"Sir?" she asked, raising her hand.
"Yes, Miss Granger?" Snape replied without turning around from the blackboard, where he was writing brief notes on neurotoxins.
"Where's Zabini?"
Snape paused for a moment, then continued writing a word. When he finished, he put down the chalk and turned to face the class. "Mister Zabini will not be attending class today. Now, who among you deigned to prepare properly for this class, and knows which creatures produce the deadliest neurotoxins?"
For once, Hermione did not raise her hand. As the rest of the class gave their answers (listing Peruvian Vipertooths, Lobalugs, Inland Taipans, Blue-Ringed Octopi, Streelers and Sydney Funnel Web Spiders), she sat in quiet puzzlement, which quickly turned into worry.
How she managed to get through the class she wasn't sure. Her hand seemed to automatically take notes, and her mouth to automatically answer on the one very surprising occasion when Snape actually called on her.
At the end of class, she mechanically packed up her things, walked out of the dungeons and made her way towards the Hospital Wing.
"But I just want to see him," Hermione pleaded, "and I want to know what happened!"
Madame Pomfrey paused, and looked closely at the girl in front of her. "His housemates insisted that he fell down a very steep flight of stairs."
With that, Hermione was pushed gently out the Hospital Wing doors, which shut firmly behind her. She debated trying to open them, but knew how stubborn the Healer could be if provoked.
As she walked slowly through the halls, back to Gryffindor Tower, Hermione tried to remember if she had seen Blaise at breakfast that morning. She wasn't sure, and kept in mind the fact that she'd left the Great Hall early. This of course, only brought her train of thought back around to Ron. She sighed, and dropped her head forward, letting her hair cover most of her face and ineffectively shield her from the rest of the world.
She had no idea what to do about him and Harry. She knew they were both aware that something wasn't right with her, and hadn't been for a while. But for three years now, she had managed to (or thought she had, until Malfoy's charming proposal in the library) conceal the fact that she and a Slytherin were in fact not mortal enemies. Something far closer to the opposite end of that spectrum, really.
So now she faced a very serious dilemma - to tell or not to tell? Hermione was terrified at how the boys would react. And if she told them one part of it, she'd have to tell them all of it, including Malfoy's near-assault, Blaise's beatings and the fact that she had promised not to go to Snape, or any of the staff for that matter.
They wouldn't understand. She knew they wouldn't. It just wasn't in their nature; it wasn't Gryffindor. This, of course, made Hermione wonder if some Slytherin sentiment hadn't rubbed off on her over the past few years.
She simply couldn't tell them. And beyond the obvious fact that they'd both totally overreact, they would also probably go to Dumbledore, at the very least to try and have Blaise expelled for Harassing Their Hermione. She didn't want to break her promise, however inadvertently.
Hermione realised she had reached the Fat Lady. The painting looked down at her with mild concern, and asked "Password, dear?"
"Cuckoo clock," she muttered, and crawled through the opened portrait hole.
The meal dragged on, and as soon as she thought she could escape she did, spouting lame excuses about Potions and Arithmancy essays. Harry just nodded and looked at her sadly, while Ron continued to ignore her. She fled.
Hermione escaped to the library for a while, but only because she didn't want to risk another run in with Pomfrey. With some effort, she managed to concentrate and finish a History of Magic paper that was due in a few days. She even managed to complete an Arithmancy assignment. For a short while, engrossed in magic and numbers and dates, and surrounded by the faint rustlings of paper and smell of knowledge, she let go of all of her worries and relaxed slightly. But when Madam Pince came around, shooing students out of the library because of the approaching curfew, any tranquillity Hermione had found slid away. Packing up her things, she set out for the Hospital Wing, worries and fears crowding out all other thoughts.
The Hospital Wing was very quiet; the only noise was a faint snuffling from a sleeping Slytherin second year who had had an allergic reaction to Hagrid's flobberworms. Luckily, he was at the far end of the room, and Pomfrey was no where to be seen. Hermione drifted closer to the white privacy sheets which flanked Blaise's bed. She poked her head nervously around a corner, only to see his wide blue eyes staring at her. He smiled, faintly, when he realised it was her.
"Hey," he whispered, "I hoped it would be you."
Hermione walked up the small aisle, between the mattress and the screen, to the head of the cot. She sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, and returned Blaise's small smile. "Who else would be creeping in here in the middle of the night to see you?"
His face immediately darkened. "Oh, you'd be surprised," he muttered, looking away.
Hermione paled at his insinuation. His hand, lying on the sheets beside her, clenched into a fist. Hermione put her own hand over it, squeezing gently. Blaise looked back at her in surprise, then, after an anxious moment, relaxed his fingers and wrapped them around hers, returning the pressure.
"How are you feeling?" she eventually asked.
"Better," he murmured.
They were both quiet for a while, till Hermione's curiosity got the better of her. "Blaise…what happened?"
He sighed, and looked down at his lap. "Malfoy happened."
Hermione waited, not wanting to say anything which might stop him from continuing.
"Last night, he had a little chat with me. And when I still expressed…reservations, he took it to mean that since I wasn't obviously for Volde - their cause, I was against it. Then Goyle and Crabbe arrived…" Blaise looked up at her. "You know, if it weren't for you, I probably would have given in ages ago."
"In that case, you're welcome," Hermione said, smiling weakly.
Blaise nodded. "Yes…I suppose you're right. But I'm…I'm afraid, Hermione."
"Of what?" she whispered, squeezing his hand tighter.
"Oh, lots of things," he said, not even trying to hide the bitterness in his voice. "That they're going to kill me, sooner rather than later. That they'll hurt my family, or anyone else I care about. That Gryffindors and Slytherins will never learn to live together in peace and bloody harmony."
"Be serious, Blaise," she chided, disturbed and unsettled by his blasé referral to his own death.
"I am being serious," said Blaise, his face suddenly sombre. "Those things do scare me."
Hermione squeezed his hand, terrified by the certainty that his fears were grounded in reality; she couldn't dismiss them anymore.
She looked away, thinking she might cry. She didn't want him to see her so upset - it wouldn't be fair to put that sort of burden on him now.
"Hermione," Blaise said quietly. When she didn't respond, he cupped her cheek with his free hand and gently brought her face around. He was silent, studying her face for a long moment. "I'm also afraid you won't let me kiss you."
A hiccupping sob broke loose from Hermione's throat, and after looking only slightly dismayed for a moment, Blaise pulled her into a tight hug, murmuring comforting nonsense. He kissed her forehead, cheeks, and once she had calmed down slightly, her lips, still holding her tightly and whispering softly. She returned his kisses hungrily, scared and needy and half in love.
Eventually, Hermione was quiet, and Blaise pulled away. He was grinning so widely, Hermione worried for a second that the top of his head might fall off.
"Wow," he finally said, looking down at her. "If I had known Gryffindors kissed liked this, I would have started in on your house a long time ago."
Hermione sniffed loudly and raised her eyebrows, fighting the urge to smile. She composed her face into a study of innocence, and asked "And what do Gryffindors kiss like, exactly?"
"Dementors," he said matter-of-factly, "but the non-soul draining kind. I think."
Hermione smacked his shoulder, and laughed as quietly as she could. "You're incorrigible," she finally murmured.
"Yes, I know," he purred, waggling his eyebrows. "I've wanted to kiss you for years, Hermione, but I didn't want to deal with the inevitable fall-out, and harassment from my charming house mates. But now, as I'm being harassed by them anyway, I reckon I haven't got much to lose."
Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. "Ah. So you never thought that I might turn you down? Or worried about what might happen to me if you were to try anything?"
Blaise looked thoughtful for a moment, then smirked at her. "Absolutely not, and I never really bothered to think that far ahead."
Hermione swatted him again. He must have noticed the anger and hurt she was trying to hide, because he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, and brushed her hair off her face. "I'm teasing. Of course I worried about those things. Believe me, I'm terrified that Malfoy will hurt you. It's all I can do to keep from throttling him every time I see his slimy rat-face. But I know that if I did, he would be completely exonerated, and Snape would make me the whipping boy of Slytherin." Blaise's face darkened, and he squeezed Hermione a bit tighter. She ran a hand soothingly along his arm.
"Perhaps he'd have to do that. Otherwise, Malfoy would run to his father and complain, which would only cast suspicion on Snape. Favour you, who hasn't taken the Mark and whose family never supported Voldemort, over Malfoy Jr., ring-leader of the Junior Death Eaters Society?"
Blaise sighed. "Whatever Snape's motives, I'd end up buggered."
Hermione rested her head against his chest, and listened to his heart beating. "We'll figure something out," she said finally.
Blaise silently kissed the top of her head, and buried his face in her hair.
Pomfrey finally released him from her tender ministrations on Friday, albeit very reluctantly. Hermione suspected that the matron had seen the older bruises on Blaise's body, and guessed what was happening. By the same token, she was certain Blaise would have come up with slick excuses for his battered condition, and stuck to the story provided by his fellow Slytherins.
She also noticed that Blaise had lost weight. It had been so gradual she couldn't see it until she had been away from him for a short while. His robes were looser, and his finely tailored shirts, which once fit perfectly, now seemed to hang off his shoulders. He looked too pale and worn when they finally had a chance to meet in an abandoned classroom after dinner, near the kitchens. However, his seeming ill health hadn't stopped him from vigorously accosting her the moment she slid through the door.
"Blaise!" she gasped out between laughs as his lips and tongue made a hot damp trail up her neck to her ear.
"Yes?" he murmured indistinctly, his mouth too busy nibbling on her earlobe to be concerned with petty issues such as proper pronunciation.
She pulled away and grinned. "Calm down! We have all evening."
"Yes, and I fully intend to take advantage of it, and you."
Hermione laughed again. Blaise took the opportunity to slip an arm around her waist and lead her towards an ancient brocaded sofa, which had seen better days, days which probably had involved much less dust.
Blaise pulled her close, and for a while, they forgot about the rest of the world. Shirts were unbuttoned, and robes discarded altogether. Shoes were kicked off and socks rolled down.
"What on earth are you doing now?" Hermione asked, when Blaise kissed each of her toes in turn. He didn't answer, just ran his lips lightly over the arch of her left foot. "I-I'm ticklish! If you keep d-doing that, I swear I'll kick you," she gasped out between laughs. He only grinned, and licked her ankle. In retaliation, she squirmed out of his grasp, and began to wrestle him out of his shirt.
Blaise yelped, and fought back. But because he had lost weight, and was weaker than he might once have been, Hermione didn't realise he was trying in earnest to fend her off. She just laughed as he turned to scramble away, and pulled his collar down and towards her. The top few buttons of shirt were already undone, and the shirt slid down and back, revealing much of his back.
Hermione gasped and immediately let go of the shirt. Low down on his spine, looking as though it had been carved into his skin with a knife, was an imperfect copy of the Dark Mark.