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.
Spoilers: Through OOTP.
A/N: Grazie to all my reviewers! Thank you for your support. It keeps my coffee-maker going and my pen flowing. I can't believe you people felt sorry for Blaise! He's no angel, and it was the push he needed.
Diagon Venus
Chapter 4 – Rattle and Hum
In the locust wind comes a rattle and hum
Jacob wrestled the Angel
And the Angel was overcome
-- Bono
One week later, Hermione sat at breakfast among a pile of Potions notes. She was way too inspired to be studying, having written half of her first article in frantic bouts during the past week since her "run-in" with Zabini. But schoolwork still had to come first. Inspiration would just have to wait until later that night, when she could steal away to the library under the pretense of research for History of Magic and finish her article undisturbed.
"What's all this, Hermione?" Ron asked through his usual mouthful of food.
"What does it look like, Ronald?" she snapped. "Potions, of course."
"It's not like you to put things off until the last minute," he remarked, looking a bit disheartened by her irritable mood.
"I've been busy," she grunted. She did not have time to talk. She was to have these ingredients and processes memorized before her first class this morning.
"You don't have an exam this morning, do you?" he asked, obviously hesitant to continue but curious and lonely for conversation nonetheless.
"Yes," she replied through gritted teeth. "Leave it to Snape to give us a two-part exam in the very last classes of the term."
It was Wednesday, and classes would let out for the holidays on Friday afternoon. It was very cruel of Snape. Then again, they would probably be too shocked to truly enjoy their holidays if Snape had cancelled class and started passing out candy canes.
"Harry doesn't seem that concerned," Ron commented, nodding towards his best friend, who had his head propped in his right hand and was lightly snoring.
"Harry doesn't need to be concerned," Hermione answered quietly. "He's managed straight Es on all of Snape's assignments so far this year."
Ron set down his fork and looked highly confused. "Let me get this straight," he said slowly. "Harry is making top marks and sleeping, and you are frantically sifting through notes at the last minute." He looked around as though expecting to find he had apparated into Disneyland. "Am I in some sort of alternate parallel universe?"
"He's been this way all year," Hermione whispered. She was fairly sure that Harry was sleeping, but she didn't want to risk his anger at overhearing them deep in conversation about him. "I can't figure it out. In fact, I'm really worried."
"You? Worried about Harry?" Ron whispered back sarcastically.
"Look at him," she said. "He never talks anymore. For pity's sake, he's about to fall asleep in his breakfast. Ron, I know things are quiet right now, but he's like a different person. I would almost rather he sat up and started yelling at us."
"I know what you mean," Ron said, his face finally falling into a thoughtful grimace. "Whenever I wake up in the middle of the night, I see him just lying there with his eyes open. He's not sleeping, but it's as if he's in a trance or something. And when he does sleep, he mumbles things..."
"What?" Hermione asked. "What does he mumble?"
Ron raised one eyebrow and looked at her as though she was a four-year-old. "That's the thing about mumbling, Hermione. It's usually incoherent."
"Surely you can pick out something he says?"
Ron thought for a minute. He seemed to hesitate, but then went on, "The solstice. He's always on about the solstice."
"The solstice? What does that mean?"
Ron didn't have time to elaborate. Ginny Weasley, his red-haired little sister, plopped down next to him looking especially ruffled.
"Morning, Ginny," Ron said.
She grunted. Ginny had changed dramatically from the previous year. She was now taller than Hermione, with an abundance of showy, athletic curves that kept Ron constantly in battles with their ogling male classmates. Her hair had darkened to an almost auburn color, and she had a set to her jaw that was both attractive and formidable at the same time. She was a prefect now, and, next to Harry, she was the star of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, wildly surpassing any precedents that Fred and George had lain down as Beaters. In their first match against Slytherin, she had sent two Chasers and the Keeper to the infirmary with her near-fatal Bludger blows. The fascinating part was her daily transformation from Quidditch-femme-fatale to Gryffindor-sex-goddess. She would nearly kill Quidditch players on the pitch, and then she would proceed to the after-parties in the common room in stylish Muggle attire that had, more than once, caused Ron to throw a cloak over her shoulders in embarrassment.
"How's O.W.L. year going so far, Ginny?" Hermione asked.
"Why don't you just hit me with a good strong Avada Kedavra curse and finish me off," Ginny answered, grabbing a plate of eggs and bacon.
"Ah, yes," Hermione replied with a smile. "I remember coming close to begging for one of those myself."
"Thank Merlin we get out of here in three days," she said with a sigh. "Between classes and Quidditch, I don't know if I'm going or coming."
"It might also help," Ron commented through gritted teeth, "if you could quit snogging Dean Thomas long enough to pick up a book."
At this statement, Ginny smiled. Hermione knew well enough how much Ginny's love life disturbed Ron. However, seeing as Ginny's right arm was now strong enough to knock a sizeable hole in the Great Wall of China, Ron generally kept his overprotective comments to himself.
"A girl has to have her distractions, Ron," Ginny answered.
Ron did not press the point.
"You're not coming to Grimmauld Place for the holidays?" Ginny asked Hermione as she buttered a piece of toast.
"No," Hermione answered. "I'm working on a...independent study. I could use the extra time in the library."
Ginny shrugged. "Well, I wish you were coming. I need someone to rescue me from the likes of these two idiots," she said, clearly referring to Ron and Harry. Ron looked thoroughly discomposed but said nothing. "Mind you, I can't wait to see Fred and George. I could really go for a Skiving Snackbox about now, and they've offered me a discount. And Tonks will be there," she went on, "so I guess I won't be at a loss for some good old-fashioned girl talk."
"Girl talk?!" Ron nearly screamed. "More girl talk? What the bloody hell do you talk about behind our backs?"
"Just the usual," Ginny replied, nonplussed. "You know, male stupidity, kissing strategies,...penis size."
Ron appeared to attempt to speak, but nothing came out.
"Don't worry, Ron," Ginny assured him with a devilish grin. "It's not the size of the wand that matters. It's the magic you can do with it."
Hermione laughed out loud. She loved to watch Ginny ruthlessly taunt her big brother.
"Crikey," Ginny said, "what's wrong with Harry? It looks like his bowl of cornflakes is about to take a beating."
"You've got to get him to start sleeping at night," Hermione commanded Ron.
"What do want me to do?" Ron asked, apparently recovering from Ginny's little joke. "Sing him a bloody lullabye? Read him a bedtime story?" This seemed to give Ron an idea. "Maybe you could loan me your Arithmancy text. That would do the trick for anyone."
Hermione glared at him.
Just then, the morning post arrived, and a fairly sizeable brown package was plunked down in front of Hermione. This was it. Mrs Weasley had come through for her.
"What's that?" Ron demanded, staring at the address on the wrapping. "That's mum's handwriting."
"Must be an early Christmas present," Hermione commented nervously.
She reached for the parcel, but Ron got to it first and held it up to look at it.
"Does this have anything to do with the owl you sent her last week?" Ron asked, an antagonistic edge to his voice.
"Give it to me!" Hermione shrieked. She didn't care if the entire school saw her make an idiot of herself. Ron had no business interfering.
He stood up and held the parcel up in the air, just out of her reach. "What is it?" he implored sadistically.
"I won't know until I open it, will I?" she nearly yelled.
Ron had a very sinister look about his visage. He lived for this, Hermione thought, to taunt her and embarrass her and mercilessly torture her. She reached for the parcel, but it was no use. Ron was much too tall, and he held it high above his head, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.
"What's it worth to you?" he asked. "Because I've got a History of Magic essay with your name written all over it."
Hermione looked down at Ginny for help. Ginny looked curious but non-committal.
"Give...that...to...me...right...NOW!" Hermione yelled, making one final jump for the parcel.
"What have you got my mum sending you?" Ron continued cruelly.
Hermione didn't have time to answer. A sleek, pale hand effortlessly grabbed the parcel and handed it over to Hermione majestically. Hermione looked to the owner of the hand. She was a very tall, slim, enchanting witch. The sheer layers of her crimson robes barely covered her bursting cleavage, and her shoulders wore a train of long, raven-coloured hair. Her face was cold and aristocratic, but her eyes were violet and coolly afire. Hermione noticed out of the corner of her eye that Harry had awakened. In fact, nearly every young wizard in the vicinity had turned to stare at the scene. This woman seemed to possess a type of vitality outside of herself—a quiet, gleaming control over everyone around her.
"P-Professor Pernicia," Ron stuttered, his eyes awkwardly focused on her breasts.
"You're not acting like much of a gentleman, Mr Weasley," the captivating witch cooed.
Hermione took the parcel and stared at this woman in front of her, unable to discern any type of meaning behind the cold yet fiery eyes. Harry shifted about nervously, his eyes fixed on the professor. Ginny stared despite herself.
"If this is your method of flirting," Professor Pernicia continued, gazing steadily at Ron's trembling frame, "then you might want to reconsider your approach."
She was gone in less than an instant, her sheer burgundy robes cascading behind her like blood in motion.
"I have to go," Harry announced suddenly, getting up and following the scarlet remnants of the professor like a puppy dog.
It was very strange. Hermione clutched the parcel to her chest, delighted to have seen Ron put in his place. Ginny pushed her food around on her plate.
"Well, Ronald," Hermione began quietly, "now I understand what you find so fascinating about Mondays, Wednesday and Fridays."
He said nothing. He merely settled himself back down at the table, looking especially sheepish.
"Flirting," he mumbled. His cheeks were glowing with crimson color. "I don't know where she got that." He shoved his plate aside and gathered his bag from beneath the table. "I have to go as well," he muttered. "I'll be late for Herbology."
This left Ginny and Hermione at the table, looking at each other quite interestingly.
"Priscilla Pernicia," Hermione whispered. "I had no idea. But I must say; now I see what all the fuss is about."
"Do you..." Ginny began hesitantly, then stopped herself. She looked suddenly mischievous and cautious at the same time. "Do you think she's pretty?"
"She's beautiful," Hermione replied, utterly transfixed. "It's almost weird, isn't it?"
"I know," Ginny whispered. "The boys in my Divination class can't keep their eyes off her..." Ginny paused. "And neither can the girls, for that matter."
"Well," Hermione said, "she is very unusual."
"Do you know anything about her?"
"Nothing."
"Neither do I. No one seems to know anything about her. I guess that's what makes her so good at Divination, you know? She's so mysterious."
Hermione chuckled. "She's a far cry from Trelawney, isn't she?"
"Without a doubt," Ginny responded, her eyes slightly glazed. "I suppose I should get to class as well. It's about that time, isn't it?"
Hermione nodded, still holding the package firmly, and stuffed her Potions notes into her book bag with one hand. Ginny got up and left. Hermione found herself alone now, the curious parcel pressed to her breast like a treasure. She glanced around cautiously and then tore it open. Inside were two books, Lady Chatterley's Lover and a thick purple paperback with a very explicit cover image of a man embracing a long-haired maiden. There was a letter as well.
She pulled the letter from the wrapping and stuffed the books into her bag. She had to get to Potions class. If there was time, she would read the letter outside of the dungeon.
She raced down the hall, ignoring second-years who were carrying objects that suspiciously resembled dungbombs. Her feet were flying again, despite her mindless efforts of playing the perfect Gryffindor prefect. She stopped only once she was outside of the Potions classroom, and she pulled the letter out of the envelope, glancing around to make sure no one was looking. She read it quickly.
Dear Hermione,
I am sorry to hear that we won't be seeing you over the holidays. I do appreciate your update on Ronald, though I admit I was a bit surprised to hear that he was "more interested in his studies." However, he has, in fact, been writing to me, and his recent owl indicated that he has taken quite a new liking to Charms. I can only hope this doesn't result in a desire for him to follow in the footsteps of Fred and George. They are, indeed, wreaking havoc, but they're just so good at it that I can't seem to complain. And they are obviously making a lot of money at it, as well.
I have enclosed the books you requested. It was actually quite interesting to browse through a Muggle bookstore. I apologize for the dog-eared pages in the purple romance novel. I couldn't resist the temptation to skim through it myself. I definitely understand how you might think your own mother would disapprove. (But they are quite delicious little tales, aren't they?)
To be quite honest, I was beginning to worry about you. As you probably know, I myself was married at eighteen. And between the fact that your two best friends are boys, and your fascination with more—lofty—subject matter, I've been afraid you might miss out on some of the more enchanting aspects of becoming a young woman. Research, indeed! You're almost seventeen years old, and I would be concerned if you were not at least slightly interested in these things. We're not a bunch of Puritanical Americans, after all.
I hope you enjoy the books. I know I did. By the way, Arthur thanks you for the Muggle change.
Kindest regards,
Mrs Weasley
P.S. Your secret is safe with me.
Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. So Mrs Weasley did not think she was a total pervert at all. In fact, she seemed to understand Hermione's predicament more than anyone else on the planet at the moment.
She skimmed the letter again, but she was stopped as she felt the sudden burden of eyes upon her. She looked up. Blaise Zabini was walking past her, but he stopped just before he reached the door of the Potions classroom. He turned around and began strolling straight in her direction. He was looking at her oddly, a quiet gleam in his dark blue eyes. She held the parchment vacantly to her chest, wondering what the hell he was doing staring at her like that.
"Granger," he greeted her with a tiny nod.
"Zabini," she replied, her chin thrust into the air with feigned indifference.
She noticed with a gasp that he was drawing closer to her. She could feel the heat from his steadfast body. She could just make out the delicate curl of his long, black eyelashes. He drew uncommonly close to her, his face void of expression. He glanced down at the parchment in her hands and then back up at her wide eyes.
"Anyone's body 'crying out to be ravished' recently?" he asked, his dark eyes sweltering.
She nearly laughed out loud. The morning just kept getting stranger.
"I'll keep you posted," she replied with a smile, noticing that he seemed to retreat more demurely than he had approached her.
What was that? Was that a battle cry she had heard? She could have sworn that Blaise Zabini had just flirted with her.
All throughout Potions, she could not seem to take her eyes off of him. Harry was no more talkative than he had been at breakfast (or ever was anymore), and she was actually glad of it at the moment. It gave her time to ruminate on Zabini's very bold, very uncharacteristic remark. Zabini was no Malfoy. He never flirted or teased anyone. Hell, he never spoke at all. She had been shocked to find that his voice was deep and silky, almost musical with its very slight accent.
She stirred her steaming potion and stared at him. Luckily, he was in the front of the classroom, to the side a bit, with his back turned enough so that he couldn't see her ogle him so shamelessly. He was crushing snake fangs, an intense, solid set to his jaw. She watched his hands as he worked. The long, tan fingers gripped the stone pestle firmly but delicately, every motion calculated and precise. His strength, his subtlety, his attention to detail—it made her squirm uncontrollably in her seat. She went back to work on her potion, afraid that someone (namely Snape) would see her staring and make a spectacle out of it. She realized that she was breathing a little more quickly than usual. She began mentally counting down the hours until she could get back to her story.
The day just kept getting quirkier as the hours went on. There was some kind of restless, quiet intensity in the air all around her, and she wasn't convinced that anyone else noticed it. In Charms, they were studying a disguising spell that could camouflage inanimate objects. Professor Flitwick warned them, with a knowing grin, against attempting to use the spell on themselves. Hermione reveled at the possibilities of the charm, as it gave her a new and excellent way of hiding the proof of her current writing escapades.
"Coperto!" she spoke at her textbook, and then she marveled at the empty desk in front of her. She reached out and felt the hard, solid cover of the book, but no one would ever know it was there just by looking.
"Show-off," Ron grumbled. The long spine of his own book was still showing.
"You're just having an off day," she told him. "You've been doing really well in Charms lately." She studied his determined face. "What's wrong?"
"I'm just anxious about the holidays," he admitted quietly. "It would be nice for once to go back to the Burrow."
She could see the dread all over his face at the thought of having to return to Sirius' old abode with Harry. Harry made no comment.
"What did my mum send you?" he asked suddenly. Leave it to Ron to effectively change the subject while simultaneously pumping her for information.
She sighed heavily, giving in, and reached down into her bag. She grabbed the two novels and tossed them unceremoniously onto the desk in front of Ron. "I thought I could go for a little more mindless reading than I'm accustomed to," she replied.
"Forbidden Legacy?" Ron snickered, picking up the purple romance novel and glaring at the lewd cover. Even Harry seemed slightly interested. "Crikey, Hermione," Ron whispered with a very broad grin and flushed cheeks, "you should get a dress like that."
She tutted loudly but couldn't help smiling herself. "I'll get a dress like that when you get a body like that," she retorted, pointing at the scantily clad hero.
"What on earth inspired you to want a book like this?" Ron asked, his eyes narrowing.
"I told you," she answered, stuffing both novels back into her bag, "mindless reading."
"And mum just bought them for you?"
"Yes."
"No questions asked?"
"Oh, Ron, you're so thick. You really don't understand women, do you?"
"Who does?" he replied. "I mean, just when you think you know someone—,"
"They start ogling Slytherins," Harry blurted out.
"WHAT?!" Ron and Hermione spouted simultaneously. Ron maintained his newly perfected "new-world-order" expression. Hermione tried to hide her flaming head in her hands.
"What are you talking about?" Ron demanded.
"Ask Hermione," Harry answered plainly. "She's the one who can't keep her eyes off of Blaise Zabini."
"Blaise Zabini?!" Ron thundered. "Who is that?"
"You know," Harry said, "tall, dark, quiet...he's actually kind of Krum-like, if you ask me."
"Krum-like?!" Ron shouted.
Hermione was very glad that the classroom was full enough of the noisy cries of "Coperto!" to cover Ron's unabashedly loud voice.
"Shut UP!" she yelled suddenly. She turned on Harry, her cheeks the color of Ron's hair. "I was not ogling him, thank you very much. I was simply...admiring his work."
"He's got quite a reputation, that one," Harry continued.
"Admire...work...reputation," Ron managed to say in between gasps of air. "Would someone please tell me what is going on here?"
"You should be careful, Hermione," Harry said. He was not at all fazed by Ron's panting or Hermione's blushing. "But I'm sure I don't have to tell you that. After all, you're the level-headed one, right?"
She stared at him. He had become so spiteful, so vicious.
Ron was still looking like he might burst a blood vessel.
"It's nothing," she asserted. "And even if it was, I can look out for myself, Harry."
She hated arguing with him. It made her feel really, really terrible. But he had overstepped his boundaries, and she had to let him know it.
"Look after yourself, huh?" he went on quietly. "Like when you were lying petrified in the hospital wing? Or when you were strapped to a boulder at the bottom of the lake? Or how about when you were lying unconscious in the Department of Mysteries?"
She lowered her head, unsure if the tears in her eyes were burning with sorrow or with anger.
"That's enough for today, class," Flitwick announced. "Practice this charm for Friday."
She had never been so glad to be dismissed from class. She grabbed her bag and ran from the classroom, fighting with herself to keep the tears from falling. She skipped lunch and raced off to the library. She found a dark corner in the Restricted Section and sat down on the carpet. She would not cry. She would not allow herself to cry. She pulled out her Arithmancy text and thumbed through it numbly.
What bothered her more than anything was the fact that she would have never been petrified or strapped to a boulder or unconscious in the Department of Mysteries if it hadn't been for simply wanting to help him. Well, not the boulder in the lake, at least. That was Krum's doing. Nonetheless, Harry was so blind, so malevolent. Why?
It couldn't have just been Sirius' death. There had to something he wasn't telling them. She finally summed it up to the stress of the holidays. She could forgive Harry for a lot of things, but. . .
She had to forget about it. It was the only way she could make it through the rest of the day. Two classes left, she reminded herself, and both of them were thankfully void of Harry's presence. And blessed by Zabini's.
What was she thinking? Was she actually looking forward to seeing the silent Slytherin? His remark from earlier that morning had thoroughly ruffled her. No, it had shocked her, perhaps even more than running into him head-on at the bottom of the stairwell. He was challenging her. It was so obvious. She grinned to herself, abundantly grateful for the distraction that he was providing. She pulled out her quill and parchment, deciding to make the most of her lunch break.
As Blaise sat in Potions that morning, meticulously pulverizing his snake fangs, he tried in every conceivable way to convince himself that he had not really done what he thought he had just done. Because he could have sworn that he had just flirted with Granger, and that did not make any sense at all. He had never flirted with anyone before. His father flirted. His cousin Nìccolo flirted. Draco Malfoy flirted. Blaise Zabini did not flirt. He didn't want to, and he didn't have to. All he had ever had to do was walk quietly down the hall with his chin in the air or lurk about pensively in the library, and girls approached him naturally. Besides, flirting required actually speaking, and unnecessary speech was detestable to him. He preferred to keep his thoughts to himself.
He had no idea what had come over him. He had been simply minding his own business, as usual. As he sauntered carelessly towards the Potions classroom, he saw her standing there, her bushy hair all over the place and a piece of parchment clasped in her ink-stained hands. Some wild thought had suddenly taken him by force. She looked so defenseless. That prowling panther once again began to growl with hunger, deep in his chest. He remembered her Potions notes, and how he had been so shocked by them. He remembered how he had blushed—actually blushed!—when he gave them back to her. It had caught him completely off-guard. And now was his chance to redeem himself. So he strolled straight up to her outside the classroom and got as close to her as he could. He made a rather lewd comment, and she responded so quickly that it left him a bit shaken.
And now, sitting there in front of his bubbling cauldron, mindlessly working the pestle against the hard enamel of the snake fangs, he tried to logically explain his behaviour. But that was the thing about flirting, and probably the number-one reason he didn't do it: it defied logic. If he couldn't reason his way around something, then it was barely worth thinking about to begin with.
Take Padma, for example. Merlin knows he had spent the past week desperately trying to figure that one out. It was simple, really. She had said it herself—she was just using him. And he had gotten what he wanted out of the situation, so why should it bother him? It wasn't like he wanted a relationship. He didn't even really like her. But she had been ice cold to him after the fact. He hated her for that. When he had looked into her coal-black eyes, he had seen the same indifference—the exact same calculating coldness—by which he lived his own life. What was that Muggle expression? Oh, yeah...he had "gotten a taste of his own medicine." It felt very odd, indeed, to see yourself so ruthlessly dished right back out at you. He shuddered at the thought of it.
More than anything in the world at that moment, he wanted to turn around and look at Granger. He wondered if she was looking at him. He rather thought she might have been. Well, let her look. He would be damned to Hades before he turned around.
Potions ended, and the rest of the morning trudged on laboriously. There was little in life more slow and exhausting than those last few days before the Christmas holidays. Everyone else would be packing their trunks, happily anticipating a welcome break from their studies and a chance to spend time with their families. He, on the other hand, would be staying at Hogwarts as usual. The Yuletide meant absolutely nothing to his family. Every year it was the same. His father went to Italy on "business" (Torino, this year), and his mother and three older sisters went to France to be with his mother's family. He could have gone with them if he wanted, but his sisters taunted him so relentlessly that he thought he preferred the cold, damp dungeon that was his common room.
He at lunch quietly, sitting alone as usual. Lunch consisted of half a sandwich and five cups of coffee. He knew he had an unhealthy obsession with coffee, but he had barely slept the previous night—thanks mostly to Padma—and he had to have something to get him through the afternoon. Two classes left, and Granger was in both of them. This brought a slight smile to his face. He would be very interested to see how she reacted to him now.
Thinking about the events of the morning, he pulled out his pocket dictionary and thumbed through it. It was a small paperback that he had gotten in a Muggle bookstore when he was ten years old, and part of the front cover was torn off and peeling. The newspaper-quality pages were yellowed with age, and more than a few of them were splattered with coffee stains. He usually took immaculate care of his books, but this one had been with him so long and had been used so frequently that it bore the appropriate battle scars.
Blaise adored dictionaries. He had read this one over and over again, as though it was a novel. He still had the original receipt from the day he had purchased it, and the receipt currently marked the middle of the Rs. He had a habit of keeping receipts of his book purchases and using them as bookmarks. That way, whenever he opened the book, he could reminisce on exactly where and when he had purchased it. "Real" bookmarks were just a marketing ploy in his opinion.
He was constantly referring to his pocket dictionary. Words intrigued him, each one having a different meaning to the person who used them. And words were very important. Since he used as few words as possible when he spoke, those words had to be carefully selected from an expansive internal database. They had to be precise, almost lethal. They had to be perfect. So many people rambled on incessantly without saying a thing, and this disturbed him to no end. It was what he particularly hated about little girls.
He flipped through the Fs until he found what he was looking for.
flirt. verb. To behave amorously without serious intent.
Well, there it was, as plain as day. To flirt implied that one had no goal in mind. This defied his entire Slytherin attitude toward life. He always had a goal in mind. This, he supposed, was why he had never been fond of flirting.
But that was about to change. He had played the quiet thinker, he had done the brainless shagging, and he had never really cared. But Padma had taught him something very important. When it came to girls, he suddenly wanted a challenge. No one would use him again. They would have to cunningly fight for his attention, and he was actually somewhat aroused by the thought of having to fight back.
Granger was perfect. That must be why he had subconsciously selected her. She was a Gryffindor and his arch-enemy in academics. He could go around screwing Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs all day long if he wanted to. But getting into Granger's knickers. . . now that was a true demand on his budding skills. And he had initiated the game without even consciously realising it. It was 1-0, his favor, and he couldn't wait for the next round.
He smiled to himself as he packed his bag. He would get to Arithmancy early, and he would be ready for her when she came in. He felt the panther purring, his veins stretched and hot with his pounding blood. He stood up and tossed back the last bit of coffee, and then he headed for the corridor.
A tiny hand stopped him, pulling on his robe. He turned slowly around to find Padma Patil looking up at him nervously.
"Blaise," she said softly.
"What do you want?" he demanded, his voice strong but cool.
"I'm sorry about last week. I didn't mean to be rude or anything."
He just stared at her. Rude? He was just a toy—just a pawn—but she hadn't meant to be rude or anything. He allowed himself a brief fantasy about hexing her.
"I was just nervous," she went on. Merlin, now she was twisting her hands again. He wanted to smack them to get her to stop. "I mean, I hope I didn't deal you a lethal blow or anything."
He kept his face as dark and unreadable as a stagnant pool of water. How dare she go on so immaturely? He leaned down towards her, his blue eyes flaming with the indignation that he refused to show elsewhere. "Padma," he whispered, one eyebrow raised demonically, "if that was meant to be a lethal blow, then you need to sharpen your knife."
He viciously tore his arm away from her hand and proceeded towards the Arithmancy classroom. Damn, it felt good to finally speak up! Before now, he would have simply shrugged off her comment and walked away. That was the old Blaise. The new Blaise would strike like lightning, abruptly and violently, and he would leave no survivors. He wanted to congratulate Padma for that, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction. He would still be calm and pensive and hidden. No one would ever see him coming; least of all Granger.
He was the first to arrive in Arithmancy. He took his usual seat at the back, pulled out his journal, and began flipping through it for the page he was looking for. It was an old, heavy hardbound journal with creamy vellum pages. Most of the pages were covered in numerous tiny lines of scratchy penmanship. Some pages were splashed haphazardly with definitions from his pocket dictionary, written at various angles. Around the middle of the journal began the initials. Scattered randomly among the entries, they typically filled an entire page.
Each set of initials was drawn differently, and each brought back a different memory. This was another habit of his. Whenever he had sex with a girl, he would mark her initials in his journal. The random letters would mean little to an outsider. He refused to actually write about his sexual experiences—that was far too incriminating—so initialing had become a unique way of recording them.
"M.B." said the first one in plain, simple letters. There were no flourishes, obviously. Hell, he barely remembered it. He was quite glad, actually, that the details were foggy.
"H.A." said the next one in very large, ornate lettering. He chuckled. If only Ernie MacMillan knew about that one. He probably did by now. She really liked to fool around. It took him almost a month of oral stimulation before she had finally let him shag her. Mmmm. . . he could still taste her.
He flipped on a bit.
"G.W." the next one revealed in huge, bold block letters. Whew! He honestly thought that one almost constituted rape. She had brutally attacked him post-Quidditch-match (still sweaty), thrown him into a broom closet, and completely had her way with him. The whole thing had lasted less than ten minutes. He was guessing she had never told anyone. Personally, he planned to take it to his grave.
"L.T." was elegantly printed a few pages later, with hundreds of curly-cues and dots. His first Ravenclaw. What an enormous amount of patience that one took. She was not only giggly, but very ticklish. He finally had to just abandon the idea of kissing her on the neck. She took a few weeks of gentle coercion as well. He didn't mind at all. It had given him a chance to hone his skills.
"P.P." said the most recent page, still waiting to be adorned. He began filling in the letters with rigid, jagged marks. He sighed heavily. Ah, it was the end of an era.
They had all used him. Looking back, he thought more highly of G.W. than any of the rest of them. At least she had not pretended. And she had not even tried to kiss him on the lips. She had simply known what she wanted, and then she had taken it unapologetically. He had to admire that about her, especially since it was so very Slytherin-like. And there was certainly something to be said for speechless, passionate quickies.
As he was filling in the letters absent-mindedly and reminiscing over his past escapades, a very firm, bossy voice spoke from directly over his shoulder.
"Oh, for pity's sake," she said, "not you as well."
He jumped before he could stop himself and whipped his head around. Granger had her arms folded and a smirk on her face. So she had recognised his challenge for what it was, and she had come at last in an attempt to toy with him. Good.
"What are you talking about?" he asked blandly, no sign of emotion on his face that might betray his sudden thrill.
With a short, thin finger, she pointed at the initials and rolled her eyes. "P.P.?" she snickered. "Don't tell me...Priscilla Pernicia?"
"Old and slinky is not my type, Granger," he replied in the same casual voice. He really, truly wanted to smile, but he wouldn't allow himself even a smirk.
"Prefer young and innocent, do you?" she demanded. Her smirk was not hidden at all. "Let's see...Pansy Parkinson, then?"
He didn't even blink.
"No," she continued, "I guess Pansy has already been soiled by Malfoy's slimy little hands. Hmmm...Then maybe," she said, leaning very close to him—he could see the freckles on her nose— "yes, of course...it must be Padma Patil."
He slammed the journal shut, nearly catching her finger inside it. Apparently, good news traveled fast. He looked straight into her eyes, unwaveringly. He noticed that they were now almost reddish-brown in color, a very peculiar fire about the specks of her irises. His words were slow and vacuous: "How about Pesky Prefect?"
She laughed. "I'm honoured, Zabini," she spat enthusiastically. "I never knew you cared."
"Granger," he cooed, tilting his head to the side, "you don't want to play these little games with me."
"You started it."
"How mature."
She sneered at him. Their faces were almost touching. She moved her lips to his ear. Her hair tickled the side of his face. "And why wouldn't I want to play?"
Then his lips went to her ear. They grazed her earlobe. Very softly, very skillfully, he whispered, "Because you'll lose."
She stood upright and stared down at him, her arms folded once again. "I don't know, Zabini," she retorted. "At the moment, it appears we're tied."
And then she strutted up towards her usual seat at the front of the class. She did not once bother to look back.
Well, the little hussy was better at this than he had imagined. And he had even surprised himself. For someone who had just learned the definition of the word "flirt," he didn't seem to be half bad at it.
Tied. Slytherins didn't tie; they won. But suddenly, "tied" did not seem to be such a bad position in which to find oneself.