Prompt: #43 A visit to a museum while abroad turns up an old schoolmate, and morphs into something more over time.
Prompt submitted by: bookneko
Pairing(s): Hermione/Blaise
Word Count: 2200
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): AU, explicit sexual innuendoes, profanity, PWPish
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Enormous thanks to my wonderful beta, to mods for organising this and to for an excellent prompt.

White Nights

Hermione folded a parchment, gently straightening its tattered edges. She loved working with old manuscripts. Their stained pages, the filigree of cursive scripts and the scent of the paper – everything gave her the enthralling sense of touching history itself. Of course, the fact that at the moment she worked in the vaults of the Hermitage Museum, hidden away from Muggles, made that feeling of enchantment even more vivid. The place held so much unexplored knowledge, so many unsolved mysteries – she could sense the magic in the air, and it made every fibre of her being tremble with excitement.

Sighing, she reread her notes and closed the notebook. After two months in Saint Petersburg, she was officially done with her research. Her International Portkey would be activated tomorrow morning, and she would return to her beloved London. She glanced at her watch and drew another sigh. Despite spending eight weeks in one of the most sought-after cities of the world, she hadn't had an opportunity to actually see it. She had been so busy that she had kept putting off sightseeing for a better time. Alas, that time had never come. Naturally.

"Oh well," she muttered to herself and rose from her chair. "Perhaps one day I'll come back just for pleasure." Picking up the parchment from her desk, she carefully placed it on a shelf beside other ancient documents. Smiling as if they were her old friends, she caressed the old scrolls. Frankly, she found herself feeling oddly melancholic about leaving. She knew that it was time to go home, and yet she hesitated. Since this morning, she had had an inexplicable impression that something was supposed to happen … here … in Petersburg … today. Her intuition had never let her down before, and by now her anticipation had risen disturbingly high. She shrugged. Probably, this one time, her subconscious was wrong.

"Well, goodbye, then," she said to the scrolls, and snorted at the level of her own silliness.

The sound of the opening door startled her, and she spun around, squinting into the darkness of the corridor. "Ah, here you are, detochka*," came a voice, and Hermione relaxed, recognising the deep, mellow tones of her hostess, the century-old witch Maria Alekseyevna. "I hope you've finished your work, because I've brought someone who will take you out to see the city," Maria continued as she walked into the band of light. The bright rays that streamed from the one tiny window were caught in her impeccably styled, silver-white hair, illuminating the noble features of her face. The witch smiled, and her dark-brown eyes sparkled with mischief. "And I'm not taking no for an answer. It is your last evening in Saint Petersburg, and you haven't even seen a White Night yet."

"But, Maria …" Hermione began weakly, suspecting that resistance was futile.

"No buts, Hermione," Maria interrupted in a voice that allowed no arguments. "You are not a mouse to spend your days among dusty shelves. You are a lovely young woman, and you need fresh air. All that sitting in this stuffy old tomb is bad for your complexion. Believe me, detka*, I know."

"Yes, you ought to believe her, Granger, la grande-tante* Musya* does know everything about complexions," an oddly familiar voice interjected from the dark.

"Blasik, stop hiding and come here," Maria exclaimed with a beckoning gesture. "Here's my great-nephew, and …" She arched an eyebrow questioningly. "… if I've understood correctly, you've already met?"

"Hogwarts, tante. We met in Hogwarts." A tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped into the light, and Hermione gasped. Completely flabbergasted, she stared at the smug face of Blaise Zabini, unsuccessfully trying to make sense of the situation. Her brain, however, uncooperatively drew a blank, and she could only gape at her former schoolmate. The Hermitage Museum was the last place she had expected to meet anyone she knew, let alone this particular wizard. And Blaise being Maria's great-nephew Blasik – about whom Hermione had heard quite a lot – was unbelievable.

She had last seen him during their eighth year in Hogwarts. Blaise had been one of those who had come back to finish their education. Still shaken after the war, their small group had dropped their supposed differences and formed a tentative amity. It had been a strange year, filled with grief, loneliness, and the joy of being alive. All of them, being survivors, had gravitated towards one another, and Hermione had found herself talking to Blaise on more than a few occasions. He had proved to be a pretty fine opponent. She'd appreciated his dry sense of humour, and his penetrating gaze had always made her a bit hot. It'd seemed that he had enjoyed her company as well, and if she remembered accurately, in a moment of peculiar madness, she had even entertained the idea of meeting him after Hogwarts. She had managed to forget everything about those funny feelings after getting her N.E.W.T.s, though. She had been too busy living her new life.

Now, as she eyed his handsome face, all those thoughts suddenly returned and filled her head with their wild buzzing.

"Hello, Granger. Long time no see. I've heard you've been doing splendidly." Blaise gave her a toothy smile.

Still shocked, Hermione only managed a slight nod.

The wizard approached her, and peering into her eyes, stated with mock concern, "Well, I think Musya is right. Sitting in this stuffy room has made you unusually quiet. Don't worry, though, that much-needed fresh night air is only steps away, and your escort awaits." He bowed theatrically and offered her his arm.

Maria, who all the while had watched them in silence, sprang into action. Shrugging off her shawl, she covered Hermione's shoulders and lightly nudged her towards Blaise, saying, "Go, detka, go. There is more to life than old scrolls."

"But my work?" Hermione muttered, finally coming out of her stupor.

"I'll send it to your flat. Don't worry," Maria reassured her, and, turning to Blaise, added, "Blasik, va et conduis-toi bien. N'oublie pas que tu es de bonne famille.*"

"I won't, Musya, I promise." Blaise sent an air-kiss to his great-aunt and, returning his attention to Hermione, held out his hand and murmured, "My Lady?"

The amber glint of his dark eyes caught Hermione by surprise, and, as if hypnotised, she placed her hand in his waiting palm. His warm fingers intertwined with hers, and he whispered in her ear, "I hope you are ready for an adventure. White Nights in Saint Petersburg have always been believed to be magical and mysterious. Anything can happen tonight …"

Outside, Saint Petersburg met them in all its lustrous glory. The night was warm, and truly as bright as day. The humid air, filled with the intoxicating scent of lilac and jasmine, wrapped them in its soft, iridescent blanket. The old, cobbled streets, bathed in a pearly glow, beckoned them, and the city did indeed seem magical. Adeptly, Blaise led her through the labyrinth of old boulevards, along the canals and over the bridges, never once letting go of her hand.

Frankly, she didn't mind. Perhaps there was something magical in the air. Or maybe, it was the fact that the streets were flooded with people. Happy people. People in love. That dreamy, romantic atmosphere engulfed her, drowning her usual rational self in an all-encompassing need to feel, to be happy, and making her forget everything else. Surrounded by laughing, dancing and kissing couples, she found herself also wanting to laugh, dance, and be kissed. So she allowed Blaise to hold her hand, and when his thumb began to trace soft circles on the back of her hand, she welcomed his subtle caress with excitement.

She wanted it. In all honesty, at that precise moment, she wanted more. Much more. Listening to his tales about the old city, she couldn't help letting her eyes linger on his full lips, imagining how delicious they would taste. Her fingertips longed to trace the strong contour of his jawline, touch his thick, wiry curls. It was embarrassing, really – she'd never had that kind of reaction before.

Of course, Blaise noticed her silly predicament right away, and being a Slytherin through and through, he couldn't deny himself the pleasure of teasing her. As he was telling her about the Decembrists and Dostoevsky, he let his voice drop to a low, silky purr. Hermione was sure that he was deliberately whispering all those historical facts right into her ear, making her tremble every time his lips (ostensibly by accident) brushed over her earlobe. Bastard! Incredibly attractive bastard, that is!

"And here is my great-grand uncle – Pushkin, Alexander Sergeyevich," Blaise announced, when they stopped in front of the statue of a man with a proud stance, his haughty head raised high and his hair curling wildly around his face.

There was something familiar in the name, but it took Hermione a minute to recall it. "Wait, I know him. He wrote Eugene Onegin. Right?" She squinted at the statue and blurted in astonishment, "Merlin, you do look like him. You have the same profile, and his hair is just like yours. But how? How is it possible?"

Blaise chuckled and winked at her. "My family has a long history, darling. One day, I will tell you everything, I promise." Capturing her eyes with his gaze, he went on, "So, you know Onegin, eh? Impressive. What about this?" He pressed her hand to his chest and, flattening her palm over his hammering heart, began reciting in that irresistibly seductive voice of his,

I love you – though I rage anew
And struggle vainly in distress,
And at your feet, I now confess
This foolishness to you!
This ill befits my age, and I…
Should know: enough is enough!
But all the symptoms here imply
That I am plagued with love:
Without you near – I'm feeling bored;
With you – I feel estranged now;
But I can't speak a single word
Of how I love you, angel!
When, from the living room, I hear
Your girlish laughter in the distance
Or when I see you walking near,
I lose my mind that very instant.
You'll smile – and my joy is real;
You'll turn away – I pine;
And my reward for this ordeal –
Your pale-white hand in mine.*

He concluded his recitation by bringing Hermione's hand to his lips. Gently nibbling on her knuckles, he muttered, his breath impossibly hot against her skin, "Granger, Granger, Granger, do you feel this pounding? It's my heart beating for you, trying to break from my chest, and it's all your fault. Don't you know that you can't give a man hope and then disappear without a trace? Where did you go after Hogwarts? I looked for you everywhere for so long … I almost gave up. Finding you here in Piter* is a miracle. My very own White Night miracle."

"Oh God," Hermione breathed out, "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Shh." He pressed his thumb to her lips, and slowly dragging it over her bottom lip, whispered, "Just a heads-up, Granger: I'm too thirsty for you to go slow. So, I'm going to kiss you now. I'll push my tongue into your mouth and drink you until your lips become swollen, and you will quiver with desire. Are you all right with that?"

Smitten and eager, she nodded. "Yes."

Pleased with her compliance, Blaise stepped closer and, winding his arm around her waist, pressed her to his hard, muscled thigh. "Good," he said. "Next, I'll Apparate us to my bedroom and take you every way imaginable. Slow and gentle at first, I'll lick and prod your every crevice. I'll make you beg for my cock, and then, I'll fuck you … on every surface I'll find. Your voice will turn hoarse from crying out, because I'm going to give you one orgasm after another, and another … and another. By the time I'm done with you, you won't be able to walk straight. Do you hear me?" Grasping her chin and lifting her face up, he asked, his voice deep and passionate, "Will you allow me to do that to you, Hermione? Will you?"

Almost undone by the pictures his words had painted in her mind, she managed another husky, "Yes."

"Do you want all that?" he demanded. "Do you want me, Hermione? Tell me?"

"I want you," she shouted and, without warning, clasped his face between her palms and attacked his lips.

"That's my girl," he chuckled against her mouth. "I knew you would be pure fire."

Hermione didn't return to London the next day, or the day after. They came back together only at the beginning of July, right after the third and last week of White Nights had ended. Thereafter, for many, many decades, in June, Mr and Mrs Zabini travelled to Saint Petersburg to see that curious phenomenon that happens when the sun does not descend far enough below the horizon for the sky to grow dark, and, of course, to celebrate their anniversary.

fin

Detka (Russian) – a girl (baby)
Detochka (Russian) – a girl (baby)
La grande-tante (French) – great aunt
Musya (Russian) – nickname for Maria
Blasik (Russian) – invented nickname for Blaise
Va et conduis-toi bien. N'oublie pas que tu es de bonne famille. (French) – Go and behave. Don't forget that you're from a good family.
The poem that Blaise recites is 'Confession' by A.S. Pushkin
Piter (Russian) – nickname for Saint Petersburg