Logline: Last chapter, Demeter made Severus an offer he couldn't resist. But things are never that simple...I was going to hold this installment back because it's still not completely finished. I had NO idea Chapter 4 would take this much work. So I figured, why make you gusy wait? If it's not perfect, I'll simply rewrite it later. So again, if you like this version, SAVE IT, because I may change it later.

The panic set in two seconds after he said "Yes."

Keeping my voice calm and my hands steady, I managed to make arrangements to meet with him outside the castle on Friday evening, before dinner - because why not treat ourselves to a non-Hogwarts menu for once? From there we would travel together to Coldtrane's Cool Jazz Club in London.

The club had been founded by and named for Coldtrane the Dwarf. Going to Coldtrane's was like going to a magical free trade zone. I thought of it as the magical equivalent of Casablanca. During the Muggles' World War II, Casablanca had been a neutral spot, a watering hole and waystation where the Axis and Allied factions mixed freely without being obligated to kill each other. Coldtrane's was exotic and exciting and, most of all, run by a dwarf.

Wizards were fascinated by dwarves.

The Ministry had no jurisdiction over them; hence they were basically free agents. The dwarves did whatever they liked, whenever they liked, with whomever they liked, and not even the aurors could stop them. Thankfully, there were allegedly precious few of them and they were more interested in riches and sensual pleasure than conquest. Otherwise the wizard world would have been in serious trouble.

Why?

Because dwarf magic was very, very old and very, very...different. If I had to put it in spiritual terms, I'd say it was as if the dwarves lived under a different covenant than the one God - according to the monotheistic religions, anyway - had made with mages and Muggles. Wizards could neither access dwarf magic nor control it. Some very powerful wizards had managed to block it on a small scale for a brief amount of time - long enough to make a quick escape if threatened - but that was all. When it came to dwarf magic, wizard magic was as helpless against it as I was against a full-fledged, wand-wielding wizard.

Hence, Coldtrane's was an urban and urbane free for all where pure, half-blood, and Muggleborn wizards and witches of the Hogwarts, Cornwall and apprentice-trained classes mingled. And, in contravention of the Statute of Secrecy, it also had Muggles, lots of Muggles.

And why, my nervous little mind asked itself, would the Head of Slytherin House - of all people - want to surround himself with Muggles?

True, Coldtrane's cocktails were some of the most potent potions I'd ever encountered. I'm sure Severus would be fascinated with them if I could get him to order one. But would that be enough to make up for surrounding him with a bunch of… you know?

I suppressed a shudder at the thought of a proud Slytherin mixing with Muggles. It would be all right, I told myself. Severus' curiosity would keep his temper in check. Unlike goblins, giants, centaurs or even werewolves, dwarves were few and far between. A wizard could find most of the other creatures just by walking into Gringotts or taking a stroll through the Forbidden Forest. No one knew where to find a dwarf. My survey of magical history and culture instructors at Cornwall said they once were known to inhabit tunnels dug under mountains or the hollow spaces carved out by deep-dwelling tree roots. But they hadn't bothered to be seen in centuries. Coldtrane's was the only place I knew that housed a dwarf and even then, he was a rare sight at his own club.

For someone as fascinated with magic - all magic, not just potions - as Severus was, I could guess that he wanted nothing more than to corner Coldtrane and pick his magical brain. And here I was laying the opportunity right in his lap.

And if I couldn't produce Coldtrane himself?

I blocked that thought from my mind, focusing instead on keeping my cool, as I carefully gathered up my papers and left. The sound of a snide/smug chuckle echoing softly through the closing door behind me did nothing to break my stride. But my hands started shaking again.

He'd said "yes" with a subtle mix of condescension, vaguely contemptuous challenge, and, thank Circe, genuine curiosity. In other words, what he'd really said was "Show me, witch." He'd thrown down the gauntlet. It was on me to pick it up and run with it - if I dared.

And oh, I dared! I might be shaking in my shoes, but I still dared. (Take that, Gryffindors!) I mean what else was I going to do? Settle into a sterile and probably magic-free spinsterhood? (I mentally banished a passing stray thought of Uriah.) I deserved as much of a chance at rising in society as the next witch. Who the hell could blame me for snatching an opportunity?

Still, I kept shaking all the way to the staff lift. For the umpteenth time, I mentally thanked old Headmaster Dippet for installing the rickety old contraption as the cage doors closed behind me. There was no way my shaking knees would have gotten me out of the dungeon and up four flights of stairs. I resolutely ignored the speculative glances of our lift operator/mail clerk/general factotum Sidney Leeks and kept my eyes on the floor. As we came to a stop and the doors opened, I practically shot through them, all but racing down the corridor until I barreled my way into the apparently empty staff lounge. I dropped my papers onto the nearest table and plopped into a well-worn armchair, legs akimbo, eyes closed, and head thrown back as if I'd just returned from a war.

"Sickle for your thoughts?"

My head snapped forward, my eyes open wide as I started at that voice. Seeing the speaker standing in front of me, cup and saucer held out, I sighed and relaxed, letting my head drop back and closing my eyes again despite my annoyance.

"Been playing with Slytherins again?"

That was not the same voice. I started again, opening my eyes and sitting up to look anxiously around before catching sight of the other speaker. I glared at the woman in the far corner before rolling my eyes and snatching the cup and saucer from the first woman, who was now chuckling at me.

"Don't the two of you have homework to grade or paperwork to file or bookies to call?" I groused.

Willa and Julie just laughed and pulled up chairs next to me as I shook my head and drained my cup. I was annoyed but also relieved. If it had been anyone else - the ever-nosy Sidney, our housekeeper Ginger Blackburn or our food services chief Phronsee van der Platt - I would probably be facing the third degree. Ginger and Phronsee were well meaning and sweet but still too unsubtle and gossipy for their own good. Sidney was just gossipy. Julie, with her worldliness and cunning, and Willa, despite her surface ditzy-ness, could actually keep their mouths shut.

I sighed again, set the now empty cup on the table beside me, and stared at my fellow staff members. Before I could even speak, Willa chimed, "Somebody's got a secret."

She grinned and held up a small silver flask. She shook it enticingly at me and I half-grinned, picked up the cup again and held it out to her. Without another word, she poured a generous dollop into my cup. Then she whipped out her wand, summoned cups for herself and Julie and commenced to pouring. Over the rim of my cup, my gaze greedily followed those wand motions. So much power with such simple movements! I gritted my teeth before taking another sip.

A wand was a relatively rare commodity among Hogwarts staff as were Willa and Julie. Willa Spritely was a Hogwarts alum. She was a former Ravenclaw who'd excelled at potions and herbology and, like most of house, loved to experiment. With her NEWT scores I bet she could have been an Unspeakable if she'd wanted to be. Instead, she'd taken up the post of Hogwarts distillery supervisor. Now instead of mixing up potions, she brewed cider and distilled scotch, gin, whiskey and other spirits for the estate. The Headmaster had given her free rein - well of course he had; she was a Hogwarts alum! But the result was a steady supply of some of the finest cider and spirits I'd ever tasted - in fact, a tidal wave of them. Hogwarts had more than enough to bottle them under our own label and sell them to the wizarding world at large.

Malfoy and the Board of Governors had kicked up a fuss at first. But alumni relations director Lyricus Blackwood had gone to work on his cousin-in-law and eventually persuaded Malfoy to see the light - especially after the haughty blonde had gotten a look at the galleons generated. Needless to say, from that point on Willa was a firm favorite of Lyricus and Lucius.

And they weren't the only ones. It was her job to make sure the faculty had an adequate supply of wine and beer to accompany dinner in the Great Hall. But when it came to the staff dining room, she kept a fully stocked liquor cabinet for us! Which of course also made her the staff favorite. And while I wasn't a heavy drinker, I indulged now and then. The tipple she'd put in my cup today was just what I'd needed to calm my nerves: smooth, sweet, and dry followed by a subtle kick that got the brain ticking again. Oh! I'd needed that!

If Willa was unusual, Julie really didn't belong here at all. Willa was happy to float around with wild, barely combed curls and dressed in whimsical, floaty earth-mother-cum-airy-fairy outfits even in the cold of Scotland. Julie, on the other hand, was always perfectly coiffed in a sleek chignon (a style I couldn't resist adopting) and stylishly dressed. Every day she appeared in sharply tailored jewel-tone suits or dresses in the kind of rich fabrics that I only saw in Mesdames' catalogue - or in Witch Weekly photos of Narcissa Malfoy. And she always accented her look with just a dash of glamour, be it an elegantly draped Hermes scarf, a dazzling diamond brooch, or a sparkling pair of chandelier earrings.

In fact, Marie-Julie Le Normand de Guise was the deputy chief protocol officer for the diplomatic arm of the International Confederation of Wizards. Officially, she'd taken a secondment from her position to serve as the Magical Literature instructor and female Slytherin Form Advisor. I had no idea how the Headmaster had talked her into serving time at a boarding school but, like Willa, she was also a full-fledged witch with her own wand. Yet, despite being a high-ranking diplomat, she never seemed to look down on us wandless witches and wizards. Because of her rank, the Headmaster had invited her to dine with the faculty at the head table, but she'd declined. I admired her for that - and fiercely envied her style!

Still, I was never sure how I felt about her. While easygoing Willa was easy to like, Julie was something of a cipher. She was also urbane and witty and terrifyingly good at getting information, either directly from people (whether they wanted to give it or not) or by other means.

I sighed for a third time, realizing I was cornered.

But before I could speak Julie jumped in, "No, don't say a word. You don't have to. I can pretty much guess. So where are you going and when?"

"How did you-?!" I paused and took a moment to gather myself. "Friday. Coldtrane's."

Julie's elegantly plucked eyebrows rose. "Coldtrane's?! Oh my, you are serious." She exchanged glances with a suddenly somber Willa then paused for a moment to stare at me with a gaze that I could only interpret as a mix of frank assessment and pity. "Tsk, tsk, poor little chickadee. What do you think you will accomplish? Besides getting yourself hexed?"

I huffed, both rattled and offended. "Not that it's any of your business," I snapped. "But we're both due for a bit of relaxation and maybe even fun - "

"Severus does not do 'fun,' cherie. Try again."

I glared at her, further rattled and annoyed at her use of "Severus." I was still "Miss Spencer" to him and he was still "Prof. Snape" to me. "There's always a first time," I snarked.

Surprisingly, she nodded. "True. And at Coldtrane's you might even manage it," she conceded. "Still he is...un sorcier sombre, a dark wizard, you understand? They like snatching and holding secrets. They crave them. And the dwarves are… les nains sont avares. They are stingy. They keep their secrets. Even the representatives they send to the Confederation barely speak. Other than Denmark and the other Scandinavian countries, we know almost nothing of where they come from and where they go. If he goes with you, he goes to prospect for magical secrets and when Coldtrane refuses him as his kind usually does, what will you do? How will you avoid the hex?"

I swallowed at the sound of my private fears being spoken aloud. "He wouldn't," I blustered. "And besides I made him no promises."

One of those elegant eyebrows lifted again. "Didn't you, cherie? Do you think he goes with you because you are so alluring?" She looked me up and down then shrugged. "Jolie - pretty, yes. Enticing, maybe. Irresistible? Not at all."

I glared at her, my lips pressed thin to keep me from yelling or attempting - in my own feeble way - to curse her.

Finally, I said, "You know, Madame, not all of us are as fortunate in their magical rights and privileges as you are. If you were in my position, and a full-fledged wizard was willing to give you the time of day, what would you do?"

She smiled then as if I were a child who'd passed the teacher's pop quiz. She leaned forward, imposing herself into my personal space as I shrank back in my chair. "I would not go it alone." She pulled back from me then and gently placed her cup and saucer next to mine on the table.

I watched silently as she gracefully rose, smoothed her skirt then casually waved her wand to send her chair back to the corner from where it'd previously sat. Tucking her wand jauntily into her chignon, she turned back to me, her gaze challenging, assessing.

"Audacieux mais stupide. You need help, cherie. Mercredi aprés midi, Wednesday afternoon, you come for tea." She gestured to Willa who'd sat silent through our exchange. "Willa will bring the Cognac. And together we will figure out how to keep you from being turned into a toad, oui?"

"...Oui," I said weakly.

She smiled knowingly then swept from the room in a waft of pricey perfume. Willa and I watched her go then turned to stare at each other. Willa smiled cheekily, shrugged, then bounced out of the room after her, casually, magically waving her own chair back to where it came from.

I sat silently, dazed. What in Hecate's ninth circle of hell have I gotten myself into, I thought.

That was Monday.

Tuesday I spent wrapped in a hazy mix of frustration, anxiety, and, surprisingly, giddy anticipation.

The frustration was a weekly thing. The last thing I wanted to do on any day of the week was to pull on my wellies and my mackintosh and go tromping through the moors and mud to check in with our estate manager. Portunellus "Porchie" Blackburn was responsible for overseeing Hogwarts' leasing and agricultural activities. We weren't just a school. The castle sits on thousands of acres that include farmland, pasture, woodland and residential cottages along with the gatehouse and outbuildings. We could hardly let any of that go to waste. I mean the thought of the cost of trying to feed nearly a thousand hungry, growing teens and pre-teens by ordering from the local Sainsbury's on a regular basis makes my head spin. Why pay for what you can grow yourself? Much of our produce comes from our own crops. And the meat, poultry and fish come from our own resources.

Porchie has to oversee all farm and pasture operations as well as monitor the powerful wards that keep students mostly unaware that this section of the castle grounds even exists. On the rare occasions that students do blunder past the wards, it's almost always a Hufflepuff or a dedicated care of magical creatures student looking to help. Porchie usually sends them to Madame Pomfrey or, on rare occasions, the Headmaster, for a quick obliviation. It's rarely a big deal.

I unfortunately am not so lucky. I'm there every Tuesday, walking what seems like miles with Porchie, (other than mealtimes I've rarely seen him sitting down) checking on cattle counts, getting reports on crop inventories, and checking on rent receipts. It takes the whole day and it's only a rare occasion when it's not cold, windy, or grubby. Those are the days I usually speed back to the castle - on foot! - to rev up the rattling plumbing in my bathroom so I can soak in a hot bath to recover, followed by one of Willa's hot toddies. (I hate the cold!)

Thankfully, once a month Porchie usually winds up driving us back to the castle in one of the farm vehicles. There's no other way to haul the galleons of collected rent back to the vault, since neither of us has a wand. We drive down the ramps to levels below the dungeons, drop off the galleons, update our records, and make sure the exchange spells are working properly. If they aren't, we have to immediately inform Gringotts to keep our checks from bouncing. Thankfully, our admittedly scatty Headmaster stays on top of them, so that's only happened once. I never want to live that nightmare again.

Of course, this Tuesday was made worse by my spiraling anxiety and resentment. Damn Julie! How the hell did she know what I was planning? Had I been that obvious? Or was she just that good of a spy? I mean I know Hogwarts is a hotbed of gossip, especially on the staff side but I'd hoped the ongoing hullabaloo over Sirius Black's escape would have everyone focused on other things. Damn.

The worst of it is that she was right. Chasing a dark wizard - even one vouched for by Dumbledore and respectably employed at Hogwarts - was dodgy doings at best. Sure, I thought I had an edge since his Death Eater past meant most full-fledged witches wouldn't - would be too scared - to have him. But that edge seemed to evaporate in the face of Julie's warnings. If he lost his temper, I was a target who couldn't fight back, not on my own. And Merlin knew what he could do to me if he felt so inclined…

Julie was right. I needed help, a safety plan just in case. But I had no idea what her socially sophisticated mind would come up with. And I felt like a witless rube next to her.

And that was just one of the things that fueled my resentment.

Who did she think she was? I knew enough French to get what she was saying. I might not be fully magical but I'm not a complete idiot! I didn't just pull my suggestion for a night at Coldtrane's out of thin air! I was taking a calculated risk, not a reckless one!

In the back of my mind I could hear my father chuckling. My father was a gambling man, even during the short years he pretended to try staying married to my mother. Unfortunately, he was more in love with money, so he lit out for Las Vegas as soon as my younger sister Daphne got her Cornwall letter. He took up with the casino bosses out there, so if anyone knew the odds, it was him.

And the truth was even he wouldn't have taken this bet. It was too easy. It didn't take a poker genius to know that once we crossed Coldtrane's threshold and spotted the scads of Muggles or sat long enough to realize Coldtrane himself wasn't coming, Severus would probably hex me to hell and back just as Julie - and the back of my own worried little brain - predicted.

Still...my mind might be worried, but my heart wouldn't let me let go of the notion. I needed to take Severus to Coldtrane's.

Yes, it was even odds that Severus would hex me for making him mix with Muggles. On the other hand, precious few wizards got to see a dwarf let alone see dwarf magic in action - even if only by proxy. I'd discovered that firsthand.

The story on Coldtrane was that he'd grown tired of enjoying dwarf song in isolation and had wandered into the Muggle realm to sample the musical offerings there. Apparently, he'd walked into a jazz club and became hooked. So, he decided to change his name - from what I never heard - and open his own.

Why not? Not only could he enjoy his favorite music night after night, but he could make money doing it. As for why a dwarf would waste his time on running a club in the middle of Muggle London… well… I have my suspicions. Let's just say the wizard controls on money laundering aren't nearly as stringent as the Muggle ones. But you didn't hear that from me.

The club was one flight down off a London street, all but invisible until you'd reached the bottom of the shadowed stairs. Above it was an old Muggle repertory movie house that offered classics like "The Lodger" and "The Maltese Falcon." I'd discovered the movie house during the summer before my fourth year at Cornwall. I'd been working tracking inventory at one of the dozens of warehouses on the wharfs in Navigation Alley. Cornwall always pushed us to get practical experience whenever possible. And besides, it was extra money, always a good thing in my book.

I'd gotten lost during my lunch hour, walked up to the ticket window for directions, seen the poster for the film "Rebecca" and was hooked. After nearly two hours of murder, intrigue, and free popcorn, I decided I was done for the day and stayed for the second feature: "The Maltese Falcon." I couldn't believe how good these Muggle moving pictures were! And it became my standard Friday ritual. I even brought Uriah once. We'd watched "Dracula," a hilariously bad take on vampires that had nearly gotten us thrown out of the mostly empty theater for laughing too loud. I'd only spotted the jazz club on my last day before returning to school.

The day had been hot and muggy, and the theater briefly closed for cleaning, so I'd wandered down the stairs hoping to get out of the unusually broiling sun. Finally relieved of the heat, I'd noticed that what I thought was merely a defunct service entrance to an old mansion turned movie house, was in fact a door to some kind of entertainment establishment. I eased my way in, immediately drinking in the deliciously cool air and was immediately met by the maitre'd. He apologized that the club was still closed for the moment but steered me toward the open bar. Any cold drink on that day was a perfect tonic, so I sat and ordered the house special.

The bartender cocked an eyebrow at me as I tried my best to look old enough to drink alcohol (I was still a few months shy of my 16th birthday) before he turned away to start tossing, mixing and blending. After a few moments, he set a tall, frosted glass of some kind of multilayered, multicolored concoction that improbably sent off wisps of what looked like steam. Gingerly, I reached for it, ignoring the bartender's smirk, and took a sip.

Merlin, Circe, and Medea!

It was the best thing I'd ever tasted! If magic could be turned into a cocktail that was how it would have tasted. The smooth mix of peach, vanilla and amaretto cream liqueur sprinkled with a dash of some kind of spice or herb garnish was almost beside the point. As the first cool sip of that brew slid down my throat, I felt a sphere of warmth that had absolutely nothing to do with heat blossom in my chest, spread to my limbs and terminate at the top of my head and tips of my toes. Startled I drank more and more and more until I'd practically drained the glass in one gulp.

"What the hell was that?!" I blurted.

The bartender's smirk grew wider, "You tell me," he countered.

I blinked, trying to figure out what I was feeling. I held one hand in front of me watching in fascination as fairy sparkles combined with some other kind of smooth unbroken aura trailed each movement of my fingers. Glancing down at my body I could see that aura surrounding my feet, limbs and midsection. I stared into the mirror behind the bar and could see that aura radiating around my head.

What the hell?

It was disorienting but not. I wasn't groggy. My vision wasn't blurry. Besides the aura and sparkles, everything else around me was crystal clear. I had no doubt I could crunch several columns of numbers or analyze whole spreadsheets if I had to. It was just me. I was glowing with energy.

"I don't understand," I said finally.

Now the bartender was openly grinning. "You will," he said.

By that time, the club was opening, and the first patrons were arriving. I looked up to see musicians taking the stage and testing out their instruments at the opposite end of the club. As the waiters quietly took orders and the musicians tuned up, I realized that I wasn't the only thing radiating. As my gaze skipped from the trumpeter, to the bass player, to the pianist, I realized that each skirl of sound they produced was accompanied by a mix of colored auras and golden sparkles just like my moving fingers. Although the sparkles remained the same, the sound each instrument made had a different color to its aura, until the players were wrapped in a swirling rainbow of sparkles and colliding colors.

I gasped, amazed and enchanted. Then I saw one musician suddenly look up and off to the side before raising his hand. Out of nowhere a swath of sheet music flew towards him. He caught it in midair, placed it on his music stand and continued tuning up. I sat back, stunned. This was a wizard club? Then I realized, he used magic without a wand. I stared now, riveted, hoping to see him or one of the others do it again.

Without realizing it though, I'd placed my other hand on the bar top as I steadied myself while learning forward. Suddenly I was almost toppling forward off the high bar stool, when out of nowhere, an empty chair came sliding out from under a table to skid to a stop right in front of me, just in time for me to grab hold and keep from falling.

I stared at the chair in shock. Did I do that?

Behind me I heard the bartender chuckling. Still grasping the chair back, I glanced backward, but the bartender was turned away as he took another patron's order. I stared back at the chair, before straightening up and sitting back. No one paid any attention to me, I noticed. I looked down at the chair. After a few moments of hesitation, I released the back and raised my hand. With a sharp flick, I waved my hand back to table the chair from which the chair had come. The chair slid silently away from me and back into its original place. Again no one noticed.

For long minutes I sat, my mind spinning in circles as it tried to process what had just happened. Did I just do magic? That had to be magic - and without a wand, too! Is that legal? It can't be legal. The aurors'll be here any second or someone from the ministry. And besides I don't have enough magic to move objects. I'm lucky if I can manage to incendio a candle let alone accio something or the reverse. I'm basically a magical retard - aren't I? What the hell was in that drink? How do you even brew something like that? That's got to violate the Muggle and Magical Substance Control Act. Somebody's going to Azkaban! Well... maybe not Azkaban but definitely Knotsgate Prison. What the hell is going ON here?!

I sat so long I probably had smoke coming out of my ears. I completely missed the band's first set and the "magic show" that went with it. Later, once I'd made Coltrane's a habit, I learned to make sure never to miss it.

I also learned to love Coldtrane's cosmopolitan clientele. It was a meeting ground for all classes of wizards - shiny, wand-waving Hogwarts alums; respectable, solidly employed Cornwall graduates; over- or more likely underworked Ministry flunkies; destressing Diagon Alley denizens; shifty Knockturn Alley infiltrators; scrubby Narrows residents cleaned up for a decent night out; brave hearted Squibs; and especially those adventurous Muggles. Outside it was rank, file and hierarchy, Muggle vs. mage. Inside, everybody rubbed shoulders. Everyone was equal.

But that first time, I'd sat frozen as I tried to right the world as I knew it as it had tilted on its axis in a direction I never even thought was possible.

Finally, when patrons and waitstaff were at last starting to stare, I turned back to the bartender. He sat leaning back against the mirror, arms folded, a snarky grin on his face.

Ignoring the grin, I cleared my throat. "Another round please."

So, I knew my first date with Severus - and it was a first date no matter how casually I'd presented it to him - had to be at Coldtrane's. It was the one place we could be on meet as relative equals. Oh, I had no illusions that Severus would be impressed at that - at first. A wizard, particularly a putatively dark wizard as powerful as he was (and all the heads were strong, strong enough to defend the school alone if need be), would hardly take notice of what might amount to little more than parlor tricks in his eyes.

But at Coldtrane's, I could do magic. He could see me doing magic. Instead of seeing me as the droll little school accountant, he'd see a witch who could hold her own, at least temporarily anyway. It was a way of leveling the playing field between us. At Coldtrane's we'd stand on relatively equal ground. And it would let him see me for the first time as a fully magical citizen, as someone who was more than worth his time - as someone he could invest in for the long haul.

But first we had to get there.

And before that I had to have tea with Julie in hopes of creating a plan B that would get me safely home in case this date blew up in my face and left me croaking and craving flies!

To be continued...