The last three weeks of Potions had been dreadful. Ever since she had stopped speaking to Blaise upon discovering the Mark on his back, their scholastic performance had suffered. Not to the point that they had directly failed any in-class assignments. Rather, their potions had been mediocre at best, which was really not acceptable at the N.E.W.T. level. Snape had, unsurprisingly, been quite nasty about it. Hermione knew it was a role he had to play, but she was hard-pressed to remain sensible about the whole situation.
But today was going to change all that. She and Blaise couldn't continue on like this. She was loath to leave him as he was now, alone and friendless. She doubted that her permanent departure from his life would make any difference to his housemates now. No, the damage there had already been done, and it was her fault.
So I'll be the one to rectify it, she had told herself fiercely.
She marched into the classroom and sat down beside Blaise. He was, as usual, staring blankly at the sheet of parchment in front of him on the desk. After looking around quickly to make sure no one was watching them, Hermione slid her hand under the table and lightly touched Blaise's leg.
He nearly jumped out of his skin, and looked at her, his eyes wide with surprise. She shook her head very slightly, in warning, and he contrived to look normal, letting his gaze wander around the room – he understood the need for secrecy.
Their work was infinitely better that class, and their finished potion (a thick, shining green liquid, shot with twisting threads of gold that danced across the surface like an oil sheen) matched Snape's description exactly, right down to the faint scent of lavender in the pale smoke wafting off its surface.
Snape made no comment to Hermione, but did mutter "Good" to Blaise.
As the students began to gather their things and head towards the door, Hermione slipped a torn corner of parchment into Blaise's book bag.
It read '4th floor hallway, 6th door on the right. Sat. 12am.'
Satisfied, Hermione sank into the grey one, and pulled her legs up underneath her body.
She didn't have to wait long – Blaise arrived early as well, around quarter to. He didn't seem surprised to see she was already there, but the colour of the chairs made him smile in spite of himself.
He dropped into the green armchair, and regarded Hermione with serious eyes.
"You asked, and I came. It was more than you were willing to do for me," he said with surprising bluntness. Hermione simply nodded, waiting for him to ask what she wanted. But Blaise seemed determined to make things difficult for her. He just stared at her, and to Hermione, his pale eyes seemed to be full of regret and accusation.
When she started fidgeting with her robe and chewing on her bottom lip, she wondered if this wasn't just some subtle, Slytherin form of torture.
"I'm sorry," she finally blurted out.
Blaise smiled slightly. "I know."
Hermione sighed in exasperation. But she should have known better than to expect anything more from a Slytherin.
"I was…scared," she admitted, while inwardly chastising herself for still fidgeting. She laced her fingers tightly together and kept her hands firmly in her lap.
"I wasn't sure what to do, or what to make of your…cut," she said lamely, not sure what to call the Dark Mark that was crudely carved into the small of his back. "And even after I came to the conclusion that it couldn't have been done voluntarily, it was still…a lot to deal with. I didn't know what to do, or how to help you. I just…I didn't know what to do."
Hermione looked down at her hands in her lap, and realised that her grip had slowly been tightening. Her laced fingers were digging into each other, the knuckles white. She took a deep breath and forced her hands to relax.
"I don't blame you for wanting to run away," Blaise said quietly, startling Hermione into looking up at him.
He was staring out the window, at the snow-covered grounds. December had arrived a short while ago, bringing with it a thick layer of snow, which had covered Hogwarts for days.
"This isn't really your problem. I simply should never have been friendly to you, or allowed myself to do what my hormones were telling me to. I liked you, and I let it get the better of my judgement."
Hermione winced at the carefully masked bitterness in his voice.
"Don't say that," she sighed. "You shouldn't have to think that way."
"Perhaps not. But that's simply how it is," Blaise said quietly, still not looking at Hermione.
Tentatively, she untwined her fingers and placed a hand gently on his knee. "I want to help," she said.
Blaise stood up quickly, brushing her hand away without a glance. As he was walking away, he said over his shoulder, "Then stay away."
Hermione sat in the musty, dark room for ten minutes after Blaise left. It would have looked quite bad, had they been seen leaving together. She sat quietly, too numb to be hurt or upset.
Well, she thought, that's it then.
After what she judged to be a sufficient amount of time, she calmly removed the charms from the chairs, hefted her book bag over her shoulder, and walked out of the room.
Harry and Ron were pleased, and that in turn pleased Hermione. They still treated her delicately though, afraid of doing anything that would bring back the secretive, exhausted and ghost-like girl they had puzzled and worried over since October.
But Hermione had no intention of reverting. She mourned the loss of Blaise's company and affection privately, and she sometimes found herself returning to the room on the fourth floor hallway. She liked to sit at the window, and imagine Blaise was going to open the door behind her at any moment, and come in and put his arms around her. She knew it was foolish and incredibly unlikely, but she kept imagining it anyway.
The day before the students were piled into the Hogwarts Express to be trundled back to their families for the holidays, Hermione found herself wandering back to the fourth floor hallway. She slipped inside the sixth door on right, and shut it quietly behind her.
She had wondered many times if Blaise had been coming back here during this long, lonely week, but once she had thought logically about it, she found it hard to convince herself that he would take such a foolish, Gryffindor-like risk. Still, the faint hope persisted.
She walked over to one of the windows, and propped a roll of parchment on its ledge. The letter had no names in it, and had been written with a Dicto-Quill. While it was extraordinarily unlikely that anyone other than herself or Blaise would be in this abandoned room, Hermione had no desire to take any chances.
The letter was simple, and straight-forward. It read:
Perhaps, when we've left Hogwarts, we might try to make a proper go of things. I miss you.
Hermione looked down at the roll of parchment, and hesitated. Should she have written more? Would that short, brief note be enough? Should she have told him that she…that she what?
Hermione shook her head, turned, and left the room. She shut the door firmly behind her, and went to pack.
After a week, once Christmas Day had passed, she began to relax. If anything had happened, someone would have told her. Dumbledore, or possibly McGonagall. Or even Ron, simply sending news of new Death Eater activity.
But no bleak messages came. Hermione allowed herself to begin to enjoy her holidays, and even fancied Blaise had found her note, and was regretting his hasty choice. This feeling of girlish nervousness was not wholly new to her – she remembered feeling something vaguely familiar towards Gilderoy Lockhart in her second year, but that hardly counted.
Hermione wondered, not for the first time, if she wasn't in love with the strange, dark Slytherin boy.
It was simply too much to dwell on, and she concentrated on more tangible and mundane pursuits – studying. Holidays or no, this was her N.E.W.T. year.
Regardless, they were pleased to be reunited, and the train trip passed quickly as they swapped stories and showed off gifts.
It was late when the Hogwarts Express pulled into Hogsmeade station, and they all piled tiredly into a thestral-drawn carriage. The carriages rattled slowly up to the school in a long, serpentine line, and methodically disgorged their occupants at the front doors. Inside it was warm, and full of students dragging or levitating trunks towards their respective dormitories. In the confusions, Hermione didn't see Blaise.
But, she reasoned, he may well have arrived before me, or may still be in a carriage.
Satisfied, she followed Harry and Ron up the stairs towards Gryffindor Tower, her trunk bobbing along behind her.
Finally, once dinner had begun, Hermione sat staring, puzzled, at the door.
He hadn't shown up.
There's a logical reason, she told herself. Perhaps he's sick?
But deep down, in the pit of her no-longer-hungry stomach, Hermione knew something was very, very wrong.
The other Gryffindors ate and spoke around her, giving her the occasional odd glance. Finally, Harry reached across the table and touched the back of her hand. She nearly jumped out of her skin, but mustered a weak smile for the confused, worried boy.
"Sorry," she said. "I was just wool-gathering." Harry didn't look convinced, so Hermione began to load up her plate, and gave every impression of tucking in until he looked away.
She picked at her meal for a little while, until Ron started watching her out of the corner of his eye. So she forced herself to eat, and found she had an appetite after all.
She ate until she felt sick with fullness, stuffing herself and trying not to think too much. She looked up, and saw a small group of second year Slytherins were leaving the table. Standing quickly, she hurried after them, and silently praised her luck when one fell behind, stopping to tie a shoe.
"Hey," she said quietly, catching up with the child.
The Slytherin looked up at her, and a mixture of disgust and fear crossed his face. "What do you want?" he said, settling for resigned disdain.
"Where's Blaise Zabini?" she asked as her stomach began to twist into knots, wishing she hadn't eaten so much.
The little second year looked absolutely terrified for a moment, but masked his reaction quickly.
"He's not here. He didn't come back," he hissed, before hurrying away down to the dungeons.