Disclaimer: I don't own.
(A/N): Just a little experiment. I entertained the idea for a while and decided, what the hell, and wrote it out and posted it. Tell me what you think! I made Blaise a little more of a sluttish prick in this one but I usually think he's a *little* more sensitive haha. Hermione's a little OOC but keep in mind she was miserable and drunk
Blaise was supposed to be a player—oh, yes, that slang—for lack of better words.
He should've given her some props and a lollipop for such a plan. Should've known that Granger was indeed as smart as she let on to be.
Should've known, should've known. That's what twenty-two year old Blaise Zabini tells himself while he paces around his horribly luxurious apartment in the middle of the sodding day.
Should've known
That her little act at the bar two days ago, the scent of her perfume and the small dress she wore was somehow a part of this all.
.
.
.
Thursday night, he orders her a drink and finds himself a little smug. She nods her head slowly and he's not entirely sure she's aware who asked her. Too miserable, he's guessing, over the recent riff with Draco.
What a very unlikely pairing that was. But now they were all broken up and he kind of didn't feel bad he was hitting on his best friend's ex-girlfriend. Well, he felt bad a little, but it wasn't enough to stop the drinks from coming.
Should've known that Hermione was lying when she so callously declared that she was over Draco, should've known that there was something just a little suspicious about the way she all too quickly got Blaise to her bedroom and ripped off his clothes just around nine past two in the morning. Albeit she was somewhat tipsy, but still.
"What are you doing, hitting on a filthy mudblood like me?"
A handsome grin spreads across his lips as he takes a sip of something fancy and alcoholic. "Filthy mudblood, huh? Well Granger, you're not so bad."
Should've known, but he was basking too much in vain self-righteousness to have thought any better at the time.
.
.
.
Looks in the full length mirror placed against the wall in his spacious room. Notices the scars she left on his back from her fingernails and this irritates him more so.
.
.
.
Blaise Alesandri Zabini wasn't supposed to be in this humiliating predicament. He was the one who uses. The one that sleeps with as many girls as he fancies. Get him out of this terrible topsy turvy world.
"There're more girls that have gone in your pants than there are hairs on that girlishly neat hair you've got at the top of your head," Theodore once said to him on a bored, drunken night playing poker with all the boys. Always so eloquent that boy was.
Theodore can go eat his words now.
.
.
.
"C'mon Blaise," she teases, "Bit reluctant? I know you better," it's half-slurred when she hisses in his ear, sits in his lap, legs spread to straddle his hips and everything. "Afraid of the mudblood?"
With those simple, mocking words, she's all of a sudden the one with the upper hand. This is her version of his game. And he doesn't even feel himself losing at this point, doesn't know he's just been made the gag in the storyline this little bush head has cooked up—
No. He won't notice at all until the sun comes up the following morning and he walks out of her bedroom the next day, with his pants on and his white dress shirt barely buttoned,
only to find that Draco is in the living room, glaring at him, cursing and getting ready to hex him into the next realm.
"You slept with that bastard?" he seems mad at Hermione, who was there on the couch already, sitting pretty, with a smile that all too gloriously said I win. But the tables, oh do they turn. "Blaise, you sick motherfucker," the blonde says.
Four words, one of them being his name and Draco goes running back to Beaver in spite of the fact she slept with Blaise just to spite her ex.
And like a fallen demon, Blaise realizes that he's just been used.
oh, how his world has been illuminated. (NOT)
.
.
.
She'll apologize later, and it'll be half-hearted and he knows she doesn't really mean it, because the only thing that can ease a woman's broken heart is revenge anyway, so what's a tiny empty sorry got to do with it?
When she speaks, he feels like murdering her, and hopes for her sake that she'll shut up soon because he can't grind his teeth forever at the sound of her scholarly voice. Same voice they made fun of as teenagers whenever she answered every singly bloody question about valerian roots and Cornish pixies. Same voice that would scold Slytherins for being so rude—"don't you know the meaning of being human?"
Ugh.
If only her sixteen year old self could see her now. Screwing two Slytherins. Godric and Salazar must be turning tornadoes in their graves.
"I'm sorry. I was just hurt. But that was a one time thing. And—and I'm with Draco now, so you see, we cannot possibly, well you know."
He's speechless because she's so dumb and did she really think he cared about moving on after this?
He's dumped from a relationship he was never in and still it doesn't mean anything.
.
.
.
Walks away, she does, probably off to ride in the sunset with Draco. Well shit, now he knows what Big Weasel feels like.
Yeah, that's exactly what it feels like. Utter shit.
Grand, grand show Granger. Would you like flowers and a trophy?
...Filthy mudblood.