Disclaimer: I do not own legal rights to Harry Potter or any other Characters or places mentioned in this story. Please note that the plot is my only belonging here.

Chapter One

Blaise sat alone in the Great Hall at the Slytherin table, sipping hot chocolate and attempting the Daily Prophet's crossword. It was Sunday morning and his routine was flowing smoothly; he had awoken at four, showered, ironed his navy Burberry sweater and Armani jeans, sat down to a breakfast of English muffins, apple butter, and pumpkin juice. All done by four-thirty, right on time. By five he was drinking a cup of cocoa and reading the Daily Prophet, delivered expressly. Even Granger hadn't rolled over by now, with that in mind the young Italian smiled.

At precisely five-thirty- little did he know- his schedule would be broken, his bright day darkened, peace diminished, and his world turned upside down by a statement from one masterminded, plot-twisting girl: Ginny Wesley.

Five-fifteen came and passed uneventfully, he was stuck on 15 across: London's darkest alley. He remembered Draco saying something about it once, but Blaise just couldn't place it and he certainly wasn't asking the blonde ferret for assistance.

Five-twenty: silence was broken by the great oak doors thrown open by a frenzied- not to mention very bushy looking- Hermione Granger. Great, she's arisen again to save the house elves from certain and impending doom, he thought dryly as she strode toward a scampering house elf near his table.

"Morning, Zabini!" she chimed as she passed him, then covered her mouth. She hadn't meant to say that and definitely not so cheerily! Why? Why?! Why did her mouth always get ahead of her brain?

"Granger," he acknowledged her with a nod. A nod that seemed to say, "What cheeriness?" Reassured by that sole gesture, she carried on, placing S.P.E.W. hats in seats and on tables so house elves could easily find them.

Blaise grinned inwardly; at least she was being civil. Dimly at first, his thinking cap lit, Granger might help me with this. "Preposterous," proclaimed a small, yet undermining voice in his mind.

"Granger?" he hated himself, "erm…Could you help me with this clue?" He definitely hated himself for this. He didn't want the smirking, know-it-all snit to help him.

"Sure."

Somehow, this relieved him and irritated him at the same time. He thought he was irritated because she was being so distant and unemotional…but was that really it? Something told him that was quite untrue. As for the relief, at least he didn't have to ask Draco…but something said this, too, was quite untrue.

"What's the question?" she asked, monotonously. She was sitting beside him now, hand on his forearm, leaning in slightly, and the scent of lavender was driving his mind wild.

"Huh? Oh, right. Uhm, fifteen down…" he managed, startled from checking out the very low neckline of the sweater she was wearing…or at least imagining what it was barely hiding.

Dang! Who would've thought Herm- I mean, Granger had a body like that? I'd say it's a 38 C cup, 24 inch waist.. Probably pushing 5'4" with a size 6 shoe. He'd quickly become quite adept at guessing sizes, after all, he had gone through puberty in Slytherin.

"Uh, there is no fifteen down, Zabini. Could it be fifteen across?" still no emotion.

"Sure, that one too."

"Zabini?" Nothing. "Zabini?" A slight nod. "Earth to Zabini," this time she waved her lavendery arm in front of his face.

Snapping to his senses, "Yeah?"

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, never better." Was it me, or was that a hint of concern? Then that annoying, undermining voice reappeared; I think it was just you; why couldn't he shake that voice? "So what's the answer?"

"I was going to figure it out before you gave me the wrong clue and went blank."

"Just do it."

"Let's see, 'London's darkest alley' begins with "K" and ends with "n"…9 letters…" she muttered. Then aloud, "It's Knockturn Alley."

"Oh. I knew that."

"That all?" she seemed to be growing warmer and the lavender was almost too much. Only almost, though.

Jotting it down, he poured a cup of black tea, added a teaspoon of honey, and swept coldly out the door, leaving a broken Hermione. Or so he thought.