A/N: Vielen Dank, my beta readers Lady Arthuria, LiterallyLiterary, and Madame Cyanure! The copyright of Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling, a woman who turns words into magic.

Music is an invaluable inspiration for writing certain scenes and I don't want to deprive you of those pieces (go to my profile for the playlist):

At the airport: Kruder & Dorfmeister (K&D Sessions) Alex Reece Jazz Master

Mr. Malfoy's first appearance: Prokofiev (Slatkin interpretation/Berliner Philharmoniker) Dance of the Knights (Romeo and Juliet)

The clash of egos: Haendel (Prague Philharmonic) Sarabande

Oh, and I do appreciate reviews :-)

"No one is so brave that he is not disturbed by something unexpected." – Gaius Iulius Caesar

2 A Clash of Egos

Hermione walked with small but determined steps, passing the queue and walking straight to the counter for Business and First Class passengers. A young female station manager, wearing a hideously fake smile and far too garish make-up, greeted her as she stepped up to the desk. She handed over her trunk, showed her passport, and answered the security questions, having to speak up because of the noise beside her. The employee must have noticed her irritation, because she apologized submissively after she glanced at Hermione's frequent flyer card.

Curious, Hermione turned to the economy counter to see what the cause of the commotion was.

"…paid for the seat. You can't tell me that you gave away my seat to someone else because I showed up just on time. I'm not late!"

"Sir, we're deeply sorry but there is really no other seat available, but we can offer you a seat on the next…"

Hermione frowned at the scene. Why wouldn't the airline assign him a seat in another class? He was an old frail man and should be given some special attention.

"Miss, excuse me, why don't you upgrade him to Business or First? Surely, there is still a seat left?" the witch asked the station manager next to hers.

"Ma'am, unfortunately Business is full and we cannot...the policy does not allow us to upgrade him to First Class." The economy station manager sounded sincere.

Hermione decided not let that poor man down. "Please upgrade my seat to First and pass my Business seat to this gentleman. I'll pay for my upgrade with my miles."

Astonished, the employee complied. A genuine smile spread across Hermione's face at the sight of wide-open mouths and goggling looks that the old man and the surrounding people were giving her. The man thanked her effusively, promising to enjoy the flight.

However, the station manager frowned as she ruffled through Hermione's documents. She stared at her computer, made some hectic clicks and looked up, offering Hermione an apologetic smile. "Miss Granger, I'm afraid to say that your connecting flight from New York to Los Angeles might be cancelled due to the upcoming blizzard. We're not sure yet, but in case they close the airport, we will offer you suitable accommodation. Also, I just got the notice that this flight has a delay of half an hour. I sincerely apologize in advance for any inconvenience. Here's your boarding pass and your passport. Please enjoy your flight."

"Let's just hope for the best," Hermione answered, taking her travel documents and heading for the gates.

The ground staff watched the young woman recede in the vastness of the hall and disappear into the crowd – when an impatient clink demanded their attention.

"Ah, welcome..." she babbled, her sight still glued on Hermione Granger's figure when she finally managed to avert her eyes to take care of her next costumer.

The station manager froze in shock. Before her stood a tall man of impressive stature with flaxen hair, clad in a heavy, black, cape-like coat with a sleek mink collar, flowing elegantly down his proud figure. The way he stood, sturdy and still, while holding an ornamented cane in his gloved hand, made it unmistakably clear that he was the epitome of pride and majestic dignity. However, the man's well-proportioned yet pale face held no warmth at all. Cold grey eyes bore into the station manager, almost bringing her to her knees, wiping away the so carefully conditioned fake smile from her face.

He tapped the cane on the counter once more and she could see, much to her distaste, that its handle was shaped in the form of a snake's head with imbedded green sapphires as eyes. "This is my passport and ticket. You may find it incredibly useful for the process of assigning me a seat on this aircraft." He raised his chin and wrinkled his nose slightly in disdain.

The employee blushed in embarrassment. She was not unfamiliar with the condescending behaviour of certain customers, but the haughty drawl of the man before her made her feel like a dim-witted slut. "I'm sorry, yes, yes, of course," she blustered, taking the documents he had placed on the desk.

She was utterly relieved when the man proceeded to the gates.

"Heavens, those posh twats have a way to deal with people and make us feel like we're nothing but filth," she murmured to her colleague, who bit her lip, eyeing the man with lecherous eyes.

Hermione took a sip from the well-balanced but rich tasting Meursault Chardonnay and tried not to wolf down the meal before her; Grilled Scottish wild salmon accompanied with red fennel and light lemon risotto. The smell was simply divine but treacherous, reminding her of her boss René who was probably going to deduct those miles from her salary but at least she was able to help someone who was in dire need and enjoy the perks of luxury travel at the same time.

Screw money, what I did was worth every penny, she decided after her first bite and closed her eyes briefly to revel in the beautiful composition of tastes unfolding on her tongue. Yes, screw it.

Her gaze drifted lazily over the faces of the people in the lounge. There was a shamelessly handsome man about her age stealing glances at her. She knew that face from somewhere and it dawned upon her that she had seen him in a recent movie. What was his name again? Hugo, Hugh, Hubert? Suddenly, the actor stood up and walked towards her. Hermione's heart jumped in anticipation but much to her disappointment, he just passed by.

The all too familiar feeling of loneliness stung her heart and she scowled at the empty seat opposite of her. She missed her friends dearly, even more now, after that lovely Christmas they had spent together at Harry and Ginny's place. Just this morning she had bid them goodbye and she could still recall her friends' heart-warming hugs.

Hermione finished her meal, savouring its aftertaste, when she felt an odd tension pervading the room. Curious, she looked up and froze when she met the gaze of a familiar but unwelcome pair of cold, grey eyes.

Astonishment was followed by anger, which was immediately replaced by smug satisfaction. Hermione recalled that the Dark wizard was not allowed to possess a wand and exercise magic by law for another couple of years. He was a venomless snake, forced to adjust himself to a life worse than he could ever imagine even in his greatest nightmares.

With that knowledge, she stared back at him with the same curiosity she reserved for appalling, yet strangely sensational, exhibits in a museum. That analogy suited him well with his striking charisma that emanated an air of natural arrogance justified by blood purity, lineage, and wealth, expecting everyone around him to exercise submissive behaviour where he was concerned.

Even his attire was deployed as a proud and deliberate statement of his heritage, emphasizing his beliefs in racial disparity. But what truly astonished her was that absolutely nothing indicated his age or his imprisonment, despite the scarce, fine wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and mouth, and Hermione had to admit that Lucius Malfoy had a face made for eternity, as if chiselled from white marble by the gifted hands of Antonio Canova.

A hostess served him a glass of golden liquor and he touched her arm lightly, whispering something to her and making her throw a coquettish smile at him before leaving gracefully. It made Hermione furious to see him mocking Muggles just to provoke her.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione almost jumped. She looked up to see that the waitress who had just served Lucius Malfoy was now at her table.

"Mister Malfoy would like to ask if you'd be so kind as to join him?"

"What?" She blurted.

The woman cleared her throat in embarrassment. "Mister M-..."

"Yes, it would be my pleasure," Hermione answered coolly. She was not willing to give him the satisfaction of an open display of crude animosity that could be held against her as some sort of wicked proof for her humble upbringing or blood status.

She approached him and he raised from his seat, moving toward her as she neared the table, both only stopping after they had invaded one another's comfort zone. Provocatively, she tilted her chin up and raised her hand in greeting, making it evident how she wanted to be greeted.

Lucius Malfoy cocked his eyebrows, yet never tore his eyes from hers as he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. The touch of his surprisingly warm lips and hand felt absolutely delusive in contrast to this wizard's past, but she did not cringe. She ought to gain control of this situation.

"Miss Granger, we finally meet again," he greeted her in his cool patronising voice crawling like spiders down her spine.

A faint spicy and musky odour filled her nose, dazing Hermione to such an extent she did not notice that Lucius Malfoy made her sit down in the opposite chair by a slight but powerful motion of his arm. Hermione blushed at the realisation that he managed to exert his power on her with such ease.

"Good evening, Mister Malfoy. How are you?" She asked him politely, surprised by her own controlled demeanour.

"I live. What more can I wish for, Miss Granger?" He answered in an equal manner. "I am surprised to find you at such a place."

"The same applies to you, Mister Malfoy," she said lightly and he paused, an almost non-existent smirk tugging at his lips.

"Your friends made sure of that," he drawled and examined her from head to toe.

The hostess placed a glass of whisky before her. Neither was willing to take the conversation further. However, there was not the slightest sense of disconcertment for Hermione. This was her territory, after all.

She smiled inwardly when Lucius drained his glass. "Well, what an unconventional choice of travel for a…legend like you. Tell me, Miss Granger, what is the nature of it?"

"Work," she replied shortly. "I'm a specialist for the auction house Vuilleumier & Sons in Geneva, conducting evaluations of European medieval and renaissance books and manuscripts," she answered cautiously, trying not to give away too much information.

"A witch of your reputation and talents working for a Muggle auction house?" he said doubtingly and added haughtily, "Surely you were offered better positions at the Ministry? You would not want your abilities and influence to go to waste by working for Muggles."

Lucius Malfoy's sneer was speaking volumes. The wizard did not believe for a single moment that she was a mere Muggle employee and it did not matter how she chose to respond. Either way, he already knew there was more to her story than she was willing to admit.

"My heritage allows me the flexibility of transitioning seamlessly between both worlds," said Hermione defiantly. "And who said I was wasting my abilities?"

"Heritage, trade, talent," the wizard said softly, "It may have escaped your notice, but you share plenty of traits with the legendary heir of Slytherin."

"As much as Tom Riddle Junior and I share, it is yet very little. He met his demise and I live. What more can I wish for, Mister Malfoy?" said Hermione, satisfied with her retort.

His adamant eyes glistened but his face remained frozen. "How tactless of me to mention him in your presence. I ought to offer you an apology…if the compliment was not interpreted as such."

"Yes," she replied mildly, waiting for the apology that was never given. "But I suppose Malfoys are never taught how to issue one."

"It is an art nonessential to me, Miss Granger."

"But deceit and ruthlessness?"

"Is this how people like you refer to adaptability and the will to survive?"

"You mean Muggle-borns?"

"No. Fools."

Her eyes narrowed. "Being, as you interpret, a fool, certainly proved to be a more successful strategy than yours."

"That is because we differ on the definition of success."

"If you consider being wandless a success, then I must congratulate you. It's the wisest choice you've probably ever made."

The way he looked at her strongly suggested that he would not forget that blow. And when Lucius Malfoy replied, his voice was sharp like a Damascus steel blade; "Oh, you flatter me, Miss Granger, but I consider being alive and walking free the greater success. The inevitable inconvenience of being temporarily wandless is a small price to pay for the role I've played in the past, do you not agree?"

Hermione huffed. I could just stand up and leave.

And it might have been best if she had, but her own stubbornness held her in place, vehement that she would not concede defeat. She crossed her legs and arms, feeling his gaze wandering lazily up and down her legs – quite bluntly, yet apparently unimpressed – and she could not help but blush in indignant embarrassment. The man really knew no shame. If they both sought to survive this trip unharmed, she would have to ram some manners down his throat. And nothing was as effective as reminding Lucius Malfoy of his soft spot.

"How's Draco?"

Her opponent's expression softened just for a fraction of a moment. "Ah, very well. Draco is pursuing an academic career. Of course he excels, as I expect nothing less than excellence from my son."

"That's why we meet at such an unusual place. Well, I'm pleased to hear that Draco is faring well." And she meant it. It was relieving to discover a fraction of humanity in the Dark wizard's soul, even if it only extended to his son.

"What is he studying?" Hermione was too curious to see what his father actually thought about his son's choice.

"What do they call it? Ah, Economics." He practically spat the last word, displaying his obvious distaste.

Of all the wizards and witches who had strayed so very far from their parents' desires, the offspring of one of the most ancient and purest wizarding families had ended up studying Economics at a Muggle university. It was karma in action. His father looked like he was about to choke. Lovely.

"I didn't know he had it in him," she answered facetiously, not realising she actually smiled at Lucius Malfoy until his own lips twitched oddly in response.

"He is the fruit of my loins, after all."

Hermione groaned, contorting her reddened face in shock. "Ew! Please spare me this image!"

The wizard's lips curled into a discrete but sinister smile. "You've handed it to me on a silver platter, Miss Granger."

Hermione downed her whisky.

"Would you care for another one? I certainly would."

"Please, I insist."

Lucius Malfoy made a slight gesture with his finger and soon enough, two more drinks were served. It was unbelievable how someone with an authoritative charisma was able to control the whole environment instantaneously with such natural assurance and Hermione realised she envied him for his confidence that did not falter even in foreign climes.

But it was Lucius Malfoy and nothing about him was supposed to be admired. He was ruthless. She was almost murdered in his own home by his own sister-in-law.

The mere thought of Bellatrix Lestrange sent shivers down her spine and Hermione tried hard to suppress those memories connected to her. "I'll have to excuse myself." She stood up, barely noticing that he had mirrored the action, and headed for the toilet.

As soon she closed the door behind her, she released a shrill and frustrated cry. Her sight blurred and her hands were trembling as she lifted them to her chest, feeling her heart racing. Echoes of screams, shouts, and snivels were filling her head. Pictures of Bellatrix, memories of the torture Hermione had to endure, and Lucius Malfoy's eyes; his cold grey eyes staring at her when she was being tortured, watching her every move in naked fear. She had glared back and he had looked away. She had cried and he had retreated.

She despised him.

The witch glanced into the mirror, staring determinedly at her own reflection as she whispered defiantly, "You're Hermione Granger. You're a witch and you're alive. And you're on duty, so pull yourself together!" She pinched her cheeks, lightly slapping away the images.

Hermione fixed her chignon, straightened her cream-coloured blouse and midnight blue pencil skirt, and went out.