Of Lion Manes and Veela Feathers
As the Wizarding World begins to pick up the pieces after the war, Hermione Granger finds her fate entwined with one particular Slytherin. AU fanonBlaizexHermione + other pairings
Rated M
disclaimer: No matter how many books or DVDs I buy, I'll never own Harry Potter.
Her breath, her darkened curls, her body, were soft against him. She was real; she was here in his arms; she had accepted The Mark. He was so happy. It made everything else he had worried about, all his other actions seem so...pointless and childish, now. There were things he had to worry about of course, things that were now dependent on her, but for now, he wanted to focus on the moment they were sharing together. She would sleep until morning, a side effect from the Marking—plenty of time for him to be in bliss with her.
He remembered his father telling him about it, what would happen when he realized who his mate was. And he remembered the dream he had had the night before he turned 18 with clarity, the moment it had gone from absolute darkness to color and light and her. And most especially the feeling that had greeted him when he awoke and said her name:
Love.
Pure love.
As simple and certain and unquestionable as that.
He spent days reliving every vague memory he had of her. He had assured his mother that he could wait until the school year started, that he was sure she'd be there when Hogwarts opened its doors and he would try his best to tell her then. And he believed he could make her understand, that he could be himself—human—and make her see. But all of a sudden, there were reports of the war coming to a head somewhere in the countryside back in Wizarding Britain. That Death Eaters and their resistors had gathered in a town, with people from both sides coming and fleeing...or dropping to the ground in death. That The Dark Lord and Harry Potter were locked in battle.
Blaise knew Hermione had to be there and he continued to dream and worry about her, the image in his mind so safe, while the real one was far away and fighting for her life. Close to three weeks had passed when he couldn't take it anymore. He didn't care about the neutrality his mother desired so much; he didn't care if his being there made him a target, a "blood traitor." He was going there to join Hermione, to fight beside her.
The war was declared over the day he had finished packing his things. And then what followed were reports of wanted Death Eaters—classmates, some of whom he recognized, Goyle, Crabbe, and others—and funeral rites, the names and pictures of the honored dead in The Daily Prophet. He was sure she wasn't coming back to Hogwarts, that she'd join the effort to find the deserters with Potter and Weasley—sodding Potter and Weasley, the two guys that could keep her from him.
It was the venom in that thought that had given him pause. He had never been jealous before, but the dream he had had right after these feelings had been known to him, the one where he had finally found Hermione and she rejected him because she was Gryffindor and he, he was Slytherin, had sent him over the edge.
He was inconsolable. There was nothing his mother could do to talk him down from the desperation he felt...a fog had appeared in his head, one that kept Hermione's image close to him. He wanted that vision all to himself, and he became angry that his mother was trying to bring him out of it. He had been aware of his sudden anger, of things in their home being broken by him, but didn't know who it was that had restrained him that night, just the feeling of hands keeping him down and the men shouting spells to stun him. When it, the smoke in his mind cleared for the moment, he was in their drawing room unable to move but able to overhear someone speaking about something...him.
"...She says...she doesn't know what else to do. That she cannot help him or keep him here. He may hurt himself or someone else...She's asking you to please, please keep him at the castle..."
And in the next moment, when he reemerged from the fog once more, he was back at school in the Heads Quarters...and still without her.
"Mr. Zabini, I can assure you that Miss Granger has accepted her duty as Head Girl and will be arriving to school upon the beginning of the term," Professor McGonagall said to him, her hand grasping his tightly. She had been visiting him the morning after the day he believed was after his arrival, her face pinched at the fact that his breakfast laid untouched and he was despondent to her attempts at conversation. "She has not sent a letter telling us that she would not be arriving. I have begun research about what is happening to you. I am trying to do my best to prepare an explanation of the situation and your behavior upon her arrival."
"It...it doesn't matter. She wouldn't accept. She's Hermione Granger, part of the 'The Golden Trio,' and she, she'll see me as a, a, a Slytherin...and she won't want me."
"Mr. Zabini, all of that is in your mind! I am sure that Miss Granger doesn't hate you because of your house. You must be patient."
But he didn't feel like talking about it anymore. It hurt too much. He brought himself up and walked over to a chair in the common room, settling unto the leather and letting whoever it was talk about whatever it was they were on about.
"...Minerva, you must have Hermione come to school early. He isn't improving. He doesn't feed himself...that walk will be the most he'll move until I move him..."
Voices swirled around him from time to time after that, but he didn't care about what they said. He only came out of that fog once more, and was greeted with the picture they had placed outside of the quarters. A scene at a party that had a woman that looked enough like her to him, but she called herself Antoinette. He couldn't remember questioning if her image was there on purpose.
"I've asked the headmistress, Mr. Zabini, she says that Miss Granger will be arriving on the morrow. You must be happy about this news."
He smiled sadly. "She won't come. She won't come or accept me as her mate..."
"Mr. Zabini, schoolhouse loyalties only extend as far as Hogwarts' own walls. And if you are certain that she is as worldly as you've led me to believe, you should not be so worried."
"…I had another dream about her last night… can I tell you about it?"
Antoinette hesitated for a moment before giving herself away to graceful resignation."...Yes, of course."
"...Whenever I close my eyes, I see her. She is the most beautiful girl I've ever seen—you'd understand if you saw her. Her hair, every curl, seems to be like a..."
And then, somehow in the midst of the fog that had returned soon after that, there was the sound of the door opening and a smell, a smell that dissipated through the haze he had made his home. Like vanilla and blackberries and a unique smell, a cleanliness he loved even though he never encountered it before. And then a voice...more like a hiss of pain that snapped him awake and forced him to be lucid. He made a motion in his seat. "Um," he struggled to remember the woman's name, the one whose voice that always introduced itself to him and swirled around him time to time. "Madam, Madam Pomfrey?"
"...N-no. It's Hermione."
Impossible. It couldn't be; she wasn't going to come back. And if she was, she wasn't going to come to him. He was her enemy...but still... "Hermione? You're here?" He stood and found her in the firelight. Summer, in spite the difficulties and hardships she must have faced throughout the season, had been good to her. Those wide, chocolate-brown eyes staring at him, those beautiful, relaxed curls framing her face, the clothing he never made up for her in his head, her fragrant skin. She was so beautiful to him, even more so than in his dreams; the love he had grew stronger.
But Blaise recognized the fear she had towards him.
"Um um um, yes I am." Her eyes met his.
Knowing that she was afraid of him did hurt, but still... "...I'm glad."
The moment he said those words, something about him seemed to come and reach out for her. Everything he had been feeling since that first night...the yearning he had had to have her before his eyes, and something else that was primal and not entirely him...the Veela side of himself making itself known, the carnal need for her. The need to have her, this beautiful woman, as his once and for all; to make her his.
His eyes didn't pull away from hers, but he reached out for her, the sight of her teeth biting into the plumpness of her bottom lip affecting him so much, he had to lick his own to stop from kissing her. "I'm glad." He moved closer to her and put his hands in those curls of hers, toffee-brown in the dark. Some part outside of himself watched in wonder as she, some part of her, reached up and touched him with her hands.
And, just as his father described it, he felt her: her confusion at what was going on; her suspicions about what was happening between them; her waning resistance; and the growing arousal...and acceptance. It brought him closer to her, brought his hands to touch her more. This touch was real; her reaction and exhales were real and laced with desire for him. He was convinced it was reciprocal. "I'm glad," he repeated. That was an understatement.
"I...am...too..." She leaned into his hand, sighed against his touch. Those brown eyes of hers were darkening and the pink bow of her mouth was so inviting.
And he found himself unable to hold back anymore. He kissed her, and the rest was pleasure...
Now, in the dark of the common room, he had given her The Mark. He figured putting it on the side of her neck was best since the bruise would be visible for awhile. Although, he realized, she probably has more than that one bruise.
This was only the beginning, and yet, Blaise was ready for what came next. "Hermione, I love you," he said again to the sleeping woman in his arms. He slowly rose and carried her to her room and placed her in her bed. "Good night." He walked over to her desk and sat down. He didn't feel tired yet, so he made himself comfortable as he watched her and the stars appear outside and listened as the room was filled with the music of her breathing.
The next thing he knew, that music was being cut off by a gasp of surprise.
The sound, quiet and unfamiliar, jerked him from sleep. Blaise jolted up and stared around him wildly, the room's layout, the cherry wood bedroom set, all unrecognizable to him. His hand ran itself through his own thick hair. He couldn't exactly remember how he got here; hell, he didn't even remember putting on the clothes he was wearing. But then he looked over at her lying on her bed, bewildered, and then it all came rushing back.
It must have been the same for her as well, judging from the way she gripped her blanket, trying her best to hide her opened dress from him. She looked even better in the morning, those curled eyelashes, the sun illuminating the strands of copper in her hair, the tiny bit of sunburn on her cheeks...and the slight swell of her lips, he noticed.
"Why—why are you in here?"
She apparently wasn't much for saying "hello" or "good morning."
"I brought you here after last night and then stayed—just in case you needed something."
Her hand touched her neck and she looked at her fingertips and then at him, eyebrows crinkled in disbelief. "You...you bit me!"
He wanted to laugh, but felt that that wouldn't be good for this moment. "I Marked you. It is something Veelas do upon meeting their mate; it...connects them." He recollected his father's words from long ago. He neared her, his face a mask of concern. "It will bruise for a moment, but does it hurt? Maybe I can ask the house elves for ice." He reached out to brush his fingers across her cheek, which was reddening. Him acting like this towards her, he knew it was strange—but it felt good. He found he wanted to be that way for her.
She apparently wasn't one for masking her thoughts either. His blue eyes noticed her steeling her jaw, trying to focus on...something...whatever was affecting her. Something about him no doubt. "You said yesterday, before I fell asleep, that you loved me."
"Yes." He murmured. He was surprised she had heard that.
"Why?"
He blinked out of the trance he had had. "Why do I love you?"
"Yes, why? Is there something—I mean...well...wouldn't a Pureblood be better suited for you?"
His hand dropped from her cheek and instead rested on the bed, near hers. A million thoughts and reasons ran through his mind about "Why": from her name and the way it sounded; to her voice, its pitch and timbers and ring of confidence; to her eyes and nose and lips and hair and sun-kissed skin; her dedication to her studies, her thirst to be a smarter and better witch; her inner strength and her ferocity. And yet, when his mouth opened after a period of thought, he said the following:
"I just do."
"...And the bond we have...it's unbreakable."
He balled a bit of blanket in his hand, trying not to show his surprise at her interrogation. Blaise didn't know what he was expecting from her so soon, but it wasn't these questions. "Yes, Hermione," he said with a sort of finality, "it's unbreakable."
There was a long silence between them as his confirmation settled in the room. And then her demeanor changed. He watched her face strain to keep itself stoic, but her nose was reddening and her eyes were watering. She wriggled from under her blanket, scooting little by little off the bed, her hands trying to button and straighten her dress. "Do you, do you want to go get something to eat? Breakfast? Um, brunch?" He followed her eyes in their search for the clock that indeed said Brunch.
"Yes. Yes I would." His brow furrowed. "Hermione—"
"—Okay, so let's both go to our rooms and get ready. Maybe we can take an hour to clean up." The way she moved quickly across the floor, trying to make herself decent, grabbing her bags and searching inside her perfectly packed suitcase for her toothbrush and soap made him stand up as well, his senses heightened. There was something wrong with her; it was like she was unaware that he could tell she was upset and unhappy. He wanted to say something to her as he noticed her hand wiping at her face, but suddenly (he didn't know quite know how)he was outside her door. He could still hear her though—a squeaking, hiccupping sound; the way she stomped or ran towards her bathroom; and a sharp sob before she slammed the bathroom door.
They didn't talk as they walked towards the Great Hall for lunch, minus him complimenting her outfit, the billowy pistachio-colored shirt, jeans, and sandals; her reply of the same vein; and their greeting to Antoinette and her party. Despite the fact she looked completely calm, there was nothing about her expression or body language that the quarter-Veela could read as tranquil, and so he lapsed into the silence.
The Great Hall was empty, the only other seats being filled by the Headmistress and the few and new professors that had arrived to school early. He gave a small grin and nod to his favorite instructor, Professor Vector, before pulling out Hermione's seat and settling in the one beside her and eating the food in front of them: salad, sandwiches, and soups.
Somehow, the sight of all the food in front of him brought on a fierce hunger he wasn't expecting. As much as he allowed himself to be chivalrous and let the brunette get what she wanted, he found himself eating two sandwiches and reaching for a third, only using his soup to soften the bread as he swallowed it. He didn't even really care if anything dripped on the white shirt he wore; he had never been this hungry before.
Footsteps clicked sharply against the floor towards them. "Miss Granger, Mr. Zabini."
"Headmistress, Madam Pomfrey." Hermione sullenly greeted the two women.
If the headmistress noticed her tone, she didn't speak on it. "I want you two to join me in my office later on tonight. Since you are both are here early, it is best if we begin to prepare for the students next week: protocol for certain situations; your responsibilities to the Prefects; rules I want to implement; an icebreaker between you and the new professors; things we may have to keep in mind in the first few weeks and the like."
"Yes. Of course."
"Blaise," Madam Pomfrey's hand pressed on his shoulder as he sipped some of his pumpkin juice, "I am happy that you are out and about, and your appetite has returned to you."
He swallowed. "Pardon?" He looked at the woman confusedly.
"Your appetite. This is the most you've eaten since your arrival. I thought you may not have remembered, but a lot of the meals you were given, you wouldn't eat without my assistance. I am happy that you are," her eyes suddenly seemed to switch between him and Hermione as she realized what she was revealing, "doing well," she said in a quieter voice.
He gave her a smile, not outwardly affected by the awkward moment that followed. "Yes...I would like to thank you—and Headmistress—for your attention to my health. I truly appreciate it."
Madam Pomfrey smiled brightly at him. "We are just happy that Miss Granger arrived and you are fine now."
In the corner of his eye, he spied the brunette placing her soupspoon down, uncomfortable with the conversation.
McGonagall cleared her throat. "We shall leave you two to your lunch. And Mr. Zabini, now that you are well, you may want to contact your mother. I have gone ahead and sent word that you've improved, but I am sure she is still worried about your well-being and would appreciate a word from you."
"Yes, of course I will. Thank you."
He spied Hermione in the corner of his eye. She wasn't staring at him, but her hand pressed to that special and specific spot behind her neck that was buried by her side ponytail. The resulting bruise from The Mark a Veela gave to his mate wasn't something that took to magic covering it up so soon.
"Would you like to go back to our quarters? Unpack your things?"
"...Yes. Thank you."
The rest of the day flowed slowly: Hermione unpacking her things for the rest of the afternoon and the glory of her company when she agreed to go down to dinner; and then their meeting with McGonagall and the trip back; and then her declaration that she was tired and was going to bed.
He stood at that time, the letter he was writing to his mother being left behind on their table. He was going to take it to the Owlery the moment it was ready, which would be very soon.
The steps they took to her room were too short in his opinion and barely allowed enough time for him to reach out for her. "Good night, Hermione. Please sleep well."
"Thank you...Good night...Zabini." Her hand slipped free and she entered her room, closing the door softly. Not a single sound came from the other side. A Silencing Spell no doubt.
Hand raking his hair, frustration etched on his face, he went back to the table and sat down.
"...I worry that in spite her allowing me to Mark her, she will continue to be unwilling to have me. I am unsure of what I should do—I have no idea of how to make things better. This is a situation Papa never told me I would face. I do not mean to worry you more with this letter, but if you can think of anything I can do—please tell me.
"I love you,
"Blaise"
Chapter 2, Blaise's perspective. In writing this, I began to feel sorry for him—being in love with someone who performed an act that binds you to them forever and then realizing that that level of love doesn't match. Awww.
R&R
