Severus Snape stared at the formal letter of rejection and the pompous owl that brought it. Why in Hades didn't Dumbledore just tell him at dinner that he hadn't got the job? Did he have to involve all this high drama?

Snape screwed up the letter and tossed it into the fire. It flared green. As if that impressed anyone. Just soak parchment in sea water, let it dry, write upon it, and when it burns, it will burn green. No big deal. Muggles knew that one. Just who was Dumbledore kidding?

Snape flipped his wand and the owl transfigured into a ferret. It looked rather startled as it tried to fly out the window and managed only a belly flop onto the sill. Snape prodded its backside with his wand and helped it out of the window. He let it fall to within ten feet of Greenhouse Number 9(where the highly restricted plants were kept, and more than one stressed teacher made midnight forays for something to eat/put in the bath/smoke) before turning it back into an owl. Its screech of relief was heard far and wide.

Rid of the owl, Snape shut the window, and sat heavily in his armchair. The fire was its usual orange now. He'd missed out on Defence Against the Dark Arts again. How many years was it now that he'd applied and been passed over? Dumbledore was kindly, but his opinion stood.

"Don't have the right temperament," Snape grumbled. "I do so!" He blasted a vase on the mantelpiece with his wand. "Endangering young minds! As if!" He shot a stream of pure energy at a picture on the wall and the images of his parents winced before they melted. "Not fully recovered from the final Wizarding Wars? I don't think so!" Another picture dissolved.

Snape rose and paced the room. It didn't do to dwell on it. He'd simply apply next year. And the year after. Could he achieve one hundred rejection slips by the time he was sixty? He liked the idea. Exactly how many could one man get in a lifetime? No, bugger that. How many could he get in the next ten years? The next year? No, he had it! The next three months? Snape had no doubt that another application to Hogwarts for any position besides Potions Master would garner a polite 'no'.

He sat down at his desk, unfurled unpretentious parchment(no cute colours, designs, or surreptitious salt water soakings for him) and wrote off another application for the position of Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher. He considered who was on leave or retiring. He penned an application for Arithmancy Teacher, despite thinking Arithmancy was as useful as a pocket in a singlet. And of course, Professor Sprout was away on professional development, raiding Melbourne's Botanical Gardens. He put in an application for relieving Herbology Teacher, making sure he emphasised his interest in Greenhouse 9.

Now, what else could his perverse personage apply for? He sent off applications to Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, Wilkes, and Frangipani. Yeah, that'd get him some good responses of the 'sod off' variety.

He turned to his copy of the Daily Prophet. He sent off an application for chief reporter, and responded to the Employment section of the paper. What did it matter that he was overqualified, underqualified, too old, too young, or the wrong sex? It would garner him more delightful rejection slips that he could add to the pile. And when he reached his quota, he'd have a dinner party and have a ceremonial burning of them.

Snape sometimes thought that his years as a Death Eater had left him with a twisted sense of humour. And since there was no one else present, he played practical jokes on himself. Genius! Only the post owls saw him laughing. They exchanged glances and decided, on masse, to have themselves fumigated after delivering his many letters. Athena only knew what strange Wizard disease he had.

The first ten refusals were hilarious, the next ten provoked a smirk, but by the time the third round came in, Snape was no longer amused. Did no one truly want to employ him? Was he actually in the last job he'd ever have? The whole joke was no longer funny. Day after day, he tore open letters while the delivery owl scrambled out the window, and straight down to the owlery for a nice, hot bath. The letters contained all the polite terms: 'keep your application on file', 'no openings at this time', 'the position was filled'.

It was his fifth week of enduring 'no thankyou', and he was starting to see rejection everywhere. Macgonagall didn't sit near him at dinner. Why not? She hadn't found their little Astronomy Tower liaison last year that awful at the time. His mother had suggested now was not a good time to come home for a visit - what had she heard about him? Surely she wasn't hosting another Beltane celebration this year?

Snape took a sip of his whiskey and stared into the fireplace. He had one letter yet to open. Another rejection slip. Yet, if it weren't...... He'd been in this job since forever. He'd even spent his long service leave reading up on potions. If this weren't a rejection slip, he'd take it, whatever it was. He gulped his whiskey and opened the letter.

He poured himself another generous slug, drank it, then poured another. He really, really wished he didn't make binding vows to himself in his own hearing. Now he was stuck with the bloody decision.

Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts, sat around an oval table with three other people. A large heap of magazines covered the table, enough so that each person had a full year's complement of back issues. Directly across the table from Snape was a hatchet-faced witch who was introduced as Witch Weekly's beauty editor. A burly youth at the far end of the table proved to be the champion Beater for the Rookwood Ravens. Nearly in his lap was a foppish man who announced himself as Dance Instructor for the newly formed Wizard Ballet. Snape thought of them as Ugly, Brutish, and Poofy - the three dwarves. That would make him....not Snow White....Jet Black, no, nothing to do with the name 'Black'....hmmm....Slush Grey. Snape frowned. If only that didn't refer to the state of his pubic hair.

Poofy picked up a magazine. "Well, I just don't know," he said. "None of them are my cup of tea."

Ugly rolled her heavily-mascara'd eyes. "Obviously. But we have to chose a winner from amongst these young...ladies."

Snape closed his eyes. He could feel a headache coming on already. "Let's just flip a coin," he said.

"Ooooh, nonononono, we can't possibly do that," said Ugly. "We've all been chosen to do this job and do it well. We've been chosen because-"

"No one else wanted it," Snape finished. "Now, can we get on with this, please."

Grimly, he opened the cover of the May edition of Playwiz and flipped to the centrefold. He gave the witch posed there a cursory glance.

"She dyes her hair," he said. "Tacky."

Brutish peered at his own edition. "She's cute, though."

Snape held the picture up close to his face. They could all hear the tiny voice of the girl saying "Get away from me!" and "Get your nose out of there!"

"She is not eighteen!" he snapped. "More likely thirty."

Miss May said something uncomplimentary about the marital status of his parents when they had him. Snape shut her up by closing the magazine.

Ugly opened up August. "Well, what about her? She's got lovely eyes."

"Oh darling, I don't think anyone's noticed her eyes," said Poofy.

And so went the scintillating conversation all afternoon, until Snape though hari kari was a top idea. He shut his eyes and let the conversation flow over him. He was snoring when Ugly leaned over the table and tapped him lightly on the head with the November edition.

"Do you agree?" she asked.

Snape blinked. "Wha-? Oh, yes, good, we have a winner? Wonderful. We must do this again sometime this century." He stood.

The other three judges looked at him.

"I was just saying," said Ugly, in a tundra-edged voice. "I'll be away on a fashion shoot."

"And I'm in Greece for the play-offs," said Brutish.

"I can't possibly do it," said Poofy. "All those girls......oh, no, it's just not me."

They all smiled at him. Snape wondered why they were smiling. Something on his face? Messy hair? Fly undone?

Ugly pushed the November issue of Playwiz at him. "You'll have to represent us at the presentation."

Snape glanced down at the centrefold. She was upside down, but he could see she was attractive, posed on a silk-covered couch, a gown of sheerest chiffon falling down to reveal a lush body. Her legs were draped over the end of the couch and separated just enough to entice, yet not fully reveal. Her eyes stared up at him, and as he watched, her pout turned into a wide-mouthed smile. He swallowed and felt an uncomfortable rise in his trousers. Her eyes crinkled at the corners as her smile widened.

He frowned. There was something familiar.....he quickly pulled the magazine around to see it properly. Those eyes had stared at him for seven long years in the Potions lab. Challenging and provoking him. Hermione Granger stared up at him. She wrinkled her nose and blew him a kiss. Snape swallowed again, hard.

"There must be some mistake," he croaked.

Ugly trilled. "She's perfect. Everything we were looking for in a winner. Not too thin, nor too fat, beautiful skin, make up not overdone."

"Yeah," grunted Brutish. "Good muscles."

Snape could indeed see the fine line of muscle in her thighs. He felt sweat trickle down his back. He had been sorry to see Granger leave Hogwarts two years ago. She'd been the only challenge in a long line of dreary students. He'd long admired her mind, but years of teaching had schooled him to see only a schoolgirl, clad in grey and black. Now, here she was, laying open before him, a woman, unashamed.

He read the bio notes beside her picture. "Hermione Granger, 20 years old, enjoys broomstick volleyball, Muggle disco dancing, and is a student of Middle Eastern dance. She is studying Potions, Arithmancy, and Special Needs Education at Mimbin University in London, and in her spare time likes to read and cast Charms."

Snape raised an eyebrow. No mention of Potter? Surely they did everything together. Snape thought they were an easy pairing after Hogwarts, although where Weasley fitted into the picture, or the bed, was anyone's guess. He'd tried not to have many guesses at all, especially while eating.

Snape admitted that Hermione was certainly...er...champion material. She had a first class mind. Superb curiosity. Round, firm study habits. Soft, inviting essay talents. And a mouth that..... Snape pinched himself hard on the leg. A mouth that had once uttered a loud, rude bird call in his Potions class, all on a Potter dare.

All right. He would present the blasted award. It was probably a cheesy plaque, or a statue of a naked woman with her legs spread. He would then take Hermione Granger over his knee....no, no.... take Hermione Granger to bed....for god's sakes man, get it together.....take Hermione Granger aside and demand to know what the hell she thought she was doing. There!

"Very well," he said to his three fellow prisoners of the judging room.

Poofy squealed with delight, Ugly sighed with relief, and Brutish grunted his unfathomable response.

The award ceremony was horrendously well attended, in Snape's opinion. He'd pictured a small gathering in the offices of Playwiz, a handshake, and then he could escape back to Hogwarts.

The whole of Diagon Alley was closed off. Hundreds of wizards, underaged and not, milled about the street. Flourish and Blotts had stocked the reprint of November's Playwiz and many wizards clutched their copies with sweaty fingers, wanting an autograph and a word or two with Miss November.

The new editor of Playwiz stood on a dais, grinning madly and surveying his profits. Snape moaned to himself as he pushed through the crowd. Now his day was complete. Not only was one of his ex-students centrefold in Playwiz, but another of his ex-students now ran the magazine and most likely made three times as much as Snape's salary.

Draco Malfoy waved Snape over. "Professor," he said, shaking Snape's unwilling hand. "I'm honoured that you were a judge this year. It's not often we get a man of your calibre on the panel, and to be honest, it's been a struggle to get anyone at all. So when you applied....well, I couldn't resist. Step up here with me. Miss November will be here shortly."

Snape suddenly had no doubt that this schmoozy job was the pinnacle of Malfoy's dreams. The young man leaned in to him.

"Confidentially, Granger wasn't my choice. The pictures had gone to press before I came on board. She's not my type at all. Bloody Mud..er.... But-" He gestured to the crowd. "Who can say what appeals to the masses? Father laughed himself helpless when I told him." A shadow crossed Malfoy's face. "Alas, Father laughs at anything these days."

Snape well knew that Lucius Malfoy was in Azkeban.

Malfoy's face brightened. "Ah, here comes Granger now." He hid his look of distaste behind a mask of professional smiling.

A broom descended out of the sky, piloted by Ron Weasley. Why? Snape wondered. What had he done to have all this visited upon him? Malfoy, Granger, Weasley. Surely Potter would be along shortly to brighten his life. And where was Longbottom? Perhaps he could lead proceedings with a demonstration of cauldron-melting, or a repeat of his fifth year at Hogwarts when he successfully blew up every barn owl within one hundred kilometres. If only Longbottom were here to blow up Malfoy, who was leering at him, and winking. Dear gods, most of the audience was leering at him, and winking. What in Hades were they thinking?

"Oi, Judgey-boy, you sleep with her?" shouted a wag.

"What's she like in the cot?"

"Did you come by yourself, big boy?"

Snape was very experienced with his wand. He could out-duel most wizards, was expert at behind-his-back wand-waving, and a master at sneaky under-the-arm incantations. The three shouting wizards suddenly found themselves struck dumb.

Ron Weasley hovered his broom, and let Hermione descend. She was wearing fitted trousers and a clingy top that hid none of her charms. She gave Ron a kiss on the cheek and he sped away to park his broom. Then she turned her chocolatey gaze on Malfoy and Snape. She smiled tightly at Malfoy.

"Draco," she said. "How are you?"

"Excellent, Gran- Hermione. And you? This is a surprise, having you win. Good gods, having you pose!"

"What on earth possessed you, Hermione?" Snape snapped. After spending some considerable time looking at her in Playwiz, he didn't feel he needed to call her Miss Granger.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Professor Snape, lovely to see you. I hear you're one of the judges." She let her eyes skim over his form. "Interesting."

Snape gulped. What was interesting? His being a judge? The awkward bulge in his pants? What else had she heard about him? Who was spreading rumours? He'd kill them.

He regained his composure. "A surprise for both of us, then." His voice was flat. "You realise you have done your reputation and career considerable damage. I have never seen a more stupid act in my life."

Joining the Death Eaters..... the 1996 affair with Sybil Trelawney..... telling his father exactly what he could do with his inheritance..... that 1984 bout with being blonde..... going back for one more round with Macgonagall..... oh, forget it.

Hermione smiled at him as though she knew each of his indescretions. "How charming that after all this time you are finally looking out for my welfare, Severus, but since I reached my majority two years ago, my choices are my own."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "And what does Potter think of this? And Weasley?"

Her smile broadened. "Harry is suitably horrified, and Ron....you don't keep up with the careers of your ex-students, do you? Ron is a freelance photographer. He took the shots."

Malfoy broke in. "I realise this is a reunion, but we have many wizards here on their lunch hours. Shall we be getting on with this?" He cleared his throat, and spoke to the audience. "Gentlemen." He glanced around. "And the few ladies present, welcome to the Playwiz Playmate of the Year award. As you can imagine, the judging was long and hard." A rowdy laugh ran through the audience. Malfoy winked at the audience and waffled on for several more minutes before drawing to a close. "But a decision was finally made. I present to you Miss November, Miss Playmate of the Year, Hermione Granger."

The audience went wild, whistling, sending up fireworks, and in one case, turning himself into a chimpanzee. So, Neville Longbottom was present after all. Hermione smiled for her fans, waved, and began to remove her top. Snape leapt in front of her, using his jacket to shield her.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" he hissed.

"Giving my fans what they want."

"You are naïve. You'll end up raped."

Hermione tried to push Snape out of the way, her top rucked up around her armpits. "You are making a scene!" she spat. "I am in control of this situation. I have enough money now to finish my studies. I have enough publicity to fund any research I want to do afterwards. I've been offered three teaching positions."

"All on your back, no doubt. Don't you understand you are being exploited?"

She slapped his face. "If this is exploitation, exploit me some more. You are all willing to pay me hundreds of galleons to see what nature gave me. Exactly who is exploiting who?" She pushed him again but he didn't budge. He was a big man.

"What exactly are you trying to prove?"

She pummelled his chest but it made no difference. He wasn't shifting. She looked up at him.

"How do you think it felt to be known world-wide as Harry Potter's sidekick? I was the one who found Voldemort. I was the one who worked out how to get past his defences. Harry just went in and finished the job. Have you seen those bloody publicity shots? Harry standing there, all serious and intent, wand out. Ron right behind him, and then me in the background like some amorphous blob."

"If you wanted recognition, surely-"

"I wanted something that was away from Harry, something just for me, to show the world I'm more than a walking reference text."

"You certainly did that."

"I hate to break this up," said Malfoy. "But the natives are restless. Can we get on?"

Hermione grabbed at her top again and pulled it over her head. She wore nothing underneath. Snape didn't think. He reached and cupped her breasts in his large hands, effectively covering her. There was a moment frozen in time, when Hermione realised what he'd done and looked up at him. He was looking down. Their eyes held. Hermione took her wand from the waistband of her skirt.

"Apparate!" she said.

They disappeared.

Malfoy goggled. He thought this was an easy job. Check out naked chicks every month, publish dirty jokes, toss in a couple of articles he didn't understand. But now this - his very first Playmate of the Year and she nicked off with the judge.

He tried to placate the audience, who were booing.

"We want flesh!" a group shouted from the back.

There was nothing for it. Malfoy Apparated in the six-pack of Veela he had in his office. They began to dance and the audience quietened.

"You might want to let go of me now," Hermione said.

They were standing in her living room. She had a small flat in London, near Diagon Alley if one knew how and where to look.

Snape gazed down at her but didn't move. Her breasts were warm and soft in his hands, the nipples plump against his palms.

"I don't think so," he said thickly. He bent forward and kissed her. Her mouth was pliant under his and opened the way he hoped the rest of her would.

If this was another of his bad choices, so be it. At least she wasn't saying no.

Later, as they lay under the doona, her head on his chest, Hermione doodled a lazy design on his arm.

"You know, they asked me to pose again," she said.

Snape didn't bother to reply.

"They asked if I had a boyfriend. That way, we could both feature in the next edition." She reached up and kissed him. "I'm so pleased you're here. I'll tell them yes."

She was up and writing a letter for owl post. Snape rose, got tangled in the doona, then the sheets, and by the time he reached her, the owl was out the window. His wand was not handy.

Snape thought this was possibly the first time in his life he was looking forward to a rejection slip.

***** *****