I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters; J. K. Rowling does. In addition, I do not make any profit from this fanfiction. Huge thank you goes to my betas – Glorioux and Lima Bean.

To Be a Woman

Chapter One

Blue shoes, Blue Knickers, or Where Did My Confidence Go?

They were perfect – just right. The moment she saw them in a shoe boutique, two weeks ago (oh, come on girls, we all know the feeling) she knew that they were exactly what she had been looking for, exactly what she needed.

They were the most exquisite sandals she had ever owned – cobalt blue, made out of organza with silk satin lacing and with the magic words 'Manolo Blahnik' floating above them, right in the air. The style was the sinful fusion of two worlds – Victorian sensuality and modern technology. Of course, they were a perfect match for the strapless dress that Madam Malkin had ordered and altered exclusively for Hermione.

Oh, how happy our golden girl was the moment they belonged to her. Pleasant warmth filled her heart, when she finally was able to feel the weight of the bag hanging from her arm. It was intoxicating – the sensation akin to love. Hermione was convinced that now, nothing could corrupt, diminish or deprive her of her confidence – nothing, never, not with these gems on her feet.

This perfect pair of Manolos was the finishing argument in the month-long excruciating battle, which Hermione Granger had conducted with the most difficult opponent possible – herself. The progressive, self-assured and independent part of our famous witch's personality was engaged in an ongoing fight against, and already almost winning over, the other shy, insecure and quite conservative part of herself.

Obviously, with these silk, cobalt blue babies in the closet, Hermione's strong side had conquered her weaker half and was soaring above in delight with the victory. It was decided – the witch was going to the ball alone. There was no need for an escort. She could do this, and she most surely didn't need someone carefully holding her under an elbow as if she didn't have enough power of her own. No! No need for a strong, broad shoulder near her, and an arm around her waist. Nope, not at all with this new feeling of wilful independence.

Last year, she wouldn't have had the nerve to go alone, because she was still healing after Ron's departure. Neville sweetly had offered to accompany her, and they had gone together. It was actually quite a lucky night for him – Hannah Abbot was there. They reconnected rather quickly and tightly, and now they were going to the ball as a happy couple.

This year was altogether different for Hermione. She could feel it in her lungs – the air of self-confidence. The rising star of the Ministry was utterly ready to walk to the ball unescorted.

Yep. She was ready... or she had been, right until this morning, that is.

Did you ever wonder, my dear friends, where does the confidence go? No matter how long you worked on it, how fastidiously you gathered it up crumb by little crumb, no matter how sure you were that you had it right there in your fist – one wrong breath, one misspoken word and all of the confidence is suddenly 'poof'– unexplainably gone.

That was exactly what had happened to Hermione. She should have stayed home today, but of course, she couldn't. It all started when her administrative assistant and acquaintance, Lora, burst into her office with the morning papers and the news. Her hands were full of files for Hermione, but all her thoughts were entirely focused on another subject – the Victory Ball.

"Good morning," she sang with glee, "I cannot believe it's today." When Hermione looked up at her from the documents she was working on, the girl continued, "The ball. I have everything ready. Zachary will pick me up at seven. Did you decide who is taking you?" But the moment Lora noticed the slight frown on Hermione's face, she backpedalled immediately.

"Oh, oh, right, I forgot. I am very proud of you, by the way. It is the twenty-first century, after all," she muttered unconvincingly, and the next second she swiftly dropped the papers on Hermione's desk, flashed her boss an awkward smile and disappeared through the door quite hectically.

That was it – the worm of doubt was awoken. All of what followed, only made it grow fatter and stronger. It stirred and twitched in Hermione's heart, causing her to endure an entire range of nauseating emotions and thoughts.

Sure enough, around twelve o'clock, Hermione received an owl from Neville, asking if she would like to join him and Hannah. At 2:30, George stepped by to ask if our witch would like to go with Angelina and him.

The apotheosis, the grand summit, however, was when Kingsley Shackebolt, the Minister himself, called her to his office and – aha, right – offered to take a poor, lonely witch to the function, as he, quite convincingly, put it, "As a friend, and just for your dignity sake, dear. No strings attached." You can imagine how terribly the tips of Hermione's fingers were itching, lightly touching her wand in her pocket. Oh, well – a proper upbringing and respect for the older wizard narrowly prevailed this time.

To be fair to Kingsley, he did officially ask her permission to accompany her to the Victory Ball a month ago, which Hermione politely didn't grant. The momentary disappointment that flashed in the Minister's eyes had gotten Hermione thinking. Although, after a few unsuccessful dates with wizards her own age during the previous two years, Hermione had firmly decided that she needed an older, mature wizard. Kingsley Shackebolt wasn't on her list of possible candidates for romance. To be honest, she didn't even have a list yet, but if she did, he wouldn't make it, of that she was sure. She just didn't see him in that light. Besides, Hermione wouldn't mind becoming his right hand at the Ministry some day, and you know what they say – yes, exactly – do not mix business with pleasure.

By the time our brave Gryffindor got home and took her beautiful sandals out of the closet, her earlier defeated, shy, timid and conservative side was back, and in complete control, having entirely banished her confidence. She stood in her bedroom, wearing her cobalt blue sandals and matching cobalt blue knickers, futilely trying to find the missing bravado and feeling only dread and mortification.

Ah, and about the cobalt blue knickers – it was just a coincidence, a spontaneous decision. They had caught her attention the day after she bought the shoes, in the lingerie shop window. The knickers were extremely lacy and the exact same shade as the sandals. Of course, she bought them. How could she not?

Now, around six o'clock in the evening on Friday, about two hours before the Victory Ball in the Ministry of Magic, Hermione Granger stood in her bedroom, in front of her mirror, wearing stunning blue sandals and blue knickers, with her pale violet, strapless dress lying ready on the bed. She ineffectively tried to gain back her lost courage to go to the Ball alone. A heavy sigh and soft murmur, "I don't have it," confirmed that the confident side of Hermione Granger was losing the battle to the onslaught of her insecurities.

Now, my dear ones, let's leave our beloved lioness to wage her battle and venture to the villa of a certain Potions master.

Two Friends – Two Hussars

On the same Friday, at 6:03 in the evening, Severus Snape, dressed casually in black trousers and a black waistcoat over properly heavily starched white shirt, stood in his laboratory, carefully checking his supplies and making occasional notes in a parchment. It was this time of the month again – time to replenish materials and ingredients in the storage room. He looked good, our Potions master. Well, as good as possible considering that his main features were the same – black, slightly greasy hair, enormous, hooked nose, teeth... um, still the same. However, Snape's whole demeanour was different – calm, almost at ease.

Despite the seeming absorption in his unquestionably extremely beneficial task, a careful observer would have noticed that Severus wasn't as focused as usual. Since an old clock had chimed six times, something was undoubtedly bothering him. Three minutes after the clock had chimed; Severus heard a commotion in another part of the house. He had only managed to frown and mutter, "Merlin, help me," before an unusually agitated elf named Casimir barged into the laboratory and announced, "Mister Lucius is looking for master. Very worried Mister Lucius wants master now!" And then, without further ado, the elf had disappeared with a rather discontented pop.

Seconds later, the familiar drawl preceded the voice's owner. "Severus, you are late. It is already 6:04 and you are still home. You were supposed to be at the Manor at six o'clock. Could, you, please, be so kind and explain to me why are you still home?" At this, finally, the one and only Lucius Malfoy made his appearance at the threshold in all his glory.

Severus observed his friend with trained attention and a crooked smirk touched his thin lips. Lucius was already formally dressed in full parade. A white batiste shirt, green silk cravat, green organza waistcoat, black cashmere robes, and a distinctive snake-headed cane completed his attire. He gave Severus a quick, appraising glance, and continued, "As I was saying. Why are you still here and why are you not even dressed yet?" His light grey eyes were locked on his opponents' with arrogant expectancy. His impeccably trimmed, blond eyebrows were aristocratically arched, his chest pushed out in a haughty stance. Oh, yes, Lucius Malfoy – the one and only, indeed.

Severus didn't even bat an eye at all this charade. He had obviously been expecting his friend to arrive. "I don't believe I was supposed to be anywhere near the Manor today, Lucius. You were going to visit that dreadful Ministry function and I was going to stay home."

"We had an agreement, Severus. You said we would go together. You agreed. It was after a few glasses of Firewhisky and a cigar at the Manor," Lucius began his song again.

"I did no such thing, Lucius. Do not try your sly tricks with me. You know quite well; they will not work."

"But, Severus -"

"I said no, Lucius. Please stop this fruitless harassment. I will not go. Period." Severus' deep baritone began to show signs of annoyance. "I said noyesterday, and the day before, and the previous week, and at the beginning of the month. And, against my better judgment and only because I call you my friend, I will tell you again – I am not going to this horrible, public function, Lucius," reiterated Severus, emphasizing each word. "Last year was the final time for me." For anyone other than Lucius, this would have been the end of it. However, we know quite well that Lucius Malfoy was sorted into Slytherin for a reason.

In the blink of an eye, his demeanour changed dramatically. All the pomposity and arrogance was gone. Anyone could read the weariness and defeat in a slump of his shoulders. His eyes glistened slightly with depression, and our crafty, blond wizard whispered quietly, "I understood you perfectly, Severus." He uttered a soft grunt. "I will go home then, as I need to disrobe immediately. I feel old, lonely and dismissed by everybody. This is an ultimate truth, painful, yet real."

Lucius began to turn ever so slowly, as if he was leaving, muttering softly, "It was foolish of me to hope that you would change your decision. It's just-"

With an annoyed huff and a loud growl, Severus exclaimed, "Merlin, whoever is responsible for this torture, I hope he is laughing now. Shit! I need to hex your lying arse, Lucius. Old, smarmy git! I've gone unspeakably soft. All those years with those nitwits have finally gotten to me. They turned me into a twit!" And then, after an exasperated sigh, "Bollocks. I'll go with you for the last time, Lucius. I'll be at the Manor in half an hour."

"No need, no need, Severus. I will wait for you right here."

No one fooled anyone; you can be sure of that, my friends. Both wizards knew perfectly well what they were doing. It was their game, their special, perhaps slightly perverted, hussars' way of entertaining themselves.