Hermione leaned heavily into her booth, her glass of firewhiskey just barely lingering at the edge of her fingertips. She ordered it mostly so she wouldn't look suspicious, and she didn't want to drink it before her companion arrived, lest she forget important details, muddle up her explanation, and botch this entire enterprise. Still, she had endured a difficult enough few days that she ached to drink to excess, to forget what she learned, to erase those details from her mind forever.
Her father was not her father; her heritage, the one she was so proud of, was not hers to claim anymore. It was all a lie, fabricated by her mother and father, used to keep her safe for twenty-two some-odd years. How amusing (in an existential, completely unamusing type of way) that it would all come crashing down like this.
Against her better judgement, Hermione took a long swig from her glass of firewhiskey, rationalizing that she surely couldn't get drunk from one sip, and she deserved it, dammit. It tasted like ash, she reflected numbly, swallowing it anyway. How appropriate.
"Hermione Granger, drinking alone?" his voice was just as baritone, just as silky as she remembered. "My, my, what an interesting specimen."
Blaise Zabini slid into the booth across from her, motioning wordlessly to the bartender for something with just two fingers. Hermione watched him do it bitterly, already wishing she'd been at least half drunk for this. He tilted his head to take her in, the same way he always looked at her, but this time he looked like he pitied her. The thought made her sick. She mirrored his movement, taking in the pressed dark purple robes and handsome face, devoid of even a hint of stubble. She knew she looked far more wretched, in her Muggle jeans and tank top, but that's what living in exile did to you, she supposed.
"So which god did I please in order to get an owl from Miss Hermione Granger, fugitive war criminal? I figured you and your lot would still be in Stockholm," the bartender slid a glass of red wine so dark it could have been blood over to him, and he cradled it delicately. "It took me hours to decode your message, by the way. You're lucky I didn't give up."
"Do you always talk like this?" she asked, polishing off her firewhiskey.
"Eloquently, beautifully, like an aristocrat?" Blaise sipped from his glass so shallowly he might as well have not sipped at all. "Absolutely."
"Can we just get on with it?" she asked. "I didn't come here to have a drink with you."
"And yet, here you are," he said, his long index finger indicating her empty glass. She scowled even deeper, and he finally relented. "Fine. Why exactly did you contact me? You have some news you'd like to trade for a day pass back to Wizarding London? I'm sure Minister Rosier would be okay with that."
"I'm not here for your Dark Lord or your idiotic Minister," she hissed, careful to keep her voice low.
"Careful now, Miss Granger, you're not so beautiful, intelligent, or important that someone won't take offense to your words," his charm was suddenly gone, and for some reason, that comforted Hermione more. "Why are you here, then?"
"After the war…ended," she hesitated over the word, "I went to find my parents where I hid them, so I could remove their memory charm. After I did, I explained to them what happened, and why they could never return to their home. My mother, upon hearing that your side was, for lack of a better word, victorious –"
"Of course there's no better term, that's exactly what we were –"
"Decided to tell me the truth," she continued like he hadn't spoken. "Her real name is Penelope Parkinson –"
"Holy shit –"
"She is a Squib, cast into the Muggle world by her family when they realized her magical powers would not manifest in a way that was conducive to keeping the family honor intact," Hermione spat. "And my father –"
Suddenly, her words were gone. It was bad enough to be related to Pansy fucking Parkinson, but the rest of it? The rest of it was unbearable. At least with a Squib mother, she could still claim that she was mostly Muggleborn, if she wanted. She could, in much the same way the rest of the Wizarding world would, claim that with no magical powers, her mother was not really a witch. She could pretend that nothing changed.
"So you're a half-blood?" Blaise asked, his wine all but forgotten. "As interesting and surprising as that is, I'm not sure what that means for me."
She shook her head, trying to figure out a way to say what she had left without just blurting it out. Blaise was still watching her closely, his attention doubled now that she had dropped the surname of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. How typical, she wanted to sneer.
"My father is…not my father," she finally settled on.
Blaise didn't answer, but watched her carefully, waiting for her to continue. When she didn't, he reached for his wine glass and took a much longer sip than before, leaving a red line behind on the glass where the wine had settled for just a little too long.
"Then…who is?" he asked. "It's not…it wasn't one of my mother's husbands, was it?" he asked, looking suddenly horrified.
"Try not to look so offended that I might be even distantly related to you through marriage," she sniffed. "My dirty Squib blood isn't anywhere close to yours."
"You know, despite the scandal that comes with producing a Squib, I've never really held grudges against them," he said, a trifle softer than before. She shrugged, wishing she had another drink. "Who is your father, Granger?" he asked.
"Evan Rosier."
Blaise's flat was (of course) a penthouse, with more open space than one man needed, and decidedly opulent. "My mother's insistence," he had protested half-heartedly when Hermione commented on the décor. Truly, there did seem to be a bit of a feminine quality to the careful placement of priceless vases and pieces of art, but Hermione didn't press further. She didn't want to talk about people's relatives anymore, or ever again. Instead, she plopped down gracelessly on the couch, and let her head fall back against the cushions, staring at the tall ceilings.
"Are you sure you want to meet him?" Blaise asked for what must have been the hundredth time. "You're not at all scared about what he's going to do? The man is the Minister for Magic. If he decides –"
"If he decides I'm a blemish on his reputation, I'm as good as dead," Hermione finished. "I know what the risks are."
"And you're still going to go through with it?" he asked incredulously. "I suppose putting you in Gryffindor was the best choice after all."
"I'm not saying it's a smart strategic move," she pointed out. "But my mother insisted that I at least let him know that I exist, even if I just end up going into hiding again."
"You could send an owl," Blaise replied.
"I could," she agreed.
He perched himself at the edge of the couch, watching her closely again, as if studying her for a tell. "But you won't?"
"Zabini, do you know why I owled you, out of all of the former Slytherins?" she asked, letting her head turn lazily in his direction. She could feel the three glasses of firewhiskey burning in her gut. "Because when we were in school, I heard you tell Malfoy that you thought I was hot. That was…how long ago?"
"It was in our sixth year, so close to seven years ago," he said with a half-smile. "You heard that?"
She swiveled her head (Merlin, it was getting heavy) to look at the rest of the flat again. "I figured, at least, your curiosity to see me would win out, and you wouldn't send my owl straight to your Dark Lord. I figured I would pique your curiosity."
"You always have, Granger," he replied, so simply that she knew it was true.
"Do I still?" she asked. He was just close enough that she could slide her hand from her side onto his thigh. He glanced down at it, and back to her, before sliding gracefully onto the couch beside her.
"Granger –"
"That's not my name," she interrupted.
"Hermione, then," he relented. "This is…not a good idea."
"You seem to have a lot of opinions about my ideas lately, Zabini," she tilted her head just enough to catch his profile in the little bit of light the room provided. "Perhaps I did owl the wrong Slytherin."
"I didn't say that," Blaise protested weakly, turning closer to her so her hand slid farther up his thigh. He still looked maddeningly calm. Hermione was suddenly filled with a rush of something akin to dislike. How dare he look completely unbothered by her hand on his leg. Did he think he was so desirable that any woman would do what she was doing now?
"Then what are you saying, Zabini, because I'm becoming very impatient," she coaxed, shifting so she was facing him completely.
"You've had quite a bit to drink –"
"So have you –"
"And what about Weasley?" he asked. "Surely he wouldn't approve."
She removed her hand from his leg and slid onto his lap. "I don't want to talk about Ron Weasley," she said firmly. "I could die tomorrow, Zabini. Don't you want to give me a night to remember?"
His hands had come to rest at her waist, his thumbs brushing just high enough to reach the underwire of her bra. "Usually we call that manipulation."
"Think of it as a negotiation," she corrected, leaning forward on his lap so she could just barely brush his cheek with her lips. "I won't tell if you won't."
His hands dropped to her thighs, where they squeezed when she exhaled a shaky breath down his neck. "Hermione –"
"Or I can go," she said, leaning back on his lap like she was going to slide off and back onto the couch. But his hands released her thighs to snake around her back and he was pulling her against his chest, kissing her with a fervor that could almost make her forget why she was here, why she had come back at all.
That's what she wanted to do, she thought as she immediately reached for his belt. She wanted to forget. Tomorrow, she could die, she could change her entire life, but tonight, tonight she didn't have to be anyone but who she wanted to be. She could feel alive.