A/N: As requested by Whisperheart a Blaise x Hermione chapter! Keep the requests coming (:
Disclaimer: I don't own HP, J.K. Rowling does.
Chapter Eight
Hermione x Blaise
The Zabini Mansion
"So, Hermione, Blaise tells me that your parents are both Muggles?" Mrs Zabini said delicately, her perfectly lipsticked lips pursing slightly in distaste.
"Yes." Hermione said firmly, making a mental promise to herself that the Zabini's would not make her ashamed of her background. She loved her parents very much, she wasn't embarassed at being a Muggleborn, it had never stopped her doing anything before and it wasn't about to now.
Mrs Zabini looked faintly nauseous for a long moment, then she seemed to recover herself. She pasted a fake smile across her, admittedly, beautiful face and poured tea from a proper, old fashioned teapot into bone china tea cups. Wordlessly, she handed one to Hermione.
Hermione noticed that they were painted with the Zabini family crest (which was carved, engraved, embroidered or painted onto seemingly every available surface) and some words written in a neat italic script which she thought were a sort of family motto. They were written in Latin and she thought probably read something like, "Down with Mudbloods, yes that means you Hermione Granger. You don't fit in here. Haha. Now leave, immediately, before you taint the air with your Muggleborn-ness."
Blaise lounged arrogantly across the only sofa. It was huge, easily large enough to seat five or six people, with ebony wood legs engraved in intricate scrolling patterns; the sofa fabric was some sort of green silk. He looked incredibly bored yet arrogantly so.
The room, the parlour Mrs Zabini had called it, was sumptuous, decorated entirely with luxurious polished woods, clearly expensive and ostentatious furniture and ornaments and acres of rich fabrics mostly in shades of green and slate grey.
Blaise rose from the couch and crossed to a mahogany sideboard. He took out a crystal cut decanter filled with an amber liquid and poured himself a generous measure before returning to the sofa, drink in hand. He took a long draft, sighing faintly with satisfaction.
An awkward silence hung heavy in the air, neither of the Zabinis seemed inclined to break it at all. Hermione found herself wondering if it was always like this or if the hostility and roaring silence was simply caused by her presence.
Hermione was incredibly uncomfortable. Blaise had owled her yesterday saying that his mother wanted to meet her, it was the first time they had spent any time together since the Ministry meeting and Hermione had already decided that she hated her new fiancée. And his mother.
She couldn't believe she was being forced into marrying Blaise Zabini, for Merlin's sake. He was a Pureblood, rich, arrogant, handsome but simply awful. His best friend was Draco Malfoy, convicted Death Eater and the Zabini's, although never openly Voldemort supporters, had survived the war unscathed prompting many to harbour suspicions about where their sympathies lay.
"And, Hermione, what was your surname again?"
"Granger." Hermione squeaked, internally berating herself for being overwhelmed by the surroundings and Blaise's mother.
Mrs Zabini was incredibly beautiful with long dark hair swept into an understated chignon which was dressed up (because obviously understated was not the Zabini way) with a clasp studded liberally with what appeared to be real emeralds. She had dark eyes and obviously expensive clothing which was not quite wizarding robes (too common) or proper Muggle clothing (too...Muggle) but was instead a blend of the two. Her every movement was refined and practiced – the perfect Pureblood wife. "Oh. How lovely." She said, her very expression belying her words. "I shall send an owl off today, get some announcements printed or something."
"Mother wants you to have one of her rings." Zabini interjected suddenly in a drawling tone, pointedly not looking at Hermione.
"Oh. Okay. Erm..thank you." Hermione replied, sipping her tea and praying that she was doing it right.
From Mrs Zabini's expression, she wasn't. She got the distinct impression that Mrs Zabini would rather burn in hot oil or eat her own body weight in Doxy eggs than have her as her daughter in law.
And Blaise, well, he hadn't even so much as looked at her. Not that she cared; she thought he was rude and arrogant. She was already mentally preparing the speech she would deliver to the Marriage Courts when the three months compulsory probation period had been completed and they would finally be able to apply for a divorce.
Three long months. Hermione stifled a groan.
She would need to include something about his unwelcoming relations, she thought, and that he barely looked at her, she'd need to polish that up a bit though. Maybe get a list of dates they had seen each other on, evidence maybe, she wondered whether a Muggle recording device would work in the Zabini mansion. She doubted it.
Dragging herself back to the present, she found Mrs Zabini speaking in her refined and cool tone. "You can choose which one yourself, we'll probably have to have it resized. Your fingers are rather…chunkier than my own, presumably the Muggle blood." Mrs Zabini said, emphasising her point by wrapping her own oddly slender fingers carefully around her own cup. Her nails were blood red and very long.
Hermione ignored the jibe. "Yeah. Thanks. I have to go now though, I'm afraid. Work and stuff."
"You work?" Mrs Zabini barely managed to conceal her shock.
"Yes, for the Ministry." Hermione said shortly, hoping that brief answers would allow her to leave as soon as possible.
"Oh dear, that won't do. A Zabini bride absolutely does not work. Even if the union is somewhat…unwelcome." She smiled falsely.
Hermione had a sudden fantasy of punching Mrs Zabini in her stupid, made up, perfect, sneering face, it was surprisingly welcome. "Well, I'm not a Zabini bride. I will continue to work."
"But dear," Mrs Zabini looked mildly ill at the enforced pet name, Blaise merely smirked from his position on the sofa. "You will soon be a Zabini bride. Right, Blaise dear?" She looked to her son for support.
"Nothing to do with me. I don't care what she does."
"Well, you musn't work darling. Everyone would think that we couldn't support you or something." She laughed falsely as if the idea was in some way humourous.
"But, you aren't supporting me." Hermione said wearily. "And I like working and honestly, I couldn't care less what anyone thinks."
Mrs Zabini looked momentarily stunned as if someone had slapped her hard across the face or suggested that she start giving away her considerable wealth to poor street beggars. "Fine. You can remain in work until the wedding. After the wedding, if you still insist on working, we can find you a line of employment somewhat more suitable to your new status."
Hermione smirked. "New status? So you think that being a Zabini is better than being a war hero? I think my status is pretty good as it is, thank you very much. What did you do in the war – supported Voldemort wasn't it?"
"Unfounded allegations. Never proven, most certainly not true." Mrs Zabini sniffed, pouring herself another cup of tea and spooning in a teaspoon of white sugar.
"Whatever." Hermione said, rising to her feet. "I'm leaving."
She stalked out, pausing only to thank the house elf who brought her her coat. It looked shaken at her words of thanks.
She Apparated angrily to the Ministry still fuming at Mrs Zabini and her Pureblood predujices. Stalking into Harry's office, she slammed her hands down loudly on his desk. He jumped visibly. "What's wrong?"
"Bloody Zabini's! I cannot marry him. You should hear them all 'oh you musn't work' and all about status…they think they're better than me and they hate me because I'm Muggleborn! And Zabini, he's just an…arse! He didn't even look at me the whole time I was there, didn't talk to me or anything, not that I wanted him to, the jerk!" She ended her little rant, her hands shaking at her sides, her breathing heavy.
Harry nodded, "C'mon Hermione, lets go to the Three Broomsticks and down Firewhiskey like there's no tomorrow."
She grinned gratefully, "Good idea, I hope we get photographed as well. Front page of the papers I'm hoping, I'll show that Mrs Zabini what I'm really like." She smirked happily. Harry chuckled grimly, he could just imagine Mrs Zabini's face, when, upon opening the morning's papers, a nice big photo of her future daughter in law drinking Firewhiskey greeted her. He hoped that the reporter also included a lengthy article which acknowledged her new engagement.
-
Back at the Zabini mansion, Mrs Zabini was complaining. "Merlin, what was the Ministry thinking? A Mudblood for Christ sakes. I thought that the money would be enough to secure at least a Pureblood match. Even the Malfoys got a Pureblood girl, look what we ended up with. No manners, no class, Mudblood, what am I going to do with her?"
"The Ministry wants to promote inter magical relations, it looks good if Purebloods marry Muggleborns. They're spinning some rubbish about 'healing wartime rifts'." Zabini explained, looking slightly disgusted. "You know Mother, if I marry her, it will erase any doubts people have about our…sympathies."
Mrs Zabini closed her eyes, exhaled shakily and nodded, regaining her composure. "You're right, Blaise darling. Tomorrow you must owl her, aplogise, be nice, do whatever you have to do to get her over here. I'll go out and you help her pick out a ring. This is the only engagement you're going to get; we're going to do this properly. Respectably. Even if she is a…Muggleborn."
"Whatever." Zabini drained the remnants of his drink in one gulp and set the glass firmly down on a side table, trying to ignore the rising sensation of dread and nausea in the pit of his stomach.
