Disclaimer: All characters and places herein are the property of J.K. Rowling. Only the plot is my own.
Summary: Hermione is unwittingly selected to write a romance column for Witch Weekly. As her stories unfold, she realizes that the line between fiction and reality is not always so definite. Slytherin Blaise Zabini provides ample inspiration.
A/N: This chapter (as well as most of the rest of this fic) is intended for a mature audience. It's a romance.
Diagon Venus
Chapter 2 – The Fiction Section
Some kinds of love
Marguerita told Tom
like a dirty French novel
the absurd courts the vulgar
and some kinds of love
the possibilities are endless
and for me to miss one
would seem to be groundless.
--Lou Reed
Blaise Zabini awoke promptly at his usual 5:15am. The sooner he awoke, the sooner he could begin imbibing coffee like it was going out of style. He immediately poured himself a cup from the coffee-maker on his bedside table. The coffee-maker, equipped with a clever alarm-slash-instant-brewer, had been a gift from Dobby, the Malfoys former house-elf, and he could no longer imagine life without it. Blaise had known Dobby for years from weekend trips to the Malfoy Manor as a child, and he couldn't be happier that Dobby had finally been freed from the bastardly likes of Lucius Malfoy, even if it was Harry Potter who had freed him. He remembered hearing stories from Dobby that made his skin crawl when he was young.
He drank his first cup quickly, even though it was hot enough to scald the tongue of Lucifer himself. As he was pouring himself a second cup, he allowed his mind to wander to the events of the previous evening.
Padma Patil.
Who would have known? he thought with a lazy smirk. Merlin, she had been so soft and brown. And she had been so wet that he could actually feel it through their clothing.
If everything continued as planned, Padma would be his fourth. Or maybe his fifth. There was still that hazy, nasty little incident involving firewhisky, which he nauseously thought might have something to do with Millicent Bulstrode. All he knew was that since his fifth year at Hogwarts, life had been very good to him, hormonally speaking. He had hit a massive growth spurt shortly before his fifth year, and now even Malfoy was getting jealous about the action he was getting.
Up until that point, he had been dreadfully quiet and had felt ultimately inferior. Who wouldn't feel inferior, when Draco Malfoy had chosen to align himself with those brainless idiots, Crabbe and Goyle, over his childhood friend? He guessed he had just been too shy. He had never been much of a talker. His father had trained him early on that it was a great weakness to let other people know what you were thinking. So instead of trying to fit in, he had quietly concentrated on his studies, desperate to make his mark somehow. And it had almost worked. He was second in his class.
Granger, of course, was first, and he hated her for it. What a bloody know-it-all.
Blaise's transformation must have happened slowly, though it had seemed very sudden to him. He remembered waking up one Saturday morning before his fifth year and glancing at his reflection in the mirror. The person staring back at him was nearly unrecognizable. He was taller—nearly six-foot-three to be exact—and his Italian heritage had begun to manifest itself in his broad shoulders and his thick, black eyebrows and his unruly locks of curly black hair. He remembered staring at himself, wondering what the hell had happened. But he really hadn't given it much thought.
Not until he was back at Hogwarts, at least.
All of a sudden, girls seemed to whisper about him when he walked down the hall. It was very, very strange at first, until he realized that they weren't looking at him like a freak of nature. Not at all. They were looking at him like a piece of meat hanging in the butcher's shop. But he had still felt like that quiet, misplaced, scrawny little boy—like nothing but the last name on every list. He had always felt like an afterthought, particularly next to Malfoy.
Nearly a year and a half later, having just turned seventeen and facing his Apparition exams, it seemed like he couldn't beat them off with a stick. Girls followed him shamelessly. They sent him owls that made him blush and crooned over him as he made his way to the dungeons for Potions class. And being the Slytherin that he was, he had never thwarted a single advance, silently taking advantage of any opportunity that presented itself. If for no other reason, he did it to make Malfoy—reigning Slytherin sex god—cringe with jealousy.
He had learned a lot about women, too. He had learned exactly how they wanted to be touched and kissed. He knew instinctively what turned him on—it didn't take much, after all—and he had learned quickly through trial-and-error what turned women on. They seemed to want someone who was quiet yet dominating, gentle yet forceful. He had no qualms about obliging them, especially when they threw themselves at him so mercilessly. It was just all too easy.
And then there was bloody Granger.
She seemed oblivious to him, making him feel once again like nothing but an afterthought. No matter how he tried, he couldn't seem to get her to notice him. Not that he wanted her to notice him. It just drove him crazy that she alone seemed immune to his sudden charms. The only things she cared about, as far as he could tell, were Arithmancy and Harry bloody Potter. It frustrated him to no end. But it didn't stop him from getting his kicks elsewhere.
Padma Patil.
When she had approached him in the library, he had been very absorbed. He hated to admit it, but Muggle Studies was kicking his arse. They were studying Late Gothic Painting, and even though he was half-French and half-Italian, he found himself utterly confused. If you'd seen one Madonna Enthroned, then you'd seen them all, he reasoned. He had been flipping through art history textbooks most of the evening, desperate to pass his exam on the following day. Granger had dropped the class after third year, but he still felt the spirit of her competitiveness driving him, nearly strangling him.
As he sat there quietly, his thick brow furrowed, pondering the subtle differences in the painting styles of Duccio and Cimabue, a low but lilting voice addressed him from over his shoulder.
"Blaise, isn't it?" the voice asked somewhat warily.
He turned around abruptly, somewhat surprised. It was late, and he had thought that the library was nearly deserted. He had seen Granger come in earlier, but there were many times late at night when Granger and he were the only souls to be found in the library.
He propped one long arm on the back of his chair and indifferently observed the owner of the musical voice. It certainly wasn't Granger. This was a meager little girl, and lovely to say the least. Her coffee-and-cream-colored skin caught the light in an intriguing sort of way, and long, straight piles of black hair cascaded over her small shoulders. Her black eyes stared intensely down upon him.
"That's right," he answered simply with a nod.
She giggled slightly.
He hated it when girls giggled.
"I'm Padma Patil," she offered. He could see her hands twisting nervously in front of her—another thing he despised about teenage girls. He managed to look entirely uninterested.
"Ravenclaw," she continued, making a small gesture towards the patch on her robes.
"Uh-huh," he mumbled.
"I see you here all the time," she said. "You must really like to study."
He shrugged silently.
"Of course, you're always lurking about over here in the darkest corner, trying to blend in with the scenery, I guess. You do it quite well."
"A survival mechanism," he replied blandly. He saw her jump uneasily as his eyes traced the contour of her robes. "Though it would appear that my efforts have been in vain. After all," he said in a whisper, a very small smile crossing his lips, "you spotted me."
He watched in amusement as she tried to keep her knees from giving out on her. He had no idea why girls felt compelled to act like melting steel in his presence. He just could not understand his obvious appeal. In this case, perhaps, it was because of the subtly suggestive way in which he was gazing at her perky breasts. Or maybe it was because he had spoken more than three words in a row, and it surprised her. Either way, he found that it didn't quite bother him. On the contrary, he kind of liked the hungry look in her coal-black eyes.
"Yes, well... I was wondering if you could help me," she muttered, her cheeks reddening.
He sat there silently. He knew what was coming next, but he felt a certain bestial satisfaction in watching little girls stutter.
"Y-you see," she went on recklessly, "t-there's this, um, b-book in the fiction section. I can't seem to reach it."
His tiny smile suddenly became an outright smirk—a trick he had learned from watching Malfoy's interaction with the opposite sex.
"That's what the footstools are for, Miss Patil," he answered, his voice deep and silky.
He knew that it was very evil of him to tease her this way. He couldn't help it. A very sinister part of him wanted to hear her beg. He wanted to hear her voice plead for him as unmistakably as her body was pleading—her hands twisting, her knees weak and trembling, her eyes wide with anticipation.
"I just thought—,"
Her voice stopped abruptly. She obviously had no comeback in mind. She bowed her head, looking highly embarrassed.
He gave in. No matter how he tried, he just could not be that evil.
He slowly rose from his seat, watching her eyes widen as he drew his long body up to its full, towering height. The top of her head barely reached his breastbone. He smiled as she looked straight into his chest and gasped. He raised his hands to his hair and sifted his fingers through it, pushing the curly locks out his profanely blue eyes.
"Shall we?" he asked.
She wasted no time. She took him firmly by the hand and led him quickly towards the long rows of tall shelves behind the Muggle Studies section. He inhaled deeply as they went. There were few things in the world that he loved more than the smell of old books. They made his skin ache with pleasure, the way he could just feel the fragrance of the thousands of eager hands that had plucked through those ancient pages.
When they reached the middle of the section, she dragged him between the rows, scanning the very top row determinedly as she paced forward. He watched her move ahead of him, her long, black hair swaying in motion with her hips, the fruity vanilla perfume of her shampoo wafting about her as she walked. It smelled very sensual in combination with the smell of the books. He found himself slightly aroused—more so, perhaps, than he wanted to admit.
She stopped at once and stared up, the dark column of her neck craning back to look for the book and her miniature body rising up on her toes.
"That's it there," she announced softly, pointing upwards. "D. H. Lawrence. The one with the burgundy and gold spine."
He chuckled beneath his breath. At one time during his fourth year, he had read Lawrence almost obsessively. His favourite had been The Rainbow. He had felt so intimately related to one of the main characters, feeling the man's hopeless frustration as though it was his own.
But it wasn't The Rainbow that Padma Patil was requesting. He knew exactly which book she wanted, and he decided to make quite a spectacle out of retrieving it for her. That's what she wanted, and he knew it.
She turned around to face him and gulped back a startled whimper when she realized that he was not looking up at the shelf, but rather down at her. He was suddenly extremely interested, though he was still trying to present himself in a subtly indifferent manner. He pierced her eyes with his own, something intense stirring in the pools of dark blue. He watched her squirm a bit uneasily. He tried to discern her intentions, but he found that he didn't have to try too hard. She was unmistakably looking at him as though she wanted to rip his robes off right there in the library.
Another tiny smirk played across his mouth as he leaned in closer to her. He could feel her breathing quickly, her chest rising and falling in delicate little movements.
He was nearly on top of her now, reaching one long arm up slowly towards the top shelf. His other arm went to the shelf just above her shoulder, bracing his tall body as he leaned forward. His fingers traced the spine of the book cautiously, but his eyes never left hers.
"Lawrence, huh?" he whispered. "What on earth inspired you to read Lawrence?"
She swallowed heavily but did not answer. He rather thought she didn't have the ability to speak at all at the moment. It didn't matter. He knew the answer. Teenage girls, he had come to realize, were actually far more lewd than they let on—reading romance novels and whispering excitedly amongst themselves about things he'd never thought he would hear in public.
His long, thin body jerked slightly as he tugged the book from in between its neighbors. Once again, she took a sharp breath of air. He had her pinned there, and she knew it. In fact, she seemed to like it.
He backed away just a little bit, holding the book up in front of her almost menacingly. She wasn't looking at the book. She was staring at his face, her eyes roaming down the aristocratic jawline towards his neck.
It required a great amount of self-control to keep from outrightlaughing at her. She was so obvious. He thought it might be safe to go further.
He saw her reach for the book, and just before her tiny fingers grasped onto it, he dropped it, a definite full-blown smile now appearing on his face. The book thudded onto the carpeted floor at her feet. He leaned towards her again, this time bowing his head and positioning his lips very close to her ear.
"I'll get it," he whispered.
She was very quiet and very still.
He bent down slowly, the tip of his nose lightly grazing the front of her robes. They also had a hint of vanilla fragrance to them. It must have been her perfume. Once he was crouching in front of her, he did not even bother with the book. His head was level with her knees. Very slowly, he parted the front of her robes, exposing a pair of short, thin, brown legs. She was wearing a navy blue skirt that hung just above her knees. He lifted his hand and moved it in the direction of the lower part of her leg. He stopped just before his fingertips made contact with her skin, and he looked up at her, not in the least bit surprised to find her glaring back down at him breathlessly. He looked at her leg, and then at his own outstretched hand, and then back up at her wide eyes.
"May I?" he asked in a very modest tone of voice.
"Please do," she replied helplessly.
He could almost see her shaking, but she had given him the go-ahead.
He brushed his thumb against her knee and then gently cupped her small calf muscle in his hand. Her skin was so smooth, so soft. She threw her head back, looking like she wanted to moan. He smiled at her reaction. He had not even reached her thigh yet. It was absolutely amazing, he thought, what the simplest of touches could do to a person when they were already so electrified by expectation.
He slowly rose to his feet, the pretense of picking up the book no longer necessary. As he moved, he dragged his fingers gently upward beneath her skirt along the outside of her leg. She was now nearly panting with excitement. He was standing upright, but his knees were still bent slightly so that he could look directly into her face. She looked back at him, her black eyes nearly burning with emotion. He silently regarded the look on her face as his hand ever-so-deftly circled around to the inside of her thigh. He watched her fight back another whimper. They were, after all, in the middle of the library, and they certainly didn't want to attract the attention of Madame Pince.
All at once, she grabbed his head in her petite hands and slammed her mouth against his. Her tongue went in search of his almost immediately.
This was the only thing about sex that he didn't like. Kissing. It was more intimate than even the act of sex itself, he thought.
He grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her away. "No," he whispered, a solemn expression crossing his face. "Why would you kiss me on the lips? I don't think you even like me."
"S-sorry," she stuttered, looking highly affronted.
His hands suddenly went down to her hips, grabbing them gently yet securely. He picked her up off the floor. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist.
"It's okay," he replied, his lips tracing her hairline down to her ear. "I just don't like kissing on the lips. But I don't mind kissing you here," he said, pressing his lips against her earlobeâ, "or here," he said even more softly, his mouth now plucking at her neck, "or here," he continued, placing a trail of kisses down the line of her V-neck jumper.
Her hips were now moving intuitively up and down against his torso, her arched pelvis bucking wildly against him. He knew it would not take long. He ran his tongue in circles around the base of her neck and mumbled her name. He could feel her body tightening. And then it hit her. She clawed at his shoulders and pulled at his hair. Her lips were dry from her quick, frenzied breathing. She was trembling violently, her whole body thrashing against him in waves of release.
He lowered her back down to the floor and made sure she could stand before he released her hips from his hands.
"Oh... my... God," she whispered.
He grinned.
"Enjoy yourself?" he asked.
"Immensely," she panted. "But what about you?"
He reached down at last and scooped up the book that she had used as an excuse to get him alone. He held it in front of her, again sweeping his hair from his eyes, and then he shrugged nonchalantly.
"Maybe next time," he answered, and then he turned and walked away.
And now, sitting on his four-poster-bed, listening to Goyle snore and working on his third cup of coffee, he let himself fantasize about that next time. He would give her ample time to think about the orgasm that he'd given her, and then he would pounce when she least expected it. If she turned out to be like the other three (or four?) girls, she would practically beg him to make love to her. He chuckled to himself. He knew it was wrong. He knew that it was cold and merciless of him. But he didn't care, and neither did the girls, it seemed. In fact, they were always the ones to dump him once they had what they wanted.
For those few precious days, however, he was a complete god. He was totally in control of their minds and their bodies. He didn't even care that Draco now jealously had begun to refer to him as the Slytherin "slut-puppy."
He was good at it.