She didn't look back, just walked out of the library, towards the place written on the note: 4th floor hallway, sixth door on the right.
She arrived, fifteen minutes later, and slipped into the dusty room, closing the door behind her. She wondered, not for the first time, why Hogwarts had so many unused classrooms, and resolved to scour 'Hogwarts: A History' later, to see if she could find any statistics on changes in the Wizarding population over the years. Right now, however, there were more important issues occupying her thoughts.
Hermione wandered around a jumble of chairs and desks and sat on the ledge of one of the tall, gothic windows, which looked out onto the grounds. She could see the Quidditch pitch and the greenhouses. The former was occupied by Ravenclaws, getting in a last minute practice for the game against Slytherin tomorrow afternoon.
She heard the door open and click shut, but didn't turn around. Slow footsteps echoed off the high ceilings, making it hard to tell where, exactly, they were coming from, or going to.
Blaise stopped behind her, and looked over her shoulder.
"They need all the practice they can get," he said quietly, watching Ravenclaws swoop and swirl above the pitch.
Hermione, never one to avoid a point of contention with small talk, turned and looked up at his face. "Why does Malfoy think you are I are sleeping together?"
Blaise stiffened, and slowly pulled away from her.
"Well?"
"I assume he reached his own conclusions based upon evidence available."
"Evidence available," Hermione repeated, her eyes narrowing. "And that means what, exactly?"
Blaise rubbed his eyes and pushed his dark hair back, off his forehead. "It means Tracey Davis, one of the more poisonous little bitches in Slytherin, doesn't like that you and I are partnered in Potions, nor that we appear to actually get along while working. And so, because she's jealous of you, she started spreading rumours that the only reason I was nice to you was because you were willing to open your legs and lift your skirt. Malfoy and his goons, while eager to believe that you were a complete slag, were less understanding of why I should be friendly to you. As far as they're concerned, it's only acceptable to fuck a Mudblood bitch if you torture and kill her afterwards."
Hermione winced at the harsh words coming out of Blaise's mouth in a blank monotone, and went very still at his last sentence.
Finally, she asked, "What did they do?"
Blaise was silent for a long time, watching as the Ravenclaw team gradually descended back to earth, packed up, and started back towards the castle.
"They beat the shit out of me."
"How badly?" she asked.
Blaise was silent, so she turned and looked at him. "I want to see."
"No," he muttered, shaking his head. Hermione's mouth formed a grim line, her lips whitening against the pressure. She kept staring at him.
"It's bad," he continued, his eyes dropping.
"Clearly."
"Hermione, no. No."
She stared him down. Blaise sighed and ran his hands through his hair.
"Fine," he muttered, turning away, "but don't say I didn't warn you."
He carefully pulled his robe over his head and handed it to Hermione; she folded it in her lap, keeping it out of the dust. Blaise didn't meet her gaze as he pulled his jumper over his head, wincing only slightly. She took it from him, wordlessly, and waited as he undid the buttons of his shirt.
Slowly, more and more bruised skin was exposed. Hermione tried to stay calm, but when Blaise pulled the shirt back he grunted, and she could see a distinctly boot-shaped mark on his shoulder. With shaking hands she put his clothes on the ledge beside her, and stood up.
"You idiot," she whispered, staring at his chest. She circled him, and gritted her teeth at the livid bruises across his shoulders and down his back.
"You idiot, you fucking idiot!" Hermione shrieked, almost in tears. "You could've been seriously hurt; you could've been put into a fucking coma. Blaise, they could've killed you!"
Blaise winced under her onslaught, but didn't defend himself.
"Now," she hissed, coming around to face him, "now you have to go to Dumbledore."
He shook his head.
"Blaise, this can't go on."
"Hermione, shut up," he snapped.
She stepped back, hurt and shocked.
"It can go on, and it will. This is my own fault, for not being careful enough." He looked up, an angry sneer distorting his features. "It's my fault for associating with a Gryffindor. And not just any Gryffindor, oh no! It had to be one of Potter's little followers, and a Mudblood at that!"
A resounding crack echoed through the empty room, and Hermione shook some life back into her hand. Blaise stood utterly still while a red handprint slowly appeared on his cheek.
"I deserved that," he muttered.
"Yes, you did."
He started to put his shirt back on, again refusing to meet Hermione's eyes.
"I'm sorry I slapped you Blaise, but I wanted to knock some sense into you before you said something really unforgivable. Unless, of course," she said, her eyes dropping, "you meant all that. About me."
"…I didn't."
Hermione shrugged, and handed him his jumper and robe. Blaise put his clothes on slowly, then took a tentative step towards the unhappy girl.
"Hermione…I don't regret being friends with you."
"If that's your idea of an apology, you'll have to do better," she said, turning away. Blaise sighed, and started pulling a few chairs free from the jumble of furniture.
"What are you doing?" Hermione asked.
"I'm going to try and transfigure these into something comfortable to sit on," he said, "but since I'm shit at transfiguration, they might end up in worse condition than they are now."
Hermione fought back a smile, and pulled out her wand. "Oh get out of the way. I'll do it."
The decrepit chairs were quickly replaced by two squashy armchairs - one gold, one crimson. Blaise raised an eyebrow at Hermione, who just shrugged.
The sat, facing each other. Hermione curled her legs underneath herself and watched Blaise closely for a moment. "If you don't mind my asking," she finally said, "why don't you really want to join Voldemort?"
"Because he's an idiot," Blaise said.
Hermione blinked at looked at him bemusedly. For the first time that evening, a faint smile graced Blaise's mouth, and he sat back, continuing.
"If you wanted to create a vicious, loyal and unstoppable army of evil, from which Hogwarts house would you recruit the majority of your minions?"
"Um…well, I suppose Slytherin -"
"Wrong! Everyone always makes that mistake. Slyths are ambitious, for Merlin's sake. We crave power, and we'll do almost anything to get it. So why would you, as an Evil Overlord, surround yourself with followers whose loyalty is questionable at best, will try at every opportunity to oust you, and will abandon you at the first whiff of failure?"
Hermione stopped gaping at the obviousness of Blaise's argument, and asked, not without some scepticism, which house he would choose.
"Hufflepuff," he said matter-of-factly.
"Hufflepuff?" she echoed.
"Yes. And I'll tell you why. The bloody Sorting hat says it every year, but apparently no one listens. Hufflepuffs are loyal and hardworking, and what better qualities could you look for in soldiers? They won't try and undermine you, or be preoccupied with their own interests. They work best in groups, and as general infantry, they would most likely be unstoppable. If the Dark Lord had concentrated on recruiting Huffs in the first place, you, my dear, would most likely be dead or rendered magic-less, and all us purebloods would be sporting very ugly tattoos."
Hermione nodded slowly. "Yes…I see your point."
"Of course you do. That's because it makes complete sense. Now, would you care to know why I think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is going to get his arse kicked?"
She nodded.
"Cedric Diggory."
A look of revelation slowly crept across Hermione's face, and she looked at Blaise with admiration. "You're exactly right. Voldemort just alienated at least seven years worth of loyal followers. Probably more, in fact, because some of the older Hufflepuffs would have known Diggory when he was in the lower years."
Blaise nodded.
"And that is one of the main reasons I want nothing to do with him. He's powerful, very, very dangerous, and quite terrifying. But he's also completely and utterly insane. Grindelwald was insane, but in a far less melodramatic way, which was what made him so difficult to catch. It's a damned good thing the two of them never had the chance to get together."
Hermione nodded slowly, and looked past Blaise, out the now-dark windows behind him. They lapsed into silence for a short while, each absorbed in their own thoughts, till something struck Hermione.
"Not all those bruises are new, are they?"
Blaise looked at her in surprise, and immediately she knew she was right.
"Of course they are," he said, waving a hand dismissively.
"Don't lie to me, Blaise. I'm something of an expert on bruises at this stage, considering my two best friends are boys. I've seen hundreds of Quidditch-inflicted injuries, mostly bruises, in various stages of healing over the past seven years."
His lips thinned slightly, and looked away.
"If you won't go to Dumbledore, then at least go to Snape. He'll help."
Blaise shook his head and stared morosely out the window.
Hermione sighed and got up. "Fine. If you won't, I will."
"No!" Blaise was on his feet in a second, one hand wrapped tightly around Hermione's wrist. "Don't. Promise you won't."
"Why should I?" she cried. "You wouldn't promise to go to him if it got worse, and this is certainly worse, so why should I promise you I won't go?"
"Because I need you to," he said quietly. She tugged her arm free and glared at him. "Hermione, please. Please don't."
She turned away, and crossed her arms, not letting him see the fear and sadness in her eyes. She certainly didn't want to go behind his back, but she was so afraid of what could happen to him, faced with the likes of Crabbe and Goyle, both of whom managed to dwarf his 6' frame.
His hands landed lightly on her shoulders, one thumb twisting gently around a wild curl of her hair.
"Alright," she whispered, "I won't."
Their so-called relationship was another matter entirely. Hermione caught herself using that word once or twice in her internal monologue, and found it troubling. For a number of years now they had been friends, but since this…crisis had begun, she had realised she felt more for Blaise than the motherly concern she felt for Harry and Ron. Admittedly, that 'motherly concern' had been a bit uncertain in regards Ron till her 6th year. It was then that she realised, after a few weeks of uncomfortable fumbling in abandoned classrooms, that she and he were only ever going to be friends.
At first, she had thought the Blaise-thing (as she called it in her mind) was a similar situation, and would end equally disastrously, if she were to act on it. Which she wasn't about to. But after seeing him covered in bruises (and half naked, a treacherous inner voice had added), she was certain there was more to it than her subconscious was letting on to. While she would have felt the same horror and anger and concern had it been Harry or Ron standing in front of her, there had been an added dimension. The fiercely possessive need to protect and defend Blaise from further harm was quite new. She had felt something vaguely similar for Harry at the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament; when he had disappeared, only to reappear over 40 minutes later, clutching Cedric Diggory's dead body.
As hard as Hermione tried, she couldn't find a satisfactory answer on her own, and knew she would be hard pressed to find a relevant book in the library. The week passed, in slow discomfort and awkwardness, and she knew that if she were an outside observer to this teenaged melodrama she'd be scoffing at the entire premise. But she began to nervously anticipate Potions, and wondered at every casual gesture Blaise made, every small remark her said. She decided, after a very distracting and trying class on Friday, that if this was what Lavender, Parvati and other girls always raved about, they were far loonier than she had ever guessed.
The weekend dragged out slowly, and feeling at the end of her rope, Hermione began to debate if she shouldn't ask Lavender if she could borrow her enormous collection of 'Witch Weekly'. Those things were supposed to offer relationship advice, weren't they? This lapse was only temporary - she quickly realised that any request like that would only raise giddy, giggling suspicion, which was that last thing she wanted to deal with.
Monday arrived and was hesitantly followed, as always, by Tuesday. Hermione both dreaded and anticipated its end - Potions was on Wednesday.
That morning, she could barely eat. Even reading was difficult, and despite his preoccupation with the upcoming Gryffindor vs. Slytherin match next weekend (the latter had, unsurprisingly, beaten Ravenclaw), Ron noticed she had been reading the same page of her Arithmancy book for 15 minutes.
Harry was still busy discussing strategy with Ginny (who, much to the surprise of her brothers, had turned out to be a very competent Quidditch player. She had pointed out that when one grows up with six older brothers, one picks up a few things. Like how to steal their brooms.) when Ron gently nudged Hermione with his elbow.
"Something's wrong," he said quietly, not expecting an answer. Hermione looked up and blushed, alarmed he had noticed how flustered she was.
"Oh, uh, it's nothing, I just have this assignment. For Potions. It's really hard, and it's making me just nervous," she muttered, stumbling a bit over the words.
Ron frowned, and lowered his voice further. "You're lying. I know you are, and you have been for weeks now. I just wish…" he trailed off, and scowled at the table. Before Hermione could gather her wits to respond, he stood up and stalked out of the Great Hall.
Harry and Ginny, finally distracted, looked after him in confusion.
"Where's he going?" Ginny asked. Harry looked at Hermione.
She just shrugged, stuffed her textbook in her satchel, and left.