hard work and patience. ;) In regards to all the confusion of my pairing choice...I hate to give away an ending. Suffice it to say that I did put it in the category of HG/SS for a reason. ;) I hope that helps.

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kyaxskyxgoddess - Thank you very much. ;)

Nocturnal007 - Thank you. ;) Although I haven't had time yet to read your fic, I promise I will do my best to do so in the future.

septentrion and PyroSlytherin - I hope my above statement answers your question. ;)

sallene - ;) 'Preciate it.

rinny08 - Lol! I suppose he is a bit creepy. ;P

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Lucius gave the secretary a smashing look as he passed. She was pretty.

Muggle-born, no doubt.

The Weasley git would be one to take pride in such a mockery.

She did not smile back or even look up from her parchment. Typical. Five years before, she would have at least begrudgingly bid him a pleasant "good morning". Now, Lucius was oftentimes hard-pressed to illicit an acknowledgment from the free wizarding world. It seemed the weed of freewill had run roots on the establishment of hierarchy. No matter. Lucius Malfoy was a man of insurmountable means. He was certain that even he could survive in this new world.

Lucius entered without the slightest knock, gathering his robes against him. Arthur looked up from his desk, his chin sullen and his eyes glittering faintly behind the restraint of his new position. He looked exhausted. Piles of unattended papers littered the messy study of empty, upturned Butterbeers and wrappings of Chocolate Frogs and Every-Flavor Beans. Books in disarray and sticky pages flittered noisily about the room, opening and closing and bobbing up and down as if to make it pointedly clear of their discontent. And Arthur Weasley himself was a shabby, unshaven wreck in un-mended trousers and red, drooping eyes.

"Well, well," Lucius hummed, a devious flit gracing his voice. "It seems a remarkable improvement from your living conditions, at least."

"I'll have none of your tongue, Malfoy," Arthur said, dangerously. He attempted to straighten himself in his chair, retaining the final shred of dignity salvageable. He was tired and that gave him the inexplicable power of tactlessness. "We're both quite aware why I called you here."

"Are we?" Lucius asked, quirking the corners of his lips in a dashing strike.

"We are," Arthur replied. "How can you stoop so low as to attacking defenseless Muggles? Tell me, Lucius, have your ribs healed?"

Lucius visibly stiffened. Fuck you. "I'm quite sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You know quite well what I am talking about." Arthur stood, his elbows buckling from the strain as he pulled himself up by his desk. He looked as if a whisper might topple him and send him spinning like a bottle. "You also know that I will never be able to put you back in Azkaban on the testimony of three Aurors. Why Harry could kill Voldemort but we can't kill greed will always be beyond me."

Lucius grimaced. Arthur was right. He would give the remainder of his family fortune so as not to set one fair hair back in Azkaban.

"What's this about, Lucius?" The weary minister crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. "Why Hermione? What vendetta are you holding against this child?"

Images of a final battle—the Mudblood in the blood and dust carrying that pitiful symbol of a boy across a field. Crying. Mewing like a bitch. Her body buckling and dumping him at the Dark Lord. Spinning. Writhing. Darkness cultivating into oblivion. And all, at that moment, had become clear to Lucius. Harry was nothing more than a banner—a poster-child for the Order. It was she, the Mudblood, that was the clearer enemy—the defiant little impure witch daring to draw the final strings of the cause of Voldemort. She was the reason that other Mudbloods slept soundly in their beds, knowing she, the warrior lioness, was on their side of light. Granger was the torch of their campaign.

"Nothing at all." Lucius smiled. He noted, once, while looking into a mirror, that he could manipulate his smile with flecks of malice, cruelty, hatred, and even understanding and that each separate emotion was distinct and decipherable.

By the evidence on Arthur's face that the old boy knew something was coming, Lucius decided it was the right time to enact his plan. "Weasley," he spat the word distastefully, "I feel that I am rather on an extreme to the contrary. Perhaps I should divulge my own particular design for Ms Granger."

This was his particularly favorite idea. But hell, there was always Plan B...

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The Christmas Ball was one week away and Hermione was already frustrated beyond belief.

Without the objects in her possession, it was almost impossible to research them. She sighed and tossed another volume on enchanted clothing across the room, a flicker of satisfaction on her face as it caused a resounding thud through the common room. Her body sank lower into the chair, her legs tucked beneath her and her arms flanked with a quilt that Mrs. Weasley had sent her last Christmas. It was a beautiful tapestry depicting the Burrow in autumn when the leaves just began to singe a warm orange and red skies draped overhead through a screen of smoke billowing out the Weasley chimney. It felt warm and good and smelt of Molly's hand oil and the apples she pealed for her famous pastries.

Often, Hermione wondered what it might have been like to have grown up in the Burrow—Arthur and Molly were wonderful parents. Once, she had seen them dancing together in the quiet evening when everyone else had gone to bed and the record player gilded soft lyrics of past days and long love. They held one another so close and looked so perfectly made for the other.

Her parents were dentists. They never danced. The only thing they did together was floss.

She had yet gone to see them as Dumbledore had not given his consent.

"Too dangerous," he had said, and then nothing else.

Her time so far had been spent Christmas shopping—a thing which, even though she would be loath to admit it, excited her greatly. It was the only real shopping she enjoyed. So far, she had been able to purchase a new set of dress robes for Ginny that easily transformed into a variety of colors and lengths, a set of embossed combs for Harry (the untamed cowlick was soon to be tackled), a new kit of oils and brushes for Ron's broom, a bottle of lavender cologne for Neville, and, something which would be given in secret, a pair of leather flying gloves for Draco. Hermione was still determined to see what Harry saw in Malfoy.

But, perhaps her most cherished purchase was her gift for Remus. While visiting Flourish & Blotts, Hermione had found a lovely little contraption that had instantly made her think of the professor. It was a small, wooden box in which was kept a silver set of sewing needles and a spool of thread that would turn any color and which had been spelled to refill itself. The entire kit had been spelled, actually, to mend any tear magically. Hermione would have loved to stitch Remus' tattered wardrobe personally, but, somehow, she could never bring herself to ask. Partly because she didn't want to make him uncomfortable.

Also, partly because she found it difficult to speak while his mouth was on her own.

Three weeks had passed since their first kiss and not an evening gone that Remus hadn't found the opportunity to enjoy her mouth further. Hermione knew quite well that she was in love with him. She had hoped that he might soon confess his own feelings. For now, they were quite content with holding one another and exploring the pleasure of their other's kiss. Afterwards, on the small couch, they would talk about books and spells and Hermione's life with her Muggle family. They did not discuss Remus' past and Hermione knew well to treat that subject tenderly. In fact, it was only a few days until the next full moon.

The other occupant of her time had been present during her visits to the dungeon to see the progress of the detecting potion. Surprisingly enough, Snape had even allowed her a handful of questions regarding the properties of the concoction and had answered them fully with cool professionalism. Furthermore, Hermione was even permitted to add the few remaining ingredients to the potion that very evening. One week more and she would have her answer.

She tried very hard not to pay any further thought as to the identity of the giver.

The young woman sighed and rose from her chair, letting the blanket fall back onto the cushion. She stretched her arms above her head and arched her back as she yawned. Satisfied, she pulled her heavy winter robe over her sweater and jeans and flipped open the portal from her chambers into the quiet castle hallway. Casually, she descended one staircase, then another, and through endless tunnels of cold stone and the glances of the portraits as she passed. She thought about Remus and the stolen kiss after dinner in the darkness beneath the stairs. He was such a passionate man. Had Hermione not complained of fatigue, their session might have lasted hours. Days. Weeks of bliss could be spent inside those lips, she thought.

Hermione paused to catch a breath. She was feeling so tired, lately. The holiday season was running her ragged.

As she reached the entrance to the classroom, she took a second to tie her wild mane into a loose bun-it was necessary when lingering over preciously full cauldrons. She knocked patiently and was rewarded with a starch "Enter" before proceeding into the room.

She was greeted, then, with a very sour-looking potions master.

He lingered over the foul-smelling concoction, greasy tips of soot-black hair bending unhappily over the smoking bowl. His unwashed beak was pinched between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. An unnatural grinding sound was radiating from his mouth.

Hermione stepped cautiously towards him. "P-professor Snape?"

Snape, very slowly, rose up from the cauldron, a comfortable smirk settled on his face. "Miss Granger," he said, low. "How nice of you to find time in your busy schedule for this little expedition."

The girl gave him a queer look but said nothing. Instead, she was busied with collecting several vials of ingredients as the professor motioned irritably towards them. Hermione brought them to their work table. "It's wolf hair tonight, isn't it, professor?"

Snape gave her an incredulous look. "How have you found the time to study, Miss Granger?" he mocked. "You've been rather occupied as of late."

"Professor?"

What the hell is he talking about? she thought.

He leaned closer towards her until she could smell his neck-it smelt of sulfur. She thought only the devil could smell like that. Or Voldemort.

"Perhaps yourself and Professor Lupin might find it prudent to steer clear of dark corners beneath staircases." His lips seemed to coil—they threatened to strike.

Hermione was piqued. Color drained from her face and pooled red and warm into her stomach. Her hands trembled like her breath.

"Is something the matter, Miss Granger?" Snape returned casually to the potion. "I had quite got the impression that you were an exhibitionist."

The girl said nothing. What was there to say? She could not defend herself nor justify her actions to someone as colorless as Snape. What good would come of her declaring her love for Remus? It would only serve to amuse the insufferable git.

"Leave me." Snape retreated into his work. "Your effects are on the last table—there." His gaze flickered quickly onto a black bag near the door. "Take them. They're bothersome trinkets."

Hermione lingered for a second more, only to have Snape ignore her completely. She bit her lip. Hesitantly, she turned and left, taking care to retrieve the bag. She did not run or cry. She did not give him the satisfaction.

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Dumbledore placed his old, heavy hands on the desk. His sigh was a gust of wind through the tangle of his beard. "Arthur, my dear boy, what are you proposing?"

Arthur fiddled with his cap as he sat in the chair before the headmaster's desk, the evening stars visible in the small, castle window. Candlelight gave the room a warm and constant glow. "There are ways, Albus," he said, "but I do not think that they are much better. Perhaps if Harry—"

"You are quite aware of Harry's predicament," Albus stated. He could see the soft glow of embarrassment on the ragged Minister's cheeks. "And, while Ronald would have made a fine choice, I am also aware that you do not have the capability yet, friend."

Arthur's jaw tensed. "Damn the law, Albus. I do not see why loans cannot be made."

"The choices of our ancestors may seem inappropriate at times," replied the old man, "but it has always been our job to update our laws. The fault is our own, I'm afraid."

"Lucius is mad." Arthur stood. He seemed to be twitching in every joint as he circled the office and paused as a shadow before the fireplace. "What is it about her, Albus? Why does Lucius seek his revenge on her?"

Albus pushed up from the chair, his body clearly defiant against the sudden movement. His bones felt hollow and porous. "I'm afraid you know the only solution, Arthur. I am aware of your particular feelings regarding Se—"

"He's a bastard, Albus." Arthur froze, shutting his eyes in apology. "I mean to say... She does not deserve to be put in that situation just as she does not deserve to belong to Lucius."

"No, she does not." Albus crossed the carpet towards the fire, his arms behind him. He peered from his spectacles to the orange glow and to the man beside him. "But I believe, Arthur, that he does."

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Severus watched.

Her eyes were heavy, the lids forming a perfect crescent moon. The nightgown was white against her fair skin-she appeared soft and magical. The spell was stronger this time. The urge to wear the slippers and the earrings before the vanity mirror drew her from sleep and into this peaceful state between reality and dream. The box was placed before her with the carvings of the Catholic siège

Damn her, he thought as he held the repaired mirror.

Unfortunately for Severus, there was only one man to hate for this, beside himself. She could no more be blamed for seeking companionship than Severus could for seeking her.

Thank God, he thought, for only one more week.