I was leaving this chapter to brew overnight, but then I thought...nah. So here's the next instalment a little earlier than promised.

And thank you for all the reviews, faves and follows!

Hermione lost herself to the music, to the dance and to Severus Snape. The thrum of need scorched under skin. And for waltz after waltz, her gaze fixed on his heated, obsidian eyes. They didn't speak. She didn't dare… And she didn't let herself think. Simply feel the…assurance he'd given her. A promise of pleasure.

She couldn't stop the delicious shiver that raced through her.

"They will call for supper soon." A dark twist to Severus' mouth said the promise was sharp in his mind too. He spun a graceful end to their waltz, though he didn't release her, his arm still sure around her waist. "And it appears," he drew his finger through a long curl that had broken free of Gret's fierce styling, "that I have worked you hard."

His mouth dipped to her ear. "I don't want to tire you out completely. Not yet."

Hermione bit down a smile. "Evil man."

He stood back and offered her his arm. His eyebrow lifted. "As you say."

They moved through the guests, more than one sneering gaze flicking over her ribbon. Hermione met their disdain with the imperious bearing of a queen, her lips curled into a mysterious smile. Some part of her mind knew she was channelling Severus. And from his sly smirk, the wizard whose arm she held knew it too.

"My little protégé."

His whisper caught her breath and brought yet more warmth to her heated cheeks...as Draco Malfoy slipped from the bustle of guests knotting before an arched doorway. Goyle and Crabbe hung behind him, his familiar, hulking pets. Leers twisted their heavy features, whilst Draco tried to emulate his father. All elegance and style. He failed.

Lucius Malfoy was an animal, a predator. Even as Hermione loathed him, she had to recognise that fact. He was to admired in the same way as a big jungle cat. Sleek, beautiful, but best met when the beast was caught behind heavy bars. Draco, even in his expensive finery, sculpted features and white-blond hair, was more of a housecat. Still, she should be wary. Even a tabby had claws.

"Uncle." Draco bowed. "Father has been looking for you." His lip curled. "For both of you."

"I'm sure he can find me, Draco. I am hardly…inconspicuous."

His godson huffed a laugh, but then his nose wrinkled and his grey gaze slid over her in a slow assessment. He snapped his eyes back to hers and she fought the wince at the exaggerated lust in his eyes. "And of course who would not take note of Hermione—"

Draco blinked and swallowed, his throat bobbing against the sharp stab of a wand. A flash of red cut across the top of his cheeks, his mouth gaping. The tip of the wand turned in his skin and he grimaced.

"Miss Granger is a Ribboned-Witch, boy." Severus voice was cool and quiet. The wizard at his most dangerous. "The wearing of the ribbon is a sacred honour. You know that. Try to remember your manners in future." His wand vanished back into his robes. "Now, please excuse us."

The three Slytherins scrambled from their path, and Hermione and Severus left the ball room into the relative calm of a smaller hall. Witches and wizards milled, the noise of the main room lessened. Hermione was unwilling to break the silence that pushed up between them. The stress Severus had placed with Draco—

Her stomach flipped. A Magister had introduced Draco to the art of sex. Hermione shuddered away from the thought of Draco being…intimate with anyone… Yet another foul thought on a foul night. Was every event, every ball and party, going to be as awful? Had Severus put himself in danger by threatening Lucius' son?

"Hermione…" Severus let out a slow breath and escorted her down a short set of stairs to yet another hall. Sconces flickered over two great doors set on either side of the odd-shaped room and danced shadows over peering portraits. He flicked a quick muffliato and his lips twitched upwards. "Don't be concerned. There is still hope for Draco. For all his posturing, he is not his father."

"Lucius is the threat."

"Lucius is always the threat." Severus ended the charm. "The ladies dressing room is here on the left. Allow a house-elf to attend you." He eased her arm free and the loss of his warmth, his touch formed a hollow in her chest. "I will wait for you here."

"I'm not going anywhere without you." Her gaze flicked over the ornate ceiling, perfect and beautiful…and with the sour stink of death cut into its magic. It was a hateful place. "Not here."

His thumb stroked a slow line across her lips and she smiled against the light touch. "We will never come here again."

"Another promise?"

Severus frowned at her, but humour shone in his endless eyes. "I seem to be making far too many of those to you."

Hermione willed herself to step back from him. He was completely addictive. "But Severus Snape is a man who always keeps his promises…"

His smile was wicked. "Yes. Yes, I do."

The humour in his eyes had burned into something darker, hotter and Hermione's pulse spiked. Damn, she had to get away before she jumped him in front of some old hag of a witch. Hardly the sign of an elegant and cultured witch.

She slipped into the dressing room and closed the heavy door on Severus' heated gaze. She resisted the very unladylike urge to sink her forehead against the wood and give in to a long, agonised moan. Being with him was a delicious torture. And they still had the nightmare of the supper to go.

The cool air of the ladies dressing room washed over Hermione's heated skin and pulled her thoughts back into the present. In the soft light, the large, vaulted space bustled with guests. Elves pattered between the witches, dressing tables and ornately framed cheval mirrors, attending to every need. Hermione pressed a hot, gloved hand to her flushed cheek and let her tightened shoulders drop. What she truly needed was a deeply padded chair and her feet plunged into a bucket of ice.

Severus had felt it necessary for her stay with him on the dancefloor. And she hadn't argued. Even if her feet now did. His arms, strength and warmth, or the iced grey eyes of Lucius Malfoy? There was no contest. None. Her want of Severus had sharpened and drove a fresh and constant ache through her flesh. That had done little to help her coordination, though, even Severus had to admit, her waltz had even crawled all the way up to a decent Dreadful.

A little elf scuttled up and cast an added cooling charm over her. Hermione grinned down at the small, wizened creature in her bright, white pillowcase. "Thank you so much."

"My honour, Ribboned-One." The elf sketched a bow. "Can Itzy be helping with your hair and robes?"

Hermione winced. She was all too aware that Gret's hard work with her troublesome hair had come loose. "Please."

Itzy narrowed her large eyes. "Though I think you needs to be sitting first." She waved her spindly fingers and a deep, wingback chair appeared against the nearest wall. She tutted. "The Master of the Ring has you too much on your feet."

Hermione willingly sank into the most comfortable chair, ever, in the history of the entire world, the cool fabric and cushioning supporting her weary body. A padded stool appeared and her aching feet found their own comfort. Damn, she could get used to being this pampered.

Itzy grinned at her. "It's our pleasure to care for you."

Hermione opened her eyes to find the shy glances of the other elves on her. It was strange to think that she'd always pushed for elvish freedom and yet, the ribbon kept them as they were. And they loved her for it.

Itzy wove her magic around Hermione's feet, spirals of light and a whisper of air. Hermione pressed her lips together to deny an undignified groan. More than one witch was already staring at her, with hard eyes fixed on the ribbon at her throat.

"Something cool, Ribboned-One."

Another elf offered her smooth glass of cold water. Hermione smiled, letting that cover her pause. Severus' warning skittered through her thoughts, but she trusted the house elves. They'd let no harm come to her. The water was a joy to her parched mouth and eased a wanted chill into her flesh.

Izty tutted again. "Too much dancing. Poor feet. Poor toes." A final flick of her spindly fingers broke the spirals of her magic. "I will be having words with the Master of the Ring."

Hermione wiggled her toes in her delicate, silk shoes. The tingle of fresh cushioning charms forced a grin at their tickling over sensitive skin. "Thank you, Itzy."

The elf wagged a long finger. "Take time to sit."

"I promise, I will."

Itzy gave a decisive nod and urged Hermione to her feet. Standing again, Hermione gasped. The charms were pure air. She felt light, dainty and a sudden match for Severus' skill. "You want me to sit, and yet you give me dancing shoes."

Itzy snorted. "You have an elf in your household?"

"A Hogwart's elf. Gret."

"Ah, I knows of him. A good elf." Itzy said with another of her sure nods. "I will be giving him this charm." Her fingers spun again and a cool wash of air and power ran swift around her hair. Tendrils of magic drew across her face. "And now your robes." There was little work needed there. As much as Hermione disliked Madam Athcasta, she couldn't deny her skill as a master tailor.

"Then it's true." The sharp voice of Pansy Parkinson carried over the chatter and noise of the room. A deliberate act. Hermione had little doubt of that. She stood in a knot of other witches before the mullioned windows, holding court as she had at school. A little elf attended to the snagged hem of her robes. "There really is a ribbon-witch here tonight."

Hermione stopped herself from rolling her eyes…and muffled a laugh as Pansy let out a sudden yelp. The swift and oh-so-sincere apologies of a house-elf followed.

Other voices rose and fell, ones Hermione couldn't quite make out. There wouldn't be anything kind said, so she focused on the final moments of Itzy's magic. With a flourish, the little elf clapped her large hands. "Miss is perfect."

Hermione grinned, but it faded as clear words burst from the far corner of the room, laced with derision.

"Oh, her gown is muggle. Obviously." Pansy again, her voice not quite as strident, but still distinct. "And what material? Something synthetic. It hardly hangs as proper robes should—"

"Miss Granger."

A cold stone dropped hard into Hermione's belly and the opinion of her former classmates became nothing. Shit. Madame Athcasta. She and Malfoy were up to something, she was certain. But her actions –to distract Severus— were putting him in the dangerous position of having to duel Lucius Malfoy to protect the honour of the Ribbon and the Ring. Did she want Severus for herself? Did he want her?

That thought sent a hot anxious wave though her flesh, but a breath steadied her. Witch not muggle. And the belief repeated, hard, in mind.

Hermione turned, her polite smile fixed in place. She gave a sure curtsey. Well, the witch did have one use. "Madam Athcasta. Thank you for designing such a marvellous dress for me. I'm sure I'm quite envied tonight."

A gasp behind her told her she'd put those hags in their place. "If you'll excuse me, Severus is waiting."

Athcasta's eyes narrowed, a slight crease, before a pleasant smoothness returned. "He asked me to bring you up to the hall."

Shit. Shit. Had he? The bloody witch was his friend and he saw no problem with her. Had used her to make a point. Did he feel she wasn't a true threat? It would be impolite to refuse…and the coven of witches by the windows were looking for any minor infraction to exaggerate. Not that she cared what they thought, but they'd used her failure as a chance to deride her as a ribbon-wearer. Merlin, how were the most simple of things -for example, telling Madame Athcasta to shove a broom up it- becoming so complicated?

Hermione lifted her chin. She'd survived Mad Bella in this very house. Amelia Athcasta? Piece of cake. She waved a gloved hand to the door. "Lead on, Madame."

Athcasta frowned, but stepped forward as an elf opened the door. It bobbed to Hermione and murmured "Ribboned-One". She nodded in return and gave a small smile, but her attention was focused on the witch ahead of her and the disturbingly empty room beyond.

Hermione's skin itched and she wanted her wand in her hand. Was her ribbon pulsing her unease to Severus?

Athcasta brushed a hand over a non-existent crease in her gown. "I have been a friend to Rogue for many years. Many years."

"So I believe." Hermione wouldn't ask after the pet name. She wouldn't. She lifted an eyebrow. Did Athcasta think that she would simper? Or demand breathless questions? She'd be waiting a long time for that reaction.

After a few rapid heartbeats on Hermione's part, the other witch presented her with a sure smile and led the way up the short, twisting run of stairs to the hall above. "Together we have suffered many trials." Her softly accented whisper drifted down in the scented air. "And there is very little I would not do for my Rogue."

Hermione ignored the aching twist in her chest. Damn the witch. Was she laying claim to Severus? Did she already have a claim? No. Severus Snape wouldn't have agreed to being her Mentoris if he was already involved with another witch… Would he? She closed off that thought. He'd always declared his life beyond her would be his own.

Light flickered around Hermione, the oil-glinting eyes of too many portraits following her. Voices hissed just below her hearing. Foul place. Was it the magic of the ribbon giving her a sensitivity to the Manor? She clung to Severus' promise that they would never, never ever come back to this benighted house.

Athcasta stepped out into the bustle of the hall, the push of witches and wizards thickening as the dancing began to wind down and conversation –and game playing— became the new attraction. She wove though the melee, Hermione in her wake. This was wrong. Severus wouldn't expose her like this…

Hermione's gaze darted around, eager for the Potion Master's tall, black-clad form, something that would be obvious in the glitter and pomp. No. Not a sign of him. Anywhere. Shit. She pushed down on the heavy wave of panic rising up from her belly. Where was he?

"Ah, Miss Granger…"

Fuck. Fuck.

Lucius Malfoy was all elegance beside her. She was an idiot. She'd suspected it was a trap, but still, she'd walked into it. And the odious Madame Athcasta had become smoke, abandoning her to the wizard beside her.

Hermione presented him with a curtsey, her face fixed in yet another polite mask. She should've opted for Severus as her Magister. A month in bed with him. Bliss. But, no, she wanted to fit in with the insanity that was the wizarding world… More fool her. "Lord Malfoy."

"The inestimable Madame Athcasta seems to have lost you in the crowd." He lifted a pale eyebrow. "Do you know of her history?"

"A little." Hermione stopped a frown. Where was he going with this?

"It's a sad tale. She was betrothed to our very own Severus. They met as he completed his Mastery." Malfoy sighed, his jaw angled in such a way to catch the light and gild his perfect features in gold. Hermione couldn't admire him. Betrothed?

"They were once a perfect couple. A fine blending of magics. Truly." His grey eyes fixed on hers, cool and sure, and she stilled, praying that she didn't show any reaction to his hated words. "It ended. She married another and Severus was utterly broken. Naturally. Madame Athcasta –Miss Amelia Tibault, as was— is a rare witch. A sought after specimen. Elegant. Excellent lineage. Beautifully bred. Brimming with skill and intelligence. Worthy of a wizard such as Severus Snape."

Was he trying to point out how hopeless engaging Severus was at the end of her time with him? That only magic bound him to her? She knew that already. Still, Lucius Malfoy was a hateful man.

"And for you, Miss Granger, it's never too early to begin your own perusal of what is available." He pointed his snake-headed walking stick into the bustle of his guests. "At my Winter Ball, you are getting the best in show." His smile was shark-bright. "The finest cuts, as it were."

He inched closer. Hermione stopped breathing as his sour odour filled her senses. Her heartbeat skittered and a wandless hex burned on her tongue. A long lock of his silken hair brushed over her collarbone, pricking her skin and with it, his aristocratic voice curled just above a whisper. "Of course, I will be first."

"First?"

"My dear Miss Granger, my son informs me you are an intelligent witch. This ribbon," his manicured finger drew a line across her throat, a skim of air, and she shuddered, "is simply the beginning of your parade into proper society. After the Ribbon, comes The Card."

Hermione's stomach turned over. Here was her most dreaded thought. She known what he wanted. The Card. And first. His place on it.

"Of course, when I am done," his hot gaze slid over her like oil "however long that may take until I am satisfied, you will have Draco as your second. You doubt me, Miss Granger?" A sly smile lifted his perfect mouth, the shine in his pale eyes loathsome. "The Lord Malfoy never follows the wizarding herd." He bit out the word with a sneer. "Make no mistake, Hermione, when your ribbon breaks, I will be the first to fuck you."

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