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: Hermione might seem a little OOC...wait, who am I kidding? She is completely OOC, but I couldn't very well have her knitting hats for house-elves forever. Enjoy the steamy scene at the end of this chapter. It's going to be the last of its kind for awhile.
Diagon Venus
Chapter 3 – Inspiration
My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light.
--"First Fig" by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Hermione's heart was racing. She crept between rows of bookshelves in an old, musty library. She didn't think it was the Hogwarts library, but she couldn't be sure. She was reaching up for a book, the very tips of her toes digging into the carpet and her whole body stretching up, up, and further up towards the burgundy spine. She couldn't quite reach it. She stretched even further, but now a very long, olive-colored arm was on top of hers, and the hand of that arm was effortlessly pulling at the book, its fingers laid delicately upon her hand. She gasped wildly and whipped around. She found herself staring into a long, thin chest. She looked up and saw a broad, brownish jawbone, obscured by mounds of black curls. She closed her eyes, and then he had her by the hips, lifting her and teasing her. She didn't know what was happening, but it did not seem half bad. She heard Madame Pince's loud, pesky whisper and turned her head to the end of the aisle. Madame Pince was shaking a copy of Wuthering Heights at her, and she had a very strange expression on her face. "Romance, my dear," she said, "is perfectly naturally for a girl of your age."
She awoke with a start and nearly bounded from her bed. The bed curtains swung about with her sudden movement, and a mess of parchment went flying to the floor like delicate, inky leaves. She was still fully dressed. She had no idea what time it was, or what on earth had happened. The dorm room was completely dark. The last thing she remembered was pulling the curtains on her four-poster bed and writing in a feverish frenzy as though her life depended on it. She breathed heavily and tried to make out the hands of the clock on her bedside table.
5:45am.
She had slept all night, but she felt as though she had just gotten into bed a few moments ago. She stood there for a moment, the vivid dream toying with her barely conscious mind.
She flipped on a lamp, her eyes squinting and watering from the sudden brightness. She looked over at her bed and noticed with embarrassment that she had spilled her bottle of ink all over the crimson covers. As everything began to click into place, she became frantic again. Money. She had to find some Muggle money and somehow get a copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover. After the previous night, she didn't think she would ever go near the fiction section again.
She ruthlessly flung open the lid of her trunk and began rummaging, tossing heavy books aside as though they were weightless. Socks, ponytail holders, make-up she had never worn. Where was her stash? At any other time, she could have put her fingers on it immediately. But her brain wasn't working; either that or it was working in overdrive. She couldn't tell.
Neatly folded jumpers became crumpled, unruly piles on the floor beside her. Photographs and knick-knacks became darts aimed over her shoulder carelessly. A diary, a Christmas present from a relative that she had never once unlocked, was almost binned in her frustration. But this wasn't the time to be cleaning out and throwing away. She had one purpose in mind, one golden snitch hiding somewhere in the clouds that were her belongings.
And then she found it. The small leather change-purse was slightly obscured among a thick ring of leather belts. She grasped it and held it up to the light, praying that it contained enough funds to suit her present purpose. She opened it slowly, peeking into its dark folds as though she almost expected to find it empty. It was, she thought, perhaps the most crucial moment of the school year so far.
With a muffled squeak, she pulled out what she knew was a 20-pound note, folded in half and then quarters. She stuffed it into the inside pocket of her robe and then sat there for a moment, looking around at the mess she had made. She was in no mood to repack her trunk with her usual meticulous care. She simply grabbed armfuls of the strewn objects and stuffed them back into the trunk any way she could get them in there. The lid would not close. She didn't care.
With the same frantic gusto, she packed her schoolbag, tossing the scattered leaves of parchment on top of the mess inside. She flung it over her shoulder, moaning a bit at its weight. She had to keep going. She did not have time for a bath. She barely had time to think straight. She dashed to her mirror and shrieked at the person staring back at her. The thick, frizzy hair was hanging in wild, tangled lumps over her face and shoulders.
"Hermione!" came a groggy voice from behind her. Lavender was looking at her through a narrow slit in her bed curtains. "What time is it? What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing," she replied, grabbing a ponytail holder from the dresser. She wound her hair into a messy knot at the back of her head and heedlessly secured it. There were still fuzzy brown pieces hanging out at odd angles, particularly down the shoulder that bore the strap of her schoolbag. "No time to talk, Lavender. It's 5:55. Go back to sleep."
She was in the common room in less than five seconds. She practically leapt through the portrait hole and raced down the corridor. Her feet were flying even faster than the night before. She plunged down the staircase to the Great Hall, nearly tripping more than once.
She was almost there.
She turned her head, trying to make out whether or not anyone else was at breakfast yet. But she didn't really care. She was almost flying as she bolted from the last step, and then—
SMASH.
She was on the floor, helplessly entangled in the body of another student.
"Bloody hell!" yelled his deep voice, more shocked than angry.
Her bag was twisted in his robes, her pieces of parchment flying everywhere from her bag as he struggled to free himself. His long arms thrashed about uselessly, fighting to disengage himself from her.
More startled wrestling and more obscenities resulted from his fight, until he was free at last and on his feet.
She didn't look up. She couldn't look up. Her face burned as though an atomic bomb had just gone off in her head, her temples pounding. She stayed on her knees, grabbing at the parchment pieces and stuffing them back into her bag.
"Damn, Granger!" he roared, now more angry than shocked. "My coffee!"
Her curiosity suddenly outweighed her utter humility over the situation. She looked up, though her hands would not cease in their desperate task.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he pleaded.
Zabini. Blaise Zabini. Slytherin. Completely addled and covered in hot coffee.
"What the hell are you doing up so early?" she spat back. She couldn't tell at the moment whom she hated most—this monstrous Slytherin idiot or herself.
"I'm always up this early!" he thundered. The black waves of his hair were ruffled about his crimson cheeks. "Why were you running? That's not exactly prefect behavior, is it?"
She wished with every smidgeon of her entire being that she could simply apparate clear across the continent. Instead, she managed somehow to compose herself enough to stand up. And once she was up, she wasted no time.
"Sorry your robes!" she called over her shoulder as she dashed towards the Great Hall.
Why was she running? She didn't know. For some reason, she could not stop running since her accidental encounter the previous night. She felt like she could jog to London and back before Potions class that morning. She was so inspired.
Then it snapped. It hit her like lightning. She stopped dead in her tracks. The tall body, the curly black hair, the olive skin. She didn't want to believe it, but it was suddenly very clear. Blaise Zabini.
Her jaw dropped. She whipped around to confirm her theory, but he was gone, probably back to his dorm to change his robes and get another cup of coffee.
She entered the Great Hall, more flustered than ever. There were only a few people there. Millicent Bulstrode was stuffing her mouth idly. Terry Boot had his head crammed in a book. One of the new Gryffindor chasers was poring over diagrams of Quidditch positions. Justin Finch-Fletchley was looking sickeningly perky.
She plopped down at the trio's normal spot at the table and pulled out a piece of parchment. She had a special request, and she was too embarrassed to ask her own mother. She dipped her quill in an ink bottle, took a deep drink of orange juice, and began to write.
Dear Mrs Weasley,
I hope everything is going well for you and Mr Weasley. With any luck, Fred and George are not disturbing the peace too badly with their new shop. Ron is much better at Quidditch now, and he actually seems to be more interested in his studies, if you can believe it. And, of course, he always keeps us laughing, which especially good for Harry right now. Oh, and Ginny has turned out to be quite a beater, I must say. She makes Fred and George look like innocent little angels.
I have a somewhat unusual favor to ask of you. I've been studying literature recently, namely romantic Muggle fiction. Since you are frequently in London, I was wondering if you could possibly stop into a Muggle bookstore and purchase a few books for me? I am enclosing a twenty-pound note. (That's Muggle money.) If you would be so kind, please pick up a copy of Lady Chatterley's Lover by D. H. Lawrence, as well as the cheapest, trashiest romance novel that you can get your hands on. You can understand why I might be hesitant to ask my own mother to do this for me. She might get the wrong idea. But you are like a second mother to me, and I think you know me well enough to understand that these books are purely for research purposes.
If this is going to inconvenience you in any way, or possibly embarrass you, then please feel free to return the money to me. I will understand, and no explanation on your part will be necessary. However, I need the books as soon as possible in order to continue my research in a timely fashion. I really hope I'm not putting you out. If there is any change left over, please give it to Mr Weasley to add to his collection of Muggle paraphernalia.
Thank you for inviting me you-know-where for Christmas holidays. Unfortunately, I am wrapped up in several independent studies at the moment, and I've been quite busy. I am planning on staying at Hogwarts during the holidays to catch up.
We are all doing well. I know that Ron is rather slack about writing to you. I will stay on him to send you an owl, I promise. Thank you for your help.
Love from,
Hermione
P.S. Ron doesn't know about this research project. Perhaps we could just keep it between us? Thanks again.
She felt awful. Not only was the letter littered with falsehoods, but she felt really bad about asking Mrs Weasley to go out of her way. Furthermore, she remembered Mrs Weasley having a slightly—unfavorable—opinion of her for a while during their fourth year. What was it Ron had called her—a scarlet woman? Yet somehow, deep inside, she had a strange notion that Mrs Weasley would not find her request to be that odd at all. Mrs Weasley knew how level-headed and practical she was. It was a good thing she hadn't seen her lately.
She had to send the letter. It was her only chance.
She folded the parchment up carefully and inserted it into an envelope along with the 20-pound note. She began addressing it, but she realized that she wasn't sure where the Weasleys were residing at the moment. Damn. She would have to ask Ron. She dreaded his inevitable inquiries. But it had to be done.
She tossed the envelope aside and reached into her bag for the messy pile of papers. They were all out of order now, and several of them were streaked and spotted with coffee stains.
Coffee. The fiction section. The long, shaggy, curly black hair. She shuddered all of a sudden. How the hell had she never noticed Zabini before? He was, after all, in three of her classes—Potions, Arithmancy, and Ancient Runes. But he was so quiet. He seemed to blend in with his surroundings, despite the fact that he was now nearly a head taller than everyone else. She thought about the way she had slammed into him so unexpectedly—the way his ungodly long arms had thrashed about as he tried to disentangle his robes from hers. She shuddered again, this time a little more noticeably.
But he was so shy, she thought. He never said a word to anyone. Rather, he just lurked about like a phantom, watching everyone else. If she hadn't known for a fact that he was extremely good at Arithmancy, she might have even mistaken his looming silence for stupidity.
She couldn't believe it. The way he had grasped at Padma Patil's hips so feverishly, so expertly. And Padma had seemed to be enjoying herself very much. When did he learn to do things like that?
A mischievous smile crossed her lips, not unlike the kind she'd seen so many times on Malfoy's pointy little face. She had found the perfect leading man for her series.
Speaking of the devil, she saw him walk into the Great Hall out of the corner of her eye. She glanced up clandestinely, hoping he wouldn't notice. He carried a big, black book bag in one hand and an entire thermos of coffee, she presumed, in the other hand.
Oops! He saw her staring! He shot her a look of utmost loathing and then sat down at the Slytherin table with his back turned away from her.
She shook her head violently, trying to dispel the dirty thoughts that now seemed to be racing through her mind. She had to concentrate on her Potions notes. The only problem was that she couldn't seem to locate them at the moment. She rifled through the pieces of parchment desperately.
"very strange positions that seemed unearthly," said the first line of one paper. That wasn't what she was looking for.
"hips moving like a steady pendulum," began another piece of parchment.
UGH! That definitely wasn't what she was looking for. Where were her notes?
"Morning, Hermione," spoke a voice from her left.
She looked up, horrified to see Harry and Ron slouching unenthusiastically towards their usual spot beside her at the table.
She fumbled about nervously, raking the parchment into yet another disorganised pile and plopping Moste Potente Potions quickly down on top of it. She flipped it open and stared down idly at a potion for making glamours.
"How long have you been here?" Ron asked half-heartedly.
"Just a few minutes," she lied.
Harry silently plopped down beside her and began to pour himself a bowl of cornflakes.
"Harry, you look horrible!" she exclaimed, noticing the bags under his eyes. "Don't you sleep at all anymore?"
"Hmph," he replied.
Unless the topic was Quidditch, Harry was never talkative or enthusiastic about anything anymore. He just stared about with a glazed look in his eyes. She felt so sorry for him—and extremely worried—but she had no idea how to begin to comfort him.
Ron, however, talked enough for the both of them, though usually his topics of conversation were so mundane and idiotic that she found herself not wanting to pay attention. He still made the occasional sarcastic joke, and Harry would chuckle, but nothing was the same now that Sirius was gone. That was one of the reasons she had flung herself so willingly into the Diagon Venus competition. She needed some type of escape.
"Bloody Potions this morning," Harry mumbled, digging around in his cornflakes without any hint of wanting to eat them.
"Yes, unfortunately," she answered. "And I seem to have misplaced my notes."
Harry looked at her as though to say, Who are you? And what have you done with Hermione Granger? But he said nothing.
"I'm telling you," Ron announced, stuffing his mouth with toast, "dropping Potions was the smartest thing I've ever done. Herbology is much less stressful."
"How's it going, anyway?" Hermione asked, sipping on her orange juice.
"It's not too bad," he replied. "Mind you, I was almost strangled by a nasty little sample of Devil's Snare on Monday, but I'd take Devil's Snare over Snape any day. Besides, I've got a deal worked out with Fred and George, you know. I'll grow the plants, and they'll make the potions."
"And does Molly know about your little deal?" she asked disapprovingly.
"I may be slow, Hermione," he said, "but I'm not completely daft, am I?"
He grinned suddenly.
"Merlin, I just love Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays," he said.
She noticed that Harry smiled slightly as well. "What's so great about Mondays, Wednesday and Fridays?" she asked, her gaze moving from one to the other.
"The three Ps," Harry answered softly with a chuckle.
"Three Ps?" she asked.
Ron looked like he might pull a muscle in his face if he smiled any more broadly.
"Yep. Professor Priscilla Pernicia."
"Oh," Hermione replied, another reproachful expression on her face. "The new Divination professor."
"And the greatest addition that Dumbledore has ever made to the teaching staff," Ron added with a wink.
"I don't know," Hermione whispered. "There seems to be something a little sinister about her, don't you think?"
"Sinister?" Ron joked. "More like downright evil. It should be illegal for a professor to have a body like that. And she seems unusually interested in Harry, too."
"Must be the bloody scar," he answered indifferently.
"Whatever it is," Ron continued, "the lucky bastard is about to get a lot of extra time with her in the North Tower."
"What do you mean?" Hermione asked.
"She's volunteered to pick up where Snape left off. You know, with Harry's Occlumency."
"Good," Hermione said, lifting her chin up defiantly. "Maybe now you'll take it more seriously. It's really important, Harry. You know that first-hand now that—,"
She stopped. She had definitely not meant to go that far. They had all spent the last six months trying to forget what had happened in the Department of Mysteries.
"I'm sorry, Harry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to. . . I just worry about you. You know that."
Her apology did not seem to faze him anymore than the comment that had inspired it. In fact, he looked completely numb, as usual.
There was an uncomfortable silence. Harry stared down at his breakfast. Ron glared at Hermione as though she was Jezebel incarnate.
Then she remembered the letter to Mrs Weasley.
"Oh, Ron," she said, pulling out the envelope, "where are your mum and dad living right now?"
He looked at her curiously and snatched the envelope from her hand before she could stop him. Thank Merlin she had already sealed it. He carefully inspected the name of the addressee, Mrs Molly Weasley, and then looked back up at her.
"Why are you writing to my mum?" he demanded. "You're not giving her reports on my behavior, are you?"
"Why?" she asked, feeling her face turn hot with anger at his accusation. "Feeling guilty about something, Ronald?"
His jaw dropped. He looked like he wanted to hex her, but she spoke before he had a chance to reply. "It's girl talk, Ron. There are some things I'm just too embarrassed to talk to my own mum about."
Now he looked like he wanted to apparate as far away from the table as possible. "Oh," he grumbled, tossing the envelope back across the table as though it contained poison. "They're at Grimmauld Place right now."
"Thank you," she replied bitterly. She addressed the envelope accordingly and packed up her book and her papers. "I'm going to go send this owl before Potions. I'll see you in class, Harry."
"Hmph," he replied.
Potions class was ruthlessly long and exhausting. Hermione wanted to kick herself for going on about Harry's Occlumency lessons. He was very quiet as he sat next to her, carefully measuring out ingredients and apathetically stirring the brewing potion in his cauldron. There was one good thing about his general mood so far this year. He was silently obsessed with his classes, even Potions. In fact, he had become so fastidious about Potions class that Snape could not find a single complaint to make about his progress. Of course, Snape certainly didn't compliment him on his work. He seemed to simply ignore Harry whenever possible. It was like a New World Order. Hermione barely recognised her best friend anymore. He was quiet and determined. Apparently, he was newly driven by the events of the past year, hungry to learn everything he could so he would be ready when the next confrontation with Voldemort came along.
Hermione wondered when that confrontation would arise. Everything was so quiet. There was a new Minister of Magic, Amelia Susan Bones, and she was infinitely more stable than Fudge. Nearly all of the Death-Eaters were now in Azkaban, thanks to Dumbledore, and Bones had used highly effective experimental Charms to secure the cells, since the Dementors had proven to be so untrustworthy. The entire wizarding world seemed to be enjoying a welcome break from the Dark Arts. The only uneasy feeling came from the knowledge that Voldemort was still out there somewhere. Bellatrix Lestrange had also disappeared.
Hermione never knew whether or not to try to indulge Harry in conversation. He seemed to want to be left alone. Potions class was probably the most excruciating for her, as Ron wasn't there to break the formidable silence. Lucky Ron. Some days, she desperately wished that she was with him in Herbology. Harry was just so different. And she could think of absolutely nothing to say that would revive his former spirit. Often, she wanted to scream at him, to shake him silly. Anything to wipe that numb expression off his face.
"Why are you writing to Molly Weasley?" Harry's voice finally said.
She nearly jumped out of her seat, utterly startled by his sudden attempt at a conversation. Her mouth hung open speechlessly.
He looked over at her, a crease forming seriously above the rim of his glasses.
She said nothing.
He observed her carefully, obviously hesitant to continue. At last, he leaned a little bit closer to her and whispered, "You said it was girl talk, and you couldn't talk to your own mum about it. There's nothing wrong with you, is there?"
She had no idea what to say.
"I mean," he went on almost mutely, "you're not. . . pregnant . . . or something like that, are you?"
She almost laughed out loud. Pregnancy. She did not think Harry even knew such things existed.
"Two months," she answered, trying to keep as blank of an expression on her face as possible. "Didn't you hear about my little tryst with Percy in Hogsmeade?"
Harry's jaw was nearly on the floor. She couldn't go on like that, teasing him. Not when he was so serious and humorless.
"Harry," she whispered, "I'm not pregnant." She could not help giggling. "And if I am, then I've unfortunately missed out on the fun part."
He blushed. She was so ecstatic to see any kind of emotion at all on his face that she could have kissed him right there.
"Sorry," he said. "That was a really stupid question, I know." He shrugged his shoulders. "You must think I've gone round the bend. I don't know what to think anymore. If anything happened to you or Ron. . ."
He stopped mid-sentence. Beneath his glasses, she thought she saw his eyes start to mist over. Indeed, she thought. She and Ron were about the only people he had left in the world. She made sure that Snape wasn't looking, and then she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
"I know, Harry," she whispered.
He stirred his potion idly. She suddenly felt closer to him than any other person on the planet. She wanted to hug him. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and make him sob out loud against her shoulder. Why wouldn't he just cry? He would feel so much better!
"Then what were you writing to Molly about?" he asked again.
"About the holidays," she answered, looking away. "I've been really busy with Ancient Runes." She felt horrible for lying to him. "I don't think I'm going to Grimmauld Place for the holidays. I think I'll stay at Hogwarts."
He looked straight into his cauldron, avoiding her eyes. "I wish I didn't have to go to Grimmauld Place," he spat out suddenly. His voice was shaky.
"Harry, you don't have to go."
"No," he replied, "but I suppose I should. Just to keep everyone from worrying about me." His jaw tightened. "Or just to keep them from thinking I'm getting into some kind of trouble." He looked up at her suddenly. "I'm not, you know," he said. "Getting into trouble, that is. You should be very proud."
The last part of the statement was almost spiteful. She had no difficulty at all in forgiving him for it.
"Harry," she said, "I'm really, really sorry for making that comment at breakfast. And who am I to be proud of you? You've saved my skin more than once, and you know it."
He looked at her with such sudden relief—such happiness at her understanding—that she nearly burst into tears herself. She was just so glad that he was finally talking.
"So why did you tell Ron it was girl talk?" he asked with a smile.
"Because," she replied with a grin, "that's the quickest way to shut him up, isn't it?"
Harry chuckled.
Snape was upon them at once. He seemed to have come from nowhere, and he smirked down at them with sadistic pleasure. "I hate to interrupt your little amorous interview," he snarled, "but I think it's time you bottle a vial of your potions. Class is nearly finished."
God, how she hated Snape. She noticed with interest that Harry did not protest at all. He simply scooped some of his potion into a bottle, stoppered it, and handed it to the Potions Master, almost defiantly.
"Sorry if it's a little pink," Harry growled. "I think your beetle eyes are slightly past their expiration date."
Snape looked rabid. Hermione wanted to stand up on the desk and start cheerleading.
"I'll make sure to replace them," Snape answered through gritted teeth. He looked like he wanted to pummel Harry into the next century. "And five points from both of you, for flirting when you should be working."
He dashed away, his robes billowing behind him as annoyingly as ever.
Hermione and Harry looked at each other triumphantly. It could have been fifty points each, for all they cared. Hermione thought that Harry's witty criticism of Snape's beetle eyes had been worth a hundred points alone.
They packed their things and started out into the hall.
"Granger!" a deep voice called from behind them.
She whirled around and found Blaise Zabini pacing towards her. She turned quickly back to Harry and found him watching Zabini, one eyebrow raised curiously.
"I'll see you in Charms," Harry mumbled, and then he turned to go.
Why? Why did Harry have to leave her alone all of a sudden? And what the hell did Zabini want with her?
Zabini looked slightly flushed. His thermos was stashed under his arm, and he held a piece of parchment in his right hand. Was he blushing? Was he actually approaching her? She felt her stomach lurch wildly, and she was suddenly glad she hadn't had anything but orange juice for breakfast.
"Look," she began and he paced towards her, "I told you I was sorry about your—OUCH!!!"
He had her by the arm, his fingers digging into her through her robe. He was leading her down the hall, still blushing furiously. He stopped suddenly and thrust the parchment at her. For some reason, he looked very embarrassed.
"You left this in the hall this morning," he whispered. "I just want you to know that I stopped reading once I realised what it was. And believe me, I'll take it to my grave."
She gasped for breath. Surely not. . .?
He was now looking at her very curiously indeed. She couldn't figure out the expression. It was somewhere between amusement and nausea, she thought.
"One thing is for certain," he continued almost mutely. "I'll never look at Potions in the same way again."
He turned around and practically ran from her.
With a dreadfully apocalyptic feeling in the pit of her stomach, she opened up the parchment. At the top of the parchment was a list of potions ingredients. Near the bottom there was a very explicit excerpt from her first story for Witch Weekly.
She was so humiliated that she didn't know what to do. She laughed out loud. After all, it was almost funny.
Blaise was on his way to one of his favourite classes, Arithmancy. It was the next-to-last class of the day, which made it even better. As usual, he planned to go straight to dinner when he was finished with classes, choke down as much food as he could stomach on his coffee-filled belly, and then head to the library for some well-deserved peace and quiet.
Girls giggled as he strode down the hall, his mind racing. He ignored them. Just as he approached the classroom, however, he found that he could ignore them no longer. A delicate hand tugged at his robe, and he turned around bitterly.
Padma Patil.
She said nothing at all to him. She didn't even giggle, he noted happily. She merely pressed a folded note into his pocket and grabbed him by his necktie. Using her hold on him as leverage, she yanked his face down to hers.
"Read it later," she whispered.
He thought he saw an odd expression flash in her eyes as she turned to walk away. Why did he even care? She wasn't that pretty, after all. But she wanted him so badly. It was obvious. And he liked it.
He entered the classroom as silently as ever and scooted into a seat at the very back. Padma was right about him. He wanted nothing more than to blend in. To his dismay, it had been very difficult to blend in earlier that morning. It was impossible to keep a low profile when one was abruptly knocked to the ground by a distracted female. Damn Granger and her bloody bag, tackling him like that so unexpectedly. The only thing that kept him from being too angry was the fact that it had apparently been a very appalling mistake.
Why did she have to leave that one piece of parchment behind? And even worse, why did he have to pick it up? He felt the words as though they were still right there in front of his eyes. . .
Her pelvis lashed out at him uncontrollably. His hands grabbed at her hips deftly, hauling them against his long, lean body in steady, maddening motions. Her head flew back against the wall, her entire body crying out to be ravished. . .
That was just not Grangermaterial. She must have copied those lines from somewhere else. Surely Granger could not spout such absurd fantasies from her own experience. That bushy hair, that self-righteous gleam in her bossy eyes. That complete disregard for the way in which she affected others. No. Those lines were simply not Granger.
No way. So how did they get onto her Potions notes?
He had been so embarrassed when he returned the parchment to her, and it just wasn't like a Zabini to be embarrassed. Zabinis felt nothing, and if they did, they certainly didn't show it. He should have just kept the notes, as he had battled with himself to do.
And now he had to face her yet again. At any minute, she would be walking through that door, her chin thrust high into the air as always, the little wench. She would ignore him and find a seat in the first row, ravenous to hear every word out of Professor Vector's mouth. She would take notes in her tight, constricted little manner, thinking she was better than everyone else on the planet. She would answer every question with a ruthless thirst to prove herself. She would win twenty points, at least, for Gryffindor before packing her bag and sauntering out of the classroom like she owned the world. She was all too predictable.
He hated her. If only he could best her once. If only he could once get his hand in the air before her, he could prove himself. But what the hell was he doing thinking about Granger when he had a note in his pocket from Padma?
He dug in his pocket until the folded piece of paper reached his fingertips. Should he read it now? Would it get taken away from him when class began? What did it say?
His curiosity got the best of him. He unfolded it carefully, glancing around to make sure no one was looking. With any luck, the note would contain the plea that he was waiting for. After all, she had been so eager. He looked down, ready to stuff it back into his pocket at any second.
Blaise,
Thank you for making me look at Lawrence in a whole new light. I would very much like for you to meet me in Greenhouse 3 at midnight tonight.
Padma
And she had drawn something at the bottom that appeared to be a winking smiley face.
Well. Greenhouse 3 it would be. He chuckled beneath his breath. It had not yet been twenty-four hours, and she was begging to see him again. It was too soon for his liking, but after the previous night, he was more than anxious to oblige her.
He pocketed the note, a silent, tiny smile on his face.
The smile disappeared immediately as he saw Granger enter the room from the corner of his eye. She strutted to the front of the classroom, just as he had predicted. She threw her bag down on the desk and sighed heavily. Her hair was even wilder now than it had been when she stumbled into him that morning. The cold moisture of the December air teased it into a disorderly pile on the top of her head, the wild frizz sticking out of her loose bun as defiantly as her demeanor.
Against his will, he was forced to remember the look on her face that morning. He didn't think he had actually ever seen her face before. Normally, it was so obscured by hair and grimaces that he barely noticed it. But when he had looked into her face that morning, it had been so red, so full of emotion. With her hair up, he could actually see her cheekbones and her mocha-coloured eyes. They were soft, yet somehow electric.
Whoa. Wait a minute. What was he thinking? There was nothing "electric" about it. She had obviously just stumbled out of bed. In fact, she could have done with a bath and a change of clothes, come to think of it. But there had been something different about her. She had been in such a frantic rush. Why?
His heart nearly leapt from his chest and did a somersault across the desk. She was looking at him. She was unmistakably turned in her seat and looking straight at him. Her eyes were boring caverns into his behind the loose strands of frizzy curls. And then. . . could it be possible? . . .
She smirked at him.
He bowed his head, suddenly more interested in Arithmancy than ever.
Blaise started getting ready for his "date" around 11:00. Most of the rest of the Slytherin house had already gone to bed. As they were settling down to sleep, he was growing more and more restless. He slipped into the shower and felt the thick steam toy with his heightened senses. The hard jets of hot water soaked his hair, and he just stood there for a moment without moving, allowing the water to cascade over his head and trickle down his shoulders. His mind went comfortably blank.
After a few minutes, he snapped back to reality. Did he even want this? It was difficult to tell anymore. It was becoming little more than a careless ritual. Girls would approach him, and he would play along almost mindlessly. He would shower and dress, trying to psyche himself up. He would meet them, their eyes aglow with desire. He would make love to them with a heated passion that was almost foreign to him. He wasn't even sure he really felt it. He would bask in the afterglow of his actions until he became uncomfortable and restless. And then he would get dumped the following day.
Was it worth it?
He didn't care. At that very moment, as he stood beneath the hot stream of water feeling pensive, he could just imagine Padma. She was probably in her dormitory doing the same thing. She was probably soaking herself in a hot, steamy bath, bathing herself in that unearthly vanilla soap that had driven him crazy. And she would sit and brush those armfuls of black hair, adoring herself in her mirror. She would pinch her cheeks to bring a spike of fuchsia colour into them. She would slip into her sexiest knickers, probably already imagining what it would be like for him to rip them off of her. She would dress, and she would wait. She would think, and she would wait. She would look at herself in the mirror about forty times. And she would wait.
When he was finished showering, he toweled off and dressed, his brain still somewhat torn. He put on a pair of loose-fitting black corduroy trousers, wisely omitting the underwear, and proceeded shirtless to the mirrored dresser in his dormitory room. Again, that odd stranger looked back at him, with shoulders too broad and a chest too firm to belong to him. He ran his fingers through his damp hair, trying to smooth the shoulder-length waves, and pondered the mystery of his own reflection.
"I see you're whoring yourself again," came a lazy drawl from the four-poster bed behind him.
He said nothing, and he certainly did not bother to turn around. He stuffed his bare feet into his loafers. He didn't care how cold it was. There were few things more idiotic than having sex in nothing but one's socks, and he did not anticipate that he would have time to remove them once things got going properly.
"What does this make, anyway," the indolent voice behind him continued, "the seventh time this month?"
Blaise could not help from chuckling at such a wild assumption. Unlike Malfoy, he never discussed his romantic exploits. He thought that was not only dreadfully tacky, but also a muted sign of insecurity. He knew, however, that little girls loved to talk, and their giggly confessions had obviously made their way back to Malfoy's ears.
"I do hope you're using contraceptive charms," Malfoy went on.
"Of course," Blaise answered blandly as he misted a stream of cologne across his chest. He really did not want to be having this discussion, even if it somewhat amused him.
"And I do hope you're not lowering yourself to shagging mudbloods." Malfoy's voice was now low and spiteful. "I mean, you don't seem that picky, after all. Take for example, Millicent Bulstrode."
Blaise felt a sudden tinge of nausea. So his suspicions about that hazy, drunken night had been correct. He shuddered and reached for his wooly pine-green jumper.
"And she was your first, wasn't she?" he kept on ruthlessly. "Well, at least Bulstrode is a Slytherin. I would be quite disturbed if you started shagging Gryffindors or something."
Malfoy had unknowingly hit a nerve at last, but Blaise continued to ignore him. He pulled the jumper over his head and controlled his blank features as always.
"I mean, heaven forbid you should ever shag someone like Granger."
Blaise quivered slightly, despite himself.
"Mind you, someone needs to shag her, and shag her bloody raw. Loosen her up a bit. The stupid little self-righteous mudblood."
Blaise couldn't resist.
"Why don't you shag her then," he replied, his low voice as calm as a dead sea, "and get it over with?"
He was gone too quickly to notice Malfoy's gaping, infuriated expression.
For someone who hated Muggle-borns so badly, he thought as he paced down the corridor, Malfoy seemed to be horribly keen on screwing the daylights out of Granger. Over and over again he mentioned it. Blaise almost wanted to set the two of them up on a date, just to give Malfoy a chance at his demonic fantasy. Merlin, Malfoy was a slimy little bastard. And the way he was always chattering about his bawdy trysts, always bragging about the size of his penis, always smirking so sleazily—it made Blaise wonder what Malfoy thought he needed to compensate for. Blaise thought he must have been either a virgin or gay.
Either thought brought a smile to his lips. It gave him a barbarous type of satisfaction to think that Malfoy was jealous of him.
He tried to think about Padma as he slinked around the castle, secretly weaving his way to the greenhouses. For some reason, he just wasn't feeling anything akin to arousal. He felt hungry and wild, like a prowling panther, but that was it. There was no real pathos in his intentions, even though he planned to be soft and gentle and romantic. He almost felt empty. But he didn't care.
He knew she would be waiting for him by the front door, twisting those tiny hands in front of her as annoyingly as ever. He couldn't stand the thought of it—her innocence and her nervousness. Yet the thought of it was what kept his feet moving beneath him, searching out the marble of the floor in front of him. He decided to sneak in the back door and do what he did best. Stalk his prey.
As he crossed the threshold, the beautiful aroma of the greenhouse invaded his nostrils. It was almost as stimulating as the smell of books. She had picked the perfect place. He saw her there, through meters of twisted foliage, her back turned to him. The moon shone through the skylight on her dark skin, illuminating it as if she was glowing.
He kicked off his loafers, feeling the soft, damp massage of soil beneath his feet. It was always warm in the greenhouse, and it always smelled of earth and clay and life. He crept slowly down the row towards her, careful to avoid any particularly carnivorous-looking plants. She didn't hear him. No, she couldn't have. He was an expert at sneaking up on people—an expert at blending in, as Padma herself had noted.
The stray leaves of some mandrakes tickled his hands as he crept forward feverishly. The tendrils of a hanging plant caressed his cheeks. He strode on, his eyes steady upon the back of her head. He felt hot and ravenous—almost like he was outside of his own body, watching himself from above.
He was suddenly upon her, and she still did not notice his presence. She was sitting on a table, kicking her feet out rhythmically in front of her. He was behind her, leaning forward over the smooth, damp wood of the table. He could smell the vanilla scent of her hair. He could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. His lips were at her ear.
"Sorry I'm late," he whispered.
She jumped from the table and whirled around to face him.
"I. . . I didn't hear you come in," she stuttered. She was flushed and frightened. He fed off of the look on her face.
"Sorry to startle you," he replied coolly. "Get up on the table."
He was not going to give her time for small talk. He hated small talk. At the moment, he didn't care if she was a Nobel-prize winner.
She speechlessly obeyed him, sitting in front of him with her legs crossed.
"You invited me here," he commented, his eyes boring into the black holes of her pupils, "so I can only imagine what you meant to accomplish."
She said nothing. She looked particularly stricken and timid.
"Am I right?" he asked softly, cocking his head to the side.
She nodded wordlessly.
Some pathetic sense of chivalry inside him needed further confirmation. No matter how he stalked or devoured his victims, he would never want to be blamed of taking any woman against her will.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked quietly. He only needed one little word in order to proceed.
"Yes," she answered firmly, her eyes now as steady as his own.
He grabbed her by the knees and jerked her forward until her legs were dangling off the table at his sides. She gasped for air.
"Take off your shirt," he demanded.
"But I thought you would—,"
"I want to watch you do it," he replied, cutting her off.
She clutched at the hem of her shirt and pulled it up quickly. He grabbed her by the arms and stopped her suddenly. She stared at him, a puzzled look in her eyes.
"Slowly," he whispered. "I want you to tease me."
She smiled narrowly and lifted the shirt up slowly—very slowly, indeed—above her head, complying silently with his wishes. He watched as the smooth, brown skin manifested itself in front of him. She flung the garment aside and looked down at him as though asking for his approval.
"Good," he said in a very husky voice. "Now the bra."
She slowly reached her hands around and fumbled with the clasp of her bra. He watched her chest heave as the silky material fell down her shoulders, exposing a set of chocolate-coloured, fully erect nipples. He stared at them as though they were the center of the universe. And indeed, they were the center of the universe at that moment.
"Lovely," he whispered with a smile.
His hands went to her knees, delicately pushing them apart. Then they journeyed up her thighs, stopping once or twice so that his fingers could draw circles on her hot flesh. He watched her eyes with interest. She was entirely at his command. He reached beneath her skirt and seized the narrow strips of her bikini knickers. He let his hands rest there for a minute, taunting her. He felt her hips rise slightly. And then he tore the slinky garment from her body and tossed it aside.
She was suddenly clutching at his jumper, fighting to get it off of him. He helped her, his arms momentarily above his head in a very submissive action. She ran her hands experimentally over his collarbone and then shoved them deeply into his wavy hair. He took one of her breasts into his mouth, tenderly sucking at her nipple as his hands massaged her lower back.
She was moaning in pleasure, which only spurred him into deeper fits of excitement. Her legs encircled him, her whole body pleading for him to go further. He yanked her down from the table and began lowering her to the ground.
"I hope you don't mind getting dirty," he whispered against her neck, the duality of the comment not lost on either one of them.
"No," she replied breathlessly, "of course not."
He pressed her down into the soft soil beneath them, the weight of his body suddenly heavy upon her nimble frame. His hands went everywhere he could think to move them, and his mouth toyed with the skin of her neck and shoulders.
"Blaise," she whimpered.
He thought it was odd to hear his name spoken in such a fashion, but he listened to her nonetheless.
"I've never. . ."
"I guessed as much," he interrupted her. "Don't worry. I'll be very, very gentle."
This was the part that he hated. She was lying there in his arms, both of them covered with the soil of the greenhouse floor. Their breaths were now returning to normal, and he found that he had absolutely nothing to say. After all, he didn't even know her. Only a few random sentences had ever passed between them. More than anything, he wanted to grab his clothes and run.
Padma beat him to it.
She picked up her clothes from the various places they had fallen and began dressing as though her life depended on it.
"So," he said dumbly, not knowing what else to say.
"So what?" she replied, her long hair tangling in her shirt as she struggled quickly to get it back on.
He was speechless. He didn't think he had ever been in such a predicament before. He rose up on his elbows and stared at her wonderingly.
"What are you doing?" he asked. He barely recognised his own voice.
"I'm going back to my dormitory," she responded blandly. "It's after curfew, isn't it?"
He rose from the ground and began dressing himself, staring at her all the while with latent curiosity. Before long, they were both dressed and looking at each other nervously.
"So that's it?" he blurted out, suddenly noticing how loudly his voice echoed off the glass walls of the greenhouse.
She laughed sarcastically.
"Well, what did you think, Blaise?" she said. Her voice seemed very different from before. It almost made him tremble, her sudden coldness. "Did you honestly think that I wanted more than this? You're just a toy. Just a pawn. Did you know that you are affectionately referred to in Ravenclaw as the 'Hogwarts Deflowerer'?"
"What are you talking about?" he pleaded. He wasn't used to being treated like this.
"I don't know about the rest of them," she spat softly, "but I am engaged. My parents arranged it back in my third year of Hogwarts. He's a friend of the family."
Blaise felt something grab at his belly and jerk downwards, like a cold, numb leaden weight.
"But I had to know what it was like," she whispered.
Was that sympathy in her black eyes? Did she feel sorry for him?
"I couldn't just get married and go to bed with my husband, without knowing what it was like to feel passionate. And besides, he's really ugly. I don't like him at all. I definitely didn't want him to be my first. But I have to marry him, or my family faces a great disgrace."
He felt a lump of something akin to—sorrow?—rising in his throat, but he didn't know why.
She sensed his sudden despondency and shifted from foot to foot anxiously.
"You were wonderful," she said plainly. "Really. Sweet, and gentle, and respectful. It was twenty times better than I thought it would be."
His heart was hammering against his breastbone wildly, his mind a total blur. He felt as though he had just walked into someone else's nightmare.
"But surely you know I was just using you," she added. "I'm sorry."
She was gone suddenly, the door of the greenhouse flapping behind her in the breeze of the December night.
flatfoot-92: Thanks for being my very first ever reviewer! I hope you like this chapter.