author note:
greetings! so i just wanted to throw this up here. it will probably continue for a little bit, but it wont end up being very long. if any of you read my story paradise lost, i am very very sorry that i have not updated in awhile, but i will very soon (i swear!). but until then, here is a different story to hold you over. i should really just stick to doing one at a time, but eh! where is the fun in that?
il principe, one
Princes, thought Blaise Zabini as he presumptuously marched along a dark corridor towards the library, either kept their promises or broke them, told the truth or distorted it, sought popularity or ignored it, advanced public welfare or disrupted it, and conciliated their neighbours or destroyed them--depending merely on which courses of action seemed the best means of advancing their political interests.
Blaise, correctly or not, had always fancied himself to be rather Machiavellian. He was a Slytherin, after all, and therefore pre-programmed to be ambitious and deceptive. And, if Blaise admitted it (and he often did) he was rather cunning. Though Blaise was also rather wrong about some aspects of his character, he was extraordinarily intelligent. It was through this gift that he was able to perceive and control the solidarity of the Slytherin house. Blaise understood completely that he could neither be hated and feared nor loved and admired. If he wanted to enhance his political agenda, Blaise would have to appear as aloof and controlling as he could, which he did.
It was by staying neutral in issues like blood matter while only allowing the rest of his house to assume his stances that Blaise had commanded respect from all years. It was by studying in private that he made it appear as if he were completely naturally brilliant. It was by avoiding the rest of the school in shadows that he became the awed figure that he was to the Slytherins. While Draco Malfoy paraded his faults in front of the entire school, Blaise remained the true Slytherin prince. For while Malfoy was mocked by Potter and his sidekicks, Blaise remained a mystery to the other students. While Malfoy was humiliated by getting turned into a ferret in the middle of a hallway, Blaise was able to keep his dignity and façade intact.
Yet it was on one particular March morning as Blaise strutted through the shelves in the library that his carefully constructed web began to tangle. Blaise moved sleekly across the shadows of the musty books, carefully seeking out his quiet corner. It was one of the more dim ones, where Blaise had always been able to procure a slightly worn armchair and a single mahogany table on which he could carefully organize his layers of homework that he then completed in his specific shade of green ink with crisp even handwriting.
On this particular morning, however, a bushy haired Gryffindor commonly known by the name Hermione Granger currently occupied his chair. To make matters worse, Granger was not only sitting in his chair, she was sobbing in it. Blaise glared at a tangle of curls as a particularly wet drop splashed against the fine leather. Blaise at this point was in no mood to deal with a Gryffindor, let alone Granger, let alone when she was crying.
Blaise did not actually have any problem with Granger and her friends. In truth, he thought their spars with Malfoy were rather entertaining. Moreover, though he would never admit it to anyone (ever), he was almost afraid of Granger. He saw the bruise that lingered on Malfoy's cheek for almost a month, and he was pretty confident that all of her excessive studying had led her to be rather deadly with the wand too.
All of Blaise's confidence could not help him at this point. He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot debating the situation. On the one hand, he could abandon Granger to her tears and find another section to work in, or rather come back later. But Blaise was somewhat stubborn, and really did love that chair. Furthermore, that Transfiguration essay really had to be written. Gulping nervously, Blaise realized that there was only one option available: get rid of Granger.
Sucking in a deep breath, Blaise mustered up all the Slytherin spirit, sneers, and sarcasm within him. "Excuse me, Granger," he drawled in a particularly aristocratic tone, "but your incessant sniffling is ruining my chair."
Blaise commended himself, Snape would be proud. To his dismay, however, his words did not seem to phase Granger at all. Instead, she gave a snort of laughter. Blaise recoiled back, appalled. How dare she laugh! That was a rather good, too. It also did not help that combined with the tears; the snort was really unattractive and produced a large amount of lachrymose drops as well as snot, which Granger proceeded to wipe defiantly on her sleeve.
Shocked, Blaise stood there in horror. Things did not improve when Granger brushed herself off and stood up to face him. Oh God! He thought in dismay, This is it, here comes the punch. Closing his eyes, he turned his face to the side, expecting that any second a loud smack would go ringing across his high cheekbones.
….
Nothing happened.
Confused, Blaise peeked open one eye to reveal a completely perplexed Granger, who had twisted her face up as she peered at him.
"Uh, Zabini, what exactly are you doing?"
Blaise stiffened, awkwardly, "You just…I thought…hit…Malfoy…uh-" Blaise stuttered uncertainly, all of his careful Machiavellian thoughts pushed out of the way by sheer confusion. He could not even get his haphazard speech out, however, for Granger immediately started laughing hysterically. That's it, thought Blaise, the girl is more insane than Dumbledore.
Doubled over, the Gryffindor continued to laugh, wiping tears from her eyes.
"Thank you, Zabini, really. I was rather upset before, but you definitely cheered me up," still laughing, she reached over to shake Blaise's hand. He limply agreed, continuing to stare at her wide-eyed.
"Whats wrong? Looks like you've been invested by a nasty wrackspurt if you ask me. Or maybe a blibbering humdinger." Still chuckling, Granger picked up her bag and walked out of the library calmly, as if nothing had taken place. Defeated and confused, the Slytherin prince sank into his comfortable chair. It would be several minutes before he remembered the essay