See part one for disclaimers.
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Section 5:
The silencing spell Hermione cast when she slammed the door behind her had so much power in it that the clock on her wall (while continuing to function perfectly) would never tick audibly again. Just as well. Her nerves were on edge already, and the ticking of the clock would, most likely, have only made it worse. Hermione threw her wand against the wall and huffed in frustration when it bounced harmlessly off. After Ron's fiasco second year with his Spellotaped wand and backfiring spells, she had found an enchantment to make her wand as durable as stone while maintaining the weight and texture of wood. Simply hurling it against the wall wasn't enough to break it. Pity. She really felt like breaking something (or several things) into lots of tiny, ground-into-dust pieces; preferably starting that skanky little tramp's nose.
What had the girl been thinking groping Blaise like that on the stairwell? Aside from the fact that it was impossibly rude to do something like that in front of an audience, (particularly when that audience consisted of another girl who was madly and unrequitedly in love with the boy being molested,) there were also logistics to be considered. Did she have some kind of death wish? The staircases at Grimmauld Place were steep, and the floor beneath them was made of stone. The last thing on earth any sensible woman would want was a man off balance and unaware of his surroundings holding on to her and teetering on the top of a staircase. Idiot.
And Blaise was an idiot as well, for letting her do it. If Blaise took a tumble down the stairs, it would be no one's fault but his own and it would be a cold day in hell before Hermione would lift a finger to help him. Not that she could help him, even if she wanted to, with that silencing charm on her room. He could crash directly from the top of the ceiling to the floor and she wouldn't be able to hear it. Wouldn't be able to hear him if he cried out in pain. Wouldn't be able to hear him if he cried out... in pleasure. Wouldn't be able to hear him if he took that witch back into his room and did things that make them both cry out, for the rest of the night and into the morning... Yes, Hermione wouldn't be able hear a thing that he did, or a thing that was done to him. There was some comfort in that.
While it was a relief to know that nothing short of a World Cup size Sonorus would be able to penetrate the powerful silencing spell she had cast, Hermione reluctantly admitted to herself that the silence, in and of itself, was very little help. She no longer heard the sounds of current kissing or moaning or flesh rubbing against flesh, but she could still hear, echoing in her head, the sounds of lovemaking she had overheard when she came home. Listening to Blaise make love to some other girl was, up to that point, the most painful thing she had ever experienced in her life. The current silence did very little to drive the memory of it out of her head and her heart.
But even harder to bear than the memory of the sounds they made together in Blaise's bed was the memory of that harlot's voice on the staircase just moments ago, calling Blaise 'lover.' Because that's what he was. He was her lover. He was the one who had chosen to bring her into his home and into his bed. This wasn't another one of his one night stands; this was a woman he brought home for the first time in as long as Hermione had known him. That meant that, for whatever reason, this girl was something special to him.
Hermione, though inexperienced, wasn't naïve. She had no illusions that he passed the time playing exploding snap with the witches he went home with on the nights he came home just before dawn with his shirt misbuttoned, his hair a mess, and a just-been-shagged grin on his face. But she did love him so very much, and while knowing he had a string of lovers was (horrifically, agonizingly) painful, she had at least been able to take comfort in the knowledge that none of them meant anything to him. He never brought any of them home. Half the time, he barely remembered their names. It was a pitiful consolation knowing that while he didn't love her, at least he didn't love anyone else, either, but a pitiful consolation is better than none at all.
This girl changed all that. Listening to him make love and knowing that this girl had broken all of Blaise's rules had been bad enough. After a few moments of listening in the hallway while her overactive and far too logical imagination told her exactly what they were doing, and just how much they were both enjoying it, all that Hermione had wanted to do was put her head down and cry out her pain and her sadness. She was convinced that nothing in her life could ever hurt so badly. But just a few minutes later, she heard those voices on the staircase and stepped out to investigate, and the worst night of her life got even worse.
The girl was an idiot. Really an idiot, and that wasn't just the jealousy talking. Every word out of her mouth had made Hermione cringe. She wanted to wash her ears out with soap. She wanted to wash Blaise's ears out with soap. Was he deaf? How could he possibly be attracted to a woman who sounded like that? How could he get turned on by someone so shrill, so grating, so obviously lacking in intelligence or decorum or basic decency for pity's sake? Hermione knew that intelligence quota wasn't a high priority for wizards when getting a witch into bed, but Blaise was supposed to be better than that. He had spent all that time chatting the girl up at the bar; surely he had noticed that she had a voice like a dull knife sawing through thick cardboard. How could he be so attracted to that... and not at all attracted to her?
Honestly, what kind of woman even knew that it was uncomfortable to shag on a wooden staircase? She had been speaking from first-hand experience; that much was blatantly clear. And the kind of woman who would shag on a wooden staircase (aside from deserving every single splinter she could get) would, unquestionably, have few scruples about things like protection and safe sex. She was probably a breeding ground for venereal diseases. Stupid and aggravatingly shrill and beyond question infected with herpes, or syphilis, or genital warts. (Hermione really hoped it was warts. Or maybe all of the above. But definitely warts.) And she... and she...
And she was what Blaise wanted. That was what hurt the most. If that was the kind of woman who got Blaise to bring her home to shag, then Hermione figured she might as well throw in the towel now and give up her feelings for him, once and for all. She wasn't the type to give up easily, especially where her heart was concerned, but she could never be like that witch. Not for anything. Not even for Blaise. If that was what Blaise wanted in a woman, then that meant that he would never, ever want her, and the sooner she got used to the idea, the better for everyone concerned.
With a moan of mingled pain and resignation, Hermione collapsed on her bed and wiggled her way out of her stockings before slipping her legs under the covers. She knew that she should get back up immediately. Years of experience (and living with female housemates) had taught her that unless she took care of it right away, her hair would be an absolute bird's nest by morning, and she'd have to take her dress in to be (expensively) professionally cleaned before it could be worn again. She knew these things, yes... but she couldn't quite bring herself to care. It would be worth the ridiculously high fee to get her dress cleaned. It would even be worth the hour she would have to spend detangling her hair if it meant that she wasn't required to do anything right at that moment other than curl up into a ball under the blankets, ignore the rest of the world, and breathe. She could handle breathing.
So she stayed precisely where she was on the bed, and waited for oblivion to come. Bone-crushing despair always tired her out and she knew that it shouldn't take her long to fall asleep. She managed a half-smile when a warm, furry weight curled up against her back and she felt the steady purr vibrate through her body. She sighed softly as she reached behind her to awkwardly pet Crookshanks. Grateful that there was at least one male in her life that she truly could count on, she rolled over and let the cat curl into her stomach. Tears spilled down her cheeks and dripped into Crookshanks' fur as she poured out her heart and all her heartbreaking thoughts and feelings on the subject of Blaise Zabini. Crookshanks listened patiently until she was done before settling in to her mattress and falling asleep. Taking her cue from him, she let her eyes drift closed. Crookshanks and her silencing spell would protect her, and once she let herself fall asleep, she wouldn't have to think about any of it any more.
She was totally unaware of the activity that took place outside of her door. The silencing charm meant that she didn't hear movement, or conversation, or the dark haired man pacing outside her door. She slept peacefully and obliviously and wasn't aware of anything until she woke up the next morning.
She expected to feel miserable when she woke up. To her surprise, she discovered that she felt fairly alright. A bit headachey and dehydrated, of course, but no real problems outside of that. Oh, she looked awful, to be sure. Her dress was a wrinkled mess, her hair looked like two birds with a running feud and destructive tendencies had nested inside it, and she was liberally sprinkled with cat hair but other than that... Well, other than that, she felt rather fine. A thousand clichés sprang to mind that her father always used to say, things about how "it's always darkest before the dawn," and "hope cometh in the morning" and that sleep "knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care." Hermione was, truthfully, rather fond of clichés, especially when they proved true, as in this case. A good night's sleep had made all the difference in the world.
Hermione was simply too stubborn to allow anything to break her spirit, or force her to wallow in misery for too long. A good night's sleep was all it took to restore her usual optimism and determination. She was ready to face the world, ready to face Blaise, ready even, with her classic Gryffindor bravery and resolve, to face that idiotic little tramp Blaise had slept with (especially if she could manage to convince the numbskull to go and play in traffic). With her 'courageous' face firmly fixed in place, she changed out of her dress into a loose set of yoga pants and a tank top and charged boldly out of her bedroom door...
... where she immediately fell over Blaise, fast asleep in her doorway.