Logline: Step 1 in Demeter's scheme…

CAUTION: THIS is an experiment. It's not supposed to be an entire chapter, only a beginning. But folks – assuming there's anybody still out there – have been waiting so long that I thought I had something, so I wanted to post it. Let me know what you think – in the understanding that, in the best case scenario, I'll be expanding this chapter.

"You want something. What?"

Instinctively, I jumped, ripped out of my reverie at the sound of his voice. "What?" I asked stupidly, trying to regain my bearings.

He merely stared at me, one eyebrow archly raised, before turning and reaching for a beautifully carved wooden box that sat barely visible among the clutter of piled papers and scattered cups, spoons and other detritus of the discarded tea service on the coffee table before us. He flicked open the hinged lid, fished out a cigarette, and turned the box toward me in silent offer. As I shook my head, he muttered incendio. I watched the trail of fragrant smoke curl from the tip before he took a deep drag. He paused to exhale a spiraling plume, the darkness of his eyes deepening to obsidian black, before asking again. "WHAT do you want?"

I swallowed, looking down at the pile of papers in my lap. We had been ensconced in his office for the last hour, sitting on his surprisingly comfortable green leather sofa, going through Slytherin House's books and budget. In the past hour, we'd tackled small discrepancies – very small, I rarely had major problems tracking Slytherin's expenses – tallied withdrawals from the scholarship fund – every house had one; Slytherin tended to have the fewest scholarship students, but the ones it had tended to need the most in terms of books, supplies, and even clothes and shoes – and reviewed the never ending problem of how to afford a more efficient heating system in the dungeons.

You couldn't hold a warming spell forever. That tended to exhaust a wizard and/or create a standing magical field that messed with any other spells cast in the area. Cornwall had taught us that at least. So, it was better – and safer – to use a mechanical system. Our Mechanical Services Chief Archie Gorchwright and his team were constantly recalibrating the castle's radiators and boilers to redistribute heat to keep the students down here warm. But Slytherin House still wound up with more students fighting colds and flu during the winters than was entirely conscionable. Severus had been requesting an overhaul of the heating system for years or at least a dedicated boiler for that section beneath the castle. Hufflepuff House's location next to the kitchens meant they always had a secondary source of heat; so, they kept toasty warm during the winter. Slytherin House, on the other hand, was located under the Black Lake. And there were few things more efficient at transferring a chill than icy water and cold stones.

Speaking of chills, I shivered as I paused to gather my thoughts. Was I that obvious? True, I had been daydreaming. As it had been in the days since I'd visited his ancestral home, my mind had strayed from the work at hand to the question of how to retrieve the estate and use it as leverage to drive him into my arms.

The day after my visit, I'd woken up to a hangover and reality. I'd spent the morning huddled under my blankets rocking back and forth, panicking at my own audacity. Who was I kidding, I'd thought. The amount of money needed to retrieve that medieval pile… While it might be chump change to Lucius Malfoy, or heck even Draco Malfoy, it had to be more than my own life was worth to clear the debt on that place. It wasn't exactly as if I didn't have debts of my own either.

Well technically they weren't my own but my sister's. Living at Hogwarts offset my expenses enough that I had some left over to put toward my sister's tuition at Cornwall. Daphne was in the Crafts and Industrial Arts corner specializing in Textile, Decorative and Fine Arts. This was her last year there – thank, Merlin! I'd be soooo glad to see the back of that bill and to have her gainfully employed and safely on her own two feet. So whatever little money I had to spare would hardly make a dent towards Ravens Wake's tax bill. Not until Daphne was out of school.

In fact, I'd spent hours turning over ways to get the money. A loan? The goblins would laugh me to hell and back. Literally. Gambling? There were some wizards who specialized in luck magic; my erstwhile father liked to think he was one of him. Way back when I was girl, he'd abandoned us to go try his luck in Las Vegas. Apparently, he hadn't done too badly. He certainly hadn't needed to come crawling back. But I'd rather kiss a Dementor than go crawling to him.

Perhaps I could buy my way into Crepitus McLaggen's weekly poker game held out in that scrap heap he owned, Tinkerton Yards. Before he'd left, my father had taught me a thing or two about poker. I hadn't done too badly. But that was a father playing – and most likely indulging – his daughter. McLaggan played with a high-rolling crowd, real businessmen with fortunes to win or lose – folks like Stercutius Cropper of Eco-Wizards Environmental Services. Cropper held the waste removal contract for Hogwarts and the entire Hogwarts District. Maponus Livingstone owned Caliban Cabs, Maponus Motors and Sylphide Sedans. District Fire Brigade Chief Vestus Rush might earn a civil servant's salary, but he came from old pureblood money. These men would laugh me out of the room for even attempting to buy in, even if I could have afforded it.

Investors? I'd – gingerly – shaken my still aching head at the absurdity of that before the reality had hit me. I didn't even know if Severus was interested. I certainly was. It didn't automatically mean he reciprocated. How ridiculous would it be to go through the mental and logistical backflips of figuring out how to retrieve his house only to discover he wasn't interested? The thought of him saying "Yes, please" and "Thank you" as he retrieved his house from me and walked out of my life forever never to think of me again made me feel physically sick.

I couldn't imagine being a bigger fool.

So once my head and hangover cleared, I decided to place all my plans on hold until I figured out where I stood.

Or rather sat.

I swallowed as I watched him watch me, as I once again turned the question over in my mind.

Had I even sparked his interest in the first place? Even I had to admit that was a bit of a facetious question. I mean I was here, wasn't I? In his office, sharing his space, and being tolerated for more than five minutes at a time. Clearly, I had his interest.

I'd set my mind to achieving it. He was a Slytherin, and Slytherins loved few things more than an inside advantage. Tea with the accountant who controlled so many of Hogwarts' requisition requests was not to be missed. I'd issued him an invitation to come to my office to go over Slytherin House's budget, expenses and requisitions. Of course, he was interested.

But whether that interest was sparked by an opportunity to get more goodies for Slytherin by making nice with the school accountant or by actual physical interest, I couldn't say. We had been meeting regularly once a week for a month now, and I still wasn't sure.

I mean I tried. Even before I'd set my cap for him, I liked to cultivate what I considered to be a business-like but alluringly feminine image. I opted for Muggle-style business suits – blazer, blouse, and skirt topped with tights, heels and, when needed, a polished leather briefcase. The suits were always in good, high quality fabric (typically wool. High-grade cotton, or a lightweight chenille) in solid conservative colors (black, grey, charcoal, navy blue) or patterns (pin stripe, houndstooth) while the blouses were always in bright, jewel-tone silks when I could afford it with just the right amount of tasteful cleavage. The same went for the stockings and the shoes. Yes, it was a tough balance and it took a pretty knut (I didn't give Daphne all my surplus). But I saw it as an investment. I interacted with the Muggle financial world often enough that I knew I had to look the part to be taken seriously. Besides I liked the excuse to wear, when properly tailored, clothes that showed off my figure to best advantage without being obvious.

I might be only average height, but I was lucky enough to have a body that stayed in shape with minimal effort. Hence, while I might not be a hard body, I was reasonably toned, neither fat nor flabby. I wouldn't mind if my bustline were a bit more pronounced but what I had wasn't anything to complain about, especially when I wore the right lingerie. And I knew for a fact I had legs to die for – beautifully rounded calves with perfectly turned ankles that had a knack for drawing men's eyes. Hence the quality hosiery.

I'd long ago abandoned the mousey brown of my hair for a potion-induced blonde that looked natural-born – courtesy of the stylists in Silk Alley. And the girls at the cosmetics counter at Mesdames in Cin Xiu Alley were always happy to show you the latest techniques, as long as you walked away with a bag of purchased products.

So, I knew what I looked like. I knew my assets and my liabilities as clearly as I knew Hogwarts' balance sheet. Thanks to a combination of good sense, savvy and skill, I was perfectly middle of the road pretty. Good looking enough to tickle enough male eyeballs and (especially when I pulled out all the stops) trigger enough female envy, but not so glamorous as to look like a social climber. Discretion is everything.

So, I couldn't countenance a downside to him being seen with me, not with his baggage. So, in truth the question wasn't had I sparked his interest. The question was, had I sparked his sexual interest? Romance certainly was not an option. Not with this one. There would be no flowers and candy; not like with Uriah. This wizard's idea of romance would probably be to present me with a potion to paralyze my enemies, assuming I was important enough to officially have enemies in the first place. Rivals, maybe, I thought, fleetingly seeing Cybele Castwright in my mind's eye. But no enemies.

Abruptly, I dropped my gaze back down at my papers. Wizards couldn't read minds, could they? I mean I'd heard rumors and if anyone could, a dark wizard could, right? My gut clenched with a stab of fear. Merlin, if he figured out what I was thinking, I was toast! Possibly literally! Frantically, I shoved my thoughts about retrieving his house and making him an offer to the back of mind while leaving thoughts of wooing him at the front. I don't know why I did that. Then, some instinct telling me to do my best to avoid looking directly into his eyes until I'd regained my sense of calm, I cleared my throat, while keeping my eyes on the expense sheets in my lap.

"Well," I began. "It does get a bit tedious going over financial figures in a dungeon. Not to mention a bit chilly."

His other eyebrow joined its raised brother as if to say Of course, dunderhead. What did you expect? We're in a dungeon.

"And where in this castle would you suggest we go?" he countered. "I, for one, prefer not to have Slytherin's sensitive financial information available to unauthorized eyes. I'm quite sure certain…alumni… would feel the same."

I flinched slightly, picturing exactly which long, blonde haired alumnus would have an issue. Nevertheless, I soldiered on. "I thought maybe for once we could go outside the castle." Slowly, I raised my gaze to his, gauging his reaction.

He stared unmoving, smoke curling around him. He was still but I had no doubt his mind was going a mile a minute, trying to calculate just what I was after – just as I sat wondering how he would react if he knew the answer was him.

As I willed myself to keep meeting his gaze, I could see the slight circles under his eyes, probably lightened with a glamour to prevent the Headmaster from prying into his routine and mother hen-ing him about his health.

We'd all been on edge this term. With Sirius Black on the loose and out for the Potter boy's blood, no one could rest easy. The Ministry, in its inimitably misguided way, had surrounded us with those foul Dementors as a deterrent to keep the ex-Death Eater away.

They'd already attacked and boarded the Hogwarts Express on its way here. The conductor had simply let them aboard. Unfortunately for him, McGonagall had been livid, and the conductor had soon been out of a job. Of course that had meant more paperwork for me – such as arranging for his back pay; alerting the school solicitor in case he decided to sue (I would have; Wilton Ironsides hadn't signed up to face down Dementors any more than I had; I'd felt so sorry for him as I'd watched Hagrid take his keys away; of course I kept that to myself…) as well as the ongoing problem of finding a replacement in time to transport students home for the holidays at term's end.

Then there was the problem of this year's Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. His presence on board the train was the reason McGonagall cited for firing Ironsides. She claimed Ironsides should have refused the Dementors and summoned the DADA professor instead. Well from what I heard, the man had been asleep when the Dementors attacked. What kind of defense expert sleeps when he knows there's a threat and that's the only reason he's on board? The teachers certainly don't make it a rule to take the train to Hogwarts. Add in the fact that, for whatever reason I had yet to figure out, Severus loathed the DADA instructor, and the sources of the added stress behind those dark circles seemed clear. If I needed a break – and I did – he probably needed it more. Other than those cigarettes, I wasn't sure how he was coping. I'd gotten no clear hints from glancing around his office when I'd first started coming here. One couldn't always tell a potions bottle from a liquor bottle.

And then he did the most satisfying thing. He suddenly sat back, one leg crossed over the other and just stared at me…every single inch of me. Those velvety black eyes started from the top of my messy French chignon and scanned down to take in the color of my eyes (hazel; I'd always wished for violet or at least blue), the shape of my lips (full and expressive like my mother's), the dip of my collarbone, the swell of my breast, the indent of my waist, the curve of my hip, and the length of my leg. I sat frozen by the intensity of his inspection, secretly thrilled that at last – at last – without a shadow of a doubt he was frankly appraising my…charms. Finally, he spoke, in that slow, calculating way that set off all sorts of scary – and delicious – alarm bells in my head. "And…exactly where…do you suggest we go?" He took another drag on his cigarette and waited, the ball in my court.

For a moment I panicked. Everything depended on my suggestion. Come up with the wrong thing and not only would he refuse, he'd end these friendly, nay quasi-flirtatious tea-time sessions we'd established and banish me from his presence for good. I took a deep breath, calming myself, before I spoke.

"Have you ever heard of a dwarf called Coldtrane?"

I saw his eyes narrow with intrigue and I smiled. Gotcha, I thought.

To be continued…

Author's End Note: Hello readers. Readers? Anyone? Anyone …Bueller? Bet you never thought you'd hear from ME again, didn't you? I SAID I wanted to continue and finish this. I can't say it's been easy (multiple job losses, my grandmother's passing – oh! And an emergency hospital stay…good times, good times…). And I'm certainly not done. But I came up with something and so I'm posting it. Again, if you like it, let me know. And expect it to change or expand…