Hermione Granger drummed her fingers against the polished oak bar and wondered how much more of this she would have to endure.
"My father works in finances," her date droned on, running a hand through his sandy hair. "The old bugger hates that I am pursuing a philosophy degree. Every time he rings, he tries to convince me to accept an internship at his office."
She nodded her head and hummed, looking around for a clock.
This wasn't her usual watering hole. Tim or Todd or whatever this guy's name was had invited her to this place. The Thistle & Rose. It had opened about a month ago and it was just enough out of the way that Hermione had yet to visit it during her nights out. The only reason why she had agreed was because she needed a …. release.
Especially after what happened last night.
A fragmented image crawled up her spine and manifested in her mind- a dark street corner, fallen electricity lines, blood on cement, sparks in the night.
Hermione shivered, tipping her glass back. Ice clinked against her teeth as she swallowed down the lingering memory.
She wiped her hand across her mouth, setting the empty tumbler onto a lone coaster. Ted was droning on about the 'Complete Works of Fredrich Nietzsche' or some shite.
Her lungs filled with stale air, her fingers drumming a pattern on the bar.
A single tap, then another and another.
Once, twice, three times.
The bartender glanced up at her, pausing as he wiped a glass clean. His black shirt pulled tight across his firm biceps.
Hermione's favorite pub was closer to her flat in the tightly packed corners of the university district. The bartenders were older men with graying beards and wary eyes, dirt underneath their fingernails and low tolerance for the antics of drunken college students. After all these months, they knew her name and her drink. Hermione found she preferred the dark corners and sticky floors of her pub compared to the gleaming tables, soft light and button-down crowd of this trendy place.
But, as she raked her eyes over the bartender's body, taking in his five o'clock shadow and fitted jeans, Hermione amended her original prejudice.
Her eyes lingered on the considerable bulge at his crotch.
This place wasn't so bad after all.
The bartender quirked his lips, raising a dark eyebrow. "Can I get you something, beautiful?"
He was Scottish. She loved Scottish men.
"Yeah," she purred, leaning forward in her bar stool as she turned away from- what was his name? Tom? He was still prattling on about his daddy issues.
"Can I get another gin and soda? Extra lime." She watched as his eyes trailed down the dip of her cleavage, his gaze caressing the swells of her breasts.
"Yeah, lass. I can do that."
Tom cleared his throat. "I'll take another as well, mate."
The bartender glanced over at the rail of a man perched beside her, giving him a brief once over. He raised a brow at Hermione as if to say, Really, this bloke?
She gave a slight shrug. His dating profile was deceiving.
"On your tab?" He directed the question to Philosophy Major.
Todd straightened his spine, pushing his thick frames up his nose. "Yeah, of course."
The bartender grinned, shooting Hermione a wink. She watched the muscles in his chest shift as he took two tumblers from beneath the bar, then reached for the top shelf.
A smile, the first of the night, broke across her face as she watched him poor freely into her glass.
She begrudgingly turned back to her date, twisting in her stool as she crossed her legs.
Hermione struggled to find his train of thought. It sounded like was back to talking philosophy.
"Have you read any Nietzsche?" her date asked, inclining his head.
"Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster," Hermione cited softly. The bell over the door chimed, a cool breeze lifted the skirt at her knees.
Todd sat up straighter, leaning forward, as he finished the quote: "For when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."
Hermione's eyes drifted to the entrance.
She stilled, her hands falling to her lap. Reflexively, her fingers went to her right thigh, grazing the holster hidden beneath her dress. She traced the edges of the blade tucked within it.
"Bloody hell, you may be the perfect woman," Tim groaned, running a hand down his checkered button-up.
Hermione stood up from the barstool. "I have to go," she paused, collecting her thoughts. "To the loo. I'll be back in a moment."
Hipster Tom blinked. "Uh, yeah. Okay."
The pretty bartender was back, setting down her drink. "Leaving so soon, love?"
Hermione tipped back the drink, swallowing the beverage whole. The gin bit at the back of her throat, dragging it's claws down her esophagus.
"Just to the loo," she muttered, setting the empty glass back down. "Where is it?"
She looked around, searching for his face in the clusters of moving and murmuring bodies. There he was, sitting alone in a booth. Perusing a menu.
Had he seen her? He must know she was here. He must have followed her, right?
The Scotsman was giving her directions. "Just down that hall, near the back. It'll be on your left," he was saying.
Hermione gave a vague nod of understanding. She rallied herself, taking a stabilizing breath as she ran a hand through her hair. If she followed his directions, she would walk right by his table.
She made her way through the bar, muttering a brief "pardon me" when she bumped up against a stranger's body.
It wasn't that she was afraid. No, it wasn't fear she felt. It was exasperation. Anxiety. Fury.
Why couldn't they listen? Why couldn't they just leave her alone and do as she asked? After all that she gave, didn't she deserve that?
Freedom. Anonymity. Oblivion.
She was a table away now. Three steps, then she would be beside him. Close enough to touch.
Would he grab her? Is that what the Ministry had planned next? An abduction?
Her hand went to her thigh.
Two steps.
One step.
He looked up from his menu, his gaze finding hers. Her hand stilled on the knife.
He had the most beautiful eyes. They reminded Hermione of a painting her mother had kept over the fireplace when she was a little girl: a scenery, a grassy knoll at sunset.
Then, he tilted his head, gaze leaving hers as he raised his arm and… waved. Not at her, but at the bartender.
Hermione moved past the table, turning back as the barkeep approached him and asked him for his order.
"Scotch, neat." His voice was deep and smooth.
Hermione sucked in a breath, steadying herself.
It was possible this was simply a coincidence. Some strange, cosmic misalignment.
He could have a relative who lived down the street or an affinity for hip muggle pubs.
No.
Hermione didn't believe in chance. And she sure as hell didn't believe in luck.
When she left the toilet and walked back toward the bar, a woman was perched on the booth beside him. He sipped on his scotch as she traced circles on his thigh.
Hermione watched him purr into her ear. The woman, older than them, with flaming hair and matching red lipstick, laughed. A true, full laugh. A tilting-of-the-head, deep, throaty cackle that carried to every corner of the busy pub.
Hermione fell into her seat beside Daddy's Little Philosopher.
It was obviously a ruse, some elaborate plan to make her falter, to lower her defenses.
Well, let him do as he pleased.
Hermione wasn't planning on leaving before last call, and once she did, she wouldn't be going back to her flat. If it wasn't Tim- Todd?- then, she would be crawling out of the bartender's bed tomorrow morning.
"So, where were we?" Hermione asked, turning her back on the scene, her fingers drumming against her right thigh.
Her date's name was Tate, she'd found out. After Hermione had called him the wrong name four times, he had made up some excuse to leave. A collection of Descartes essays or some shite.
After he left, the bartender had formally introduced himself. Simon.
He invited her to stay till the end of his shift.
That's what she was doing, waiting. Taking each drink Simon placed in front of her, snagging conversation from the attractive Scot when he wasn't mixing cocktails, and ignoring the table ten feet behind her.
That was, until he stepped beside her, leaning casually against the bar. It was past midnight and the laughing woman was nowhere in sight.
He was dressed in dark navy, jean button-up.
His back was turned toward her, his broad shoulders blocking her vision. Did he really not recognize her? They'd spent 6 bloody years in the same castle, bumping elbow, for Merlin's sake. Hermione fumed.
From her perch on the stool, she could smell the him: wood fires and sunlight. Fire. Heat.
Simon approached him. "Tab?" he asked.
"Yeah, I'm calling it a night."
Simon went to a screen behind the counter and came back with a bill. The bartender suddenly appeared too lean and pale, compared to the man opposite him.
She watched as he pulled a wallet from the back pocket of his black jeans and selected an assortment of crisp bills and set them on the table, his fingers strong and sure.
Then he turned and strode to the entrance, pushing open the door and leaving. Just like that, he was gone.
Hermione stood. All rational thought vanished.
She followed him.
She pushed through the door, a bell ringing above her head.
He hadn't even looked at her. Not once. It was like he didn't know she was. Like he didn't recognize her. Or didn't care.
The thought burrowed beneath her skin, racing to the beat of her heart.
The Thistle & Rose was located on a sleepy street lined with trees wrapped in small, twinkling lights. It was one of the few pubs in this part of town and despite its popularity and the crowd of people drinking at its bar, the area it was located in remained quiet.
Hermione took a left out of the pub, following his retreating form.
When he turned down an alley, tucked between a consignment shop and a grocery, she followed, hand slipping to her thigh.
The alley was devoid of all light. Hermione took a shallow breath, hand grazing against the cool stone of the wall nearest her, fingers trailing against its pebbled surface as she stepped into the darkness.
A memory from the night before came rushing back, swift and sharp before her eyes: waking up in the middle of the night, alone and afraid. The cries of an injured woman.
"You're following me." The words dripped like honey, dousing her thoughts.
The memory vanished. She blinked, fingers curling around the grip on her knife still tucked beneath her dress.
"I know who sent you," she accused, her voice soft as it lifted between them. She squinted into the alley, eyes straining to make out his form.
A witch-light flared to life between them, illuminating their surroundings.
Blaise Zabini stood before her, his looming form outlined by the silver light, a smirk playing at his full lips.
"And who would that be?" he crooned, closing the distance between them. Hermione's hand lingered at the hem of her black dress. Blaise tracked her movements, gaze lingering on her bare legs.
"Don't insult me, Zabini." She planted her feet firmly as she tilted her head to look into his eyes.
His sunlit eyes. Even in the silver light they glowed with warmth.
She lifted her dress, slipping the knife from its holster, the cool night air spreading a flush of goosepimples up her thighs, as she pushed the blade to his throat.
"Nice to see you've armed yourself while prancing around the dangerous streets of muggle London," the deep cadence of his voice wove into the night air around them.
"I'm not going back." Hermione pushed against the hilt of the blade, watching as the steel pressed into his dark skin. "I don't know why they sent you, but I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Don't forget, sweet, you're the one following me."
A drop of his blood wept from the tip of her blade. Her eyes followed its trail down the slope of his Adam's apple, before it disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.
Blaise bent his head down, leaning into the knife. His nose grazed the lobe of her ear, lips brushing against her neck, breath hot against her flushed skin.
Hermione loosened her grip, her breath catching in her throat. He lifted his hand, fingertips grazing her cheekbone. She shivered, resisting the urge to lean her head back and bring his mouth closer.
"You forget yourself, Granger," Blaise whispered, teeth nipping at her collarbone.
A noise, soft and foreign, escaped her mouth.
Before she could swallow it back, Blaise murmured beneath his breath and the knife was gone. No longer in her hand, but in his. He flung the blade aside. It flashed silver in the glow of the witch-light before landing amongst piles of rubbish, blinking out.
Blaise's hand wrapped around her throat.
"The next time you put a knife to my throat," he breathed against her hair, flexing his fingers, testing his grip. "You better use it."
Hermione bit back an angry howl. The bastard. The rotten bastard. She could have used it, she would have.
Blaise shoved against her, knocking her head back into the stone wall behind her. She sucked in a breath, her legs parting as he pushed his muscular thigh into the juncture of her thighs, pressing himself into her.
Hermione hated herself for the way her body responded to his heat, even as she gasped for breath.
The release called to her, a sweet siren song. Her blood boiled beneath the callouses of his fingers at her throat. She wanted to rub herself against the hard planes of his body.
"Fight back," he bit out, nostrils flaring.
She searched his face, questioning. He wanted her to use magic. Why?
A flare of anger rushed through her.
She wanted to make him feel pain. Even if it was in a small way, a small muggle way.
Hermione shifted, raising her hands to his muscular forearm. She felt the tendons beneath her fingers flex as she gripped him, digging her nails into his flesh.
They locked eyes as she slowly pulled her nails back against his flesh, tattooing four jagged lines on each of his arms.
The tang of his blood released into the air.
Blaise's gaze was hot against her face, moving between her eyes.
"You can do better," he huffed, taking a step back.
Her hands dropped to her sides, his blood dripping from her fingertips.
"You are the Golden Girl, after all," he murmured.
He bent down and retrieved her discarded knife, then stalked toward her where she stood frozen against the wall. Gently, he lifted the hem of her dress and tucked the blade back into its holster.
"See you around, Granger."
Then she was alone in the alley, her hands trembling at her sides.
I am so excited to share this new chapter with you guys! Two updates in one week? Definetly not my usual pace, but honestly, I can't get this story out of my head. I'm even writing/editing at work...Let's hope my boss doesn't catch on ;)
Next chapter will be in Blaise's POV. Raise your hand if you're excited! haha *swoon*
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