Yes. Well. In the end, I couldn't resist.

But if I happen to possibly, maybe, take up this fic as a semi-long term thing, I want recompense! So, I'm putting out a challenge, because I have a sudden, desperate craving for good/bad/yummy/stupid/ANY Blaise/Hermione. Ignore cheesy bits at will.

The Bodyguard:

Using the first two chapters here, or make your own, if you like. Regardless, Blaise Zabini has become an Auror, and been given the interesting mission of protecting Hermione Granger. I'd like it if it were at least partially due to her help.

The requirements:

-Uses both Blaise and Hermione's POV, at some point.
-Does not have Blaise and Draco being 'old buddies'.
-Gives Blaise at least one entirely awkward moment.
-Has a scene where he manages to get a bloody nose on Hermione's behalf. Possibly giving one out as well.
-Hermione gets at least one triumphant moment on her own account.

There. Someone? Anyone?

Perfect Marks

By Rurouni Star

Two.

Blaise Zabini was no longer a problem, nor a thought, nor a memory. After everything that had happened, two or three days during her sixth year barely registered anymore.

She probably couldn't have even remembered his name, until the day she saw him again.

Hermione was twenty – about two years graduated – and currently humming under her breath. It wasn't entirely in tune, but then, Diagon Alley was loud enough during the mid-day rush that no one could hear her to complain.

She'd already picked up much of her shopping. In fact, it had taken her entirely down both sides of the street – twice, because of a forgetful slip at the Apothecary. All in all, it was not a bad day, though, because no one had died yet, or even been maimed, and also, there was no Dark Lord.

The Death Eaters were still trying to keep it quiet. But everyone rather knew, when the Golden Trio settled themselves down into the semblance of an actual life, one a piece. Their part was more than done; the Ministry could take care of the rest.

And – well, it had done so, for the most part.

She kept her thoughts intentionally light, as she headed for the nearest Floo. She could have just apparated, but it was fairly taxing, and the Ministry could track it. She'd much rather they not know where she lived, all things considered. At least, not yet.

Her light spirits dissipated as she caught the movement behind her once again.

For goodness' sake! Once or twice, she could have called a coincidence, but this was too much entirely. Hermione flipped her wand into her hand, and changed her course, headed for a small teashop, as though on last-minute inspiration. The person at the edge of her vision followed.

It was probably not a Death Eater. They weren't really that brazen anymore. That left a few options, but none of them options she particularly adored. Especially considering the note she'd received from the Order not a few days ago.

Her shadow was male – or at least, she was fairly sure of it. Men carried themselves differently – she had, in fact, been told that she did so similarly at times. Ginny had joked once that Ron or Harry might simply turn her into another boy 'one of these days', for which Hermione had given her a suitably dry look. He was probably at least half a head taller than she was; the distance between them made it hard to gauge. He had been slouching somewhat before, which had made her uncertain, but he was now walking with a purposeful stride, and a clear posture that spoke of practice.

Hermione frowned, and ordered something – the first thing on the list – trying to simultaneously pay attention to her shadow, her wand, and her tea.

A stray blink, though, and he was lost in the crowd again. She cursed quietly.

"Ma'am?" The cashier looked suddenly nervous at her change in attitude.

Hermione gave him a smile. "Nothing. Broke a nail."

Her nails were chewed down.

The cashier blinked, but nodded, and turned to go for a to-go cup.

"Their Earl Grey is horrible. Pick out a different black – you'll thank me later."

Hermione jumped at the sudden voice; not one she recognized easily. She spun, though, her wand at the ready, flipping it up toward the man's throat.

He looked down at it. And smirked.

"Well at least you weren't quite as oblivious as you looked." Blaise Zabini glanced past her at the cashier, entirely ignoring the wand. "Darjeeling, please," he said, a pleasant tone to his voice. "None of that bergamot in water you lot keep trying to pass off."

Hermione snapped her wand back into her sleeve with a glare. "Your sense of humor is still horrible," she informed him. Even grown, it was hard to misplace him; one didn't forget that very unique blend of physical attributes, of course, but it had mostly been the smirk.

He slipped a bit of money past her, to the outside counter. This was unfortunate. There was a certain age, which she was now well-past, where paying for things gave you the instant upper-hand in a conversation. Zabini had already established his little foothold in their sudden reacquaintance. "When did I make a joke?" he asked. She found the bland tonality just as infuriating as it had been three years ago.

"I meant following me around," she said, temper rising slightly.

Zabini handed her a cup of tea, which she took automatically. The first sip made her twitch a bit in surprise – this was definitely not what she'd originally ordered. The second sip calmed her a bit, though, as she got used to the taste. He was right. It was fairly good tea.

"That wasn't a joke," he said, sitting down with a congenial sort of expression. "I'm being paid to do that."

She nearly spat out her tea.

"What?" Then, with a bit of a choked swallow. "What, you're some kind of wizarding Sherlock Holmes now?"

He seemed amused at her outburst. "Of course not. You know better than that, Granger. I'm an Auror."

This was her second amazing surprise in no less than thirty seconds. She had been careful not to take another mouthful of the tea, though, so it passed only with a strange expression at him.

Zabini blinked. "You mean you didn't know?" He looked, for a moment, almost as surprised as she was. He covered it quickly. "I suppose it makes sense, at that," he said. "You happened to be running AWOL around Britain around the time us normals graduated."

Hermione frowned. "What is that supposed to mean? Yes, I was busy. There was a little problem with some Horcruxes. I barely noticed when Ginny graduated." She paused, as it occurred to her that he'd avoided, or perhaps merely missed, the subject at hand. "But why are you following me?"

He took a sip of the tea – then raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Constant vigilance!" he said.

She sighed, resisting the urge to press her hands to her face. "I can't believe they actually did it," she muttered. "I knew they were recommending, but..."

"Well," Zabini allowed easily, "With certain people, it's not so much a recommendation as a preemptive FYI."

"Well," Hermione repeated him. "You can tell Moody that I'm terribly flattered, and all, but I don't need the extra eyes. I've been taking care of myself for quite a lot longer than he's been taking care of me, and I'm perfectly fine."

"I'm fairly sure that's your choice," he admitted. "But I might point out a few errors in that statement. You do need the extra eyes, apparently. I've been around for three days now; I only let you see me so I could check your reactions." A pause. "Also, because I have a terrible sense of humor."

She blinked – then felt herself flush, in embarrassment and indignation. "That's horrible!" she said.

"I know," he agreed. "You're a very boring person to watch."

Hermione gave him a dark look. "You know, somehow you've managed not to change a bit." He laughed; it held a slight hint of condescension in it, but it immediately showed her the error she'd just made.

He was different from the way she recalled him. Physically, of course, he'd since grown; but his actions and words were a bit more tempered, and the last clinging vestiges of awkward youth in his face had been burned away. Considering his position, she'd have thought... well, she'd have expected a sort of hard determination in him, as she'd seen in the other Aurors. Was he new at this, or had he been in the thick of it already? For how long? Most importantly, why?

"I never thought you'd turn out to be an Auror," she said, a tad bluntly. It made her wince at her own tone for a moment.

"That's terribly funny," he said, draining down the rest of the bitter tea without a flinch. "Considering you single-handedly made it possible."

It gave her sudden pause. Hermione took a moment to remember that day, so long ago, when he'd pushed open the door and asked for a book. It took her a moment, still, to make the connection.

"Transfiguration," she said. "Oh."

"I might have made it into NEWT Transfiguration, if I'd blown sixth year," he said with a shrug. "But I do doubt it."

"It took a certain amount of work on your part," she told him. "And... well, I heard you got perfect marks. I couldn't have inspired that sort of thing. Certainly not in two days."

His lips curled upward slightly, but he didn't comment further.

Hermione glanced back down at her tea, feeling the awkwardness set in – at least on her side of things. She wasn't sure Zabini would ever condescend to 'awkward' enough to let it in the door. Or to show it, if he felt it, anyway.

She'd really barely known him, at school. There was a memory of very brief closeness; the kind that can only be shared by two people dedicating every bit of their attention to the same goal. But it had been a very different sort of closeness, and it had gone after that short time. She knew so incredibly little about him that it was almost shameful to be sitting with him, drinking tea like this – as though they were some sort of old friends. She hadn't even known he'd wanted to be an Auror, let alone that he'd spent the past three years working at it.

"By the way," Blaise added, almost nonchalantly, "your cat is very sweet. A Death Eater might even take it home with him, after killing you."

Hermione broke from her thoughts to give him a flat look. "Crookshanks is smart enough to know people. He'd have torn you to bits if you'd tried to get too close to the house." She paused. "You're lucky he didn't anyway, actually. He's not usually docile."

She saw the twitch at his mouth again – that expression that seemed to threaten a smile, but never quite followed through. "I'm good with animals."

Her eyes narrowed. "In any case. As I said, I'm perfectly fine on my own."

"No," Zabini told her, "You're not. And I can prove it."

He rose to his feet, abruptly, and tossed away the cup. She blinked as he started for the street, robe swishing a bit. He paused, when he saw she wasn't following – raised an eyebrow. Hermione frowned, and got to her feet, knowing this would probably be meant to humiliate her in some form or another.

Zabini walked with that purpose he'd had earlier, headed toward a certain destination. Hermione considered breaking off from whatever game he was playing to head home, but found that her curiosity outweighed her annoyance. Instead, she caught up with his long strides, and pulled a bag higher on her shoulder.

When he stopped, in front of a certain alley, she frowned.

"What exactly do you want to show me in Knockturn Al-" His fingers closed over her forearm, pulling her forward suddenly. Hermione found herself against the wall, his wand at her throat.

His eyes stared into hers. All traces of any sort of levity were gone.

"Now tell me, Granger..." The wand jerked warningly, as she reached for her own wand. "...am I really an Auror?"

Hermione stiffened, feeling a sudden seed of doubt. With that seed came the warning that she ought to start thinking of her options out.

"I have you in Knockturn Alley," said Zabini quietly, his voice as level as ever. "You could disappear entirely, and no one would know. I could hide your body for a pittance of a price. Or I could leave it out, with the Dark Mark carved into it." The smile did come out, now, and it was cruel. "I think I'll do that."

Her eyes flared angrily – it was the only warning he had, as she thew her elbow out toward his stomach.

It was all he needed.

"Stupefy."

0-0-0-0-0

It had been months since the last time Hermione Granger had woken up with such a headache. The last time had, in fact, been the night that Harry and Ron convinced her that drinking seven shots of Firewhisky was a good celebration tactic.

It had been longer since she'd had to wake up from this particular curse. It took her a moment to recognize the signs.

When she did, though, she sat up abruptly, reaching for her wand. It wasn't there.

Hermione frowned, as she realized the incongruity of the situation. She was lying in her house – in her own bed – after being hit with...

Her eyes widened angrily, and she threw the covers off. She staggered just a bit, at gaining her feet, but the adrenaline was enough to keep her up.

"Zabini!" she yelled, throwing open her bedroom door and storming toward the living area.

He was there, relaxing on the couch as though it were his own – Zabini looked up at his name, and gave an unaccountable grin. He had both wands in a pocket – and, to add insult to injury, Crookshanks was purring in his lap.

Traitor.

Hermione stopped in front of the couch, her face pale white with rage. "Give me my wand," she told him, with a furious tightness to her voice.

"Number one," he said, pulling said wand out and giving it a twirl. "You really shouldn't have announced you were awake. If I were hoping to keep you here under house arrest, for my own devious ends, you'd be best served by sneaking out quietly and taking me by surprise."

There were no words for the swell of sheer rage that filled her, on seeing this grin, on this man, on her couch, with her cat.

"Get out!" she hissed, through clenched teeth. "Give me my wand, and get out, or so help me-" But he cut her off.

"You're not in a position to make demands," Zabini said. "I thought you'd figured that out. In fact, demanding for me to return your wand is perhaps the worst thing you could do right now. Why should I hand it over? For goodness' sake, I have the upper hand, Granger. Why would I bother listening to a thing you say?"

She let out an angry screech, and threw herself at him.

Crookshanks yowled indignantly at being dislodged, spitting and hissing as he leapt to the ground. Zabini, almost caught off guard, could only react by catching her arms, to keep her hands from getting to his face. Hermione threw another elbow at him, this time aiming for his solar plexus – he twisted at the last moment, using the momentum to drag her around and under him. Without taking a pause, she lashed out with one of her legs, trying to catch him off guard. It was really her only hope – he was much stronger than her, and though she knew she could still take him wand-wise, she didn't happen to have hers on hand.

He had her very neatly pinned, though. Wearing a skirt, she realized, was not helping matters much. It wasn't that she was particularly modest at the moment – it was more for the fact that his knees held the material taut, restricting her movement. She was left struggling vainly against an unshakable grip on her wrists.

They were both breathing hard at this point – Zabini less so than Hermione – but she still found enough left in her to continue talking. Talking was, perhaps, a gentle word for what she was doing, actually. It involved quite a bit more profanity, and a good deal less communication. He blanched, for just a moment, at one of the things she called him, but recovered his easy face not too long after.

After she'd managed to exhaust every article of her quite-impressive vocabulary, he finally spoke.

"Granger," he said. "Your knee is digging into my leg."

Hermione stared at him.

"I'm just mentioning. It's quite uncomfortable." She had the feeling that if he weren't currently holding her wrists down, he would have shrugged.

There really were no words. Or, perhaps there were, but she would probably end up imparting them later, as she was currently speechless at his utter gall.

He sighed. Hermione could feel it brush along her neck – she jerked a little in surprise, and suddenly growing horror. This position – her house – and with her wand gone-

Zabini's brows knit, at the sudden fear in her face. Then, coming to the right conclusion (or the wrong one, as it might be called), he snatched his hands back from her, as though she'd burned him. "Oh hell no, Granger. No. Don't look at me like that. That- no."

Hermione took the sudden opportunity, to ram him in the chest. He choked, caught off guard, as she closed her hand around the two wands in his pocket. In only a few seconds, she was on her feet, and he was on his knees, still gasping for breath.

"Tell me why I shouldn't hex you into nothing," she hissed at him. As far as threats went, it was tame, but the fear in her throat had refused to go away, and it blocked a few more eloquent ones from coming out.

It took him a moment to answer, during which time she kept her own wand pointed at him, with a slightly unsteady hand. When he did finally speak, it held a breathless air to it.

"For god's sake," he said. "I brought you home. I tucked you into bed. What more do you want?"

"You knocked me out!" she said, incredulous and furious.

"And you attacked me, so I think we're fair now." Zabini made as though to rise to his feet, but she twitched a bit, and he paused. Then, with a shrug, he got up anyway. "I think the point was made, anyway. Would you have headed off to Knockturn Alley with any chummy Slytherin that led you off?"

"You're horrible!" she said, and she meant it in a particularly fervent way.

"No," he said. "I'm vigilant." His mouth curved again, as he patted an offended Crookshanks. "You haven't changed either, Granger. You're so naive. I could have killed you any number of times so far."

"I'm still thinking of killing you," Hermione retorted, though it was hardly true.

"Ah well," he said, clearly aware that she was bluffing. "I guess Moody will just have to head down to play bodyguard himself, then." Zabini threw himself back onto the couch, then, and proceeded to entirely ignore the wand pointed at him.

Hermione began, presently, to realize that she was once again losing control of the situation, in spite of the fact she held both wands. Because at the moment, she was beginning to feel patently silly pointing one at the perfectly relaxed man in front of her.

"See?" he said, glancing over at her. "I know what you're thinking. You're about to put that wand down. Have you any idea how stupid that is? Have I proven a word of what I've said yet?"

Hermione made a strangled noise in her throat. "Would you stop playing mind games?" she demanded.

"No. I'm making you think. I thought you'd be grateful for that." He brushed his fingers over Crookshanks' back again, not even bothering to look at her.

"You really expected me to be grateful for being knocked out and intimidated and frightened to within an inch of my life?" His mouth twitched. She knew he hadn't. "How the hell can I believe a word you say, then? How can I ever?"

Her voice was shaking, now, and she didn't much like it. He gave her a sudden, surprised sort of look. There was a hint of unease in it, finally.

Zabini reached toward her hand. She flinched back, at first, but he made it clear momentarily that he was angling to catch the one that didn't hold a wand on him.

"You remember," he said, almost conversationally. "I told you anyone could have a Dark Mark."

He led her fingers to the sleeve of his right arm; after a moment, she realized his meaning, and caught the fabric, drawing it up.

The skin beneath was entirely unblemished.

"That doesn't prove anything," she said, though some sort of weight had certainly lifted at the revelation. "Voldemort is dead. He's not around to mark people anymore."

"True," Zabini agreed. "But I'm too smart to join a losing side." His hand lingered on hers for a moment, giving it an odd sort of reassuring squeeze before he let it go. "And if that doesn't convince you, there's a letter on the table."

Hermione turned to look, surprised. There was, in fact, a small envelope there. Something she'd overlooked before, in her rather justified rage.

She did her best to open it with one hand, at first. Then, giving up the horrible game entirely, she simply put down the wands and tore it open.

To the Littlest Gryffindor-

Hermione frowned at the fact that this name was still used.

Bet you've met my protege. Who'm I kidding, you're reading this. He's assigned to keep you safe until that little threat I told you about blows over. That's it.

-Moody

Her lips tightened, and she wasted no time in balling the message up. Zabini, surprisingly, did not have any sort of amusement in his manner as he watched.

"I'm not a child," she said.

"You act like one sometimes," Zabini replied. There was no rancor in his voice, but neither was there any hint of a joke. "I'm not kidding. You miss things all the time that I'd take for granted. You took the tea from me without even thinking about it. You took just about everything I said at face value."

"A mistake I'm not making again," she said, pulling her wand. At first, he raised his eyebrows, thinking she might be intending to hex him. But she aimed it at the wadded up paper, instead.

"Incendio."

It flashed abruptly into nothing.

"Now," she said, almost pleasantly. "Get out."