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: All 5 books. And if you haven't yet read your way through OOTP, then you might consider crawling out of that cave you're living in.
A/N: It's all here, people. Witty banter, a near-mental-breakdown, a lasciviously evil Draco, and a writer's worst nightmare. I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. Adesso, ci cominciamo...
Diagon Venus
Chapter 5 – Tied (And Tongue-Tied)
You plant a demon seed,
You raise a flower of fire.
-- Bono
For the next 36 hours, Hermione neither ate nor slept. What she did do was drink a lot of coffee, write page after page of inspired romantic fiction, and replay her conversation with Zabini over and over again in her mind. There were a few classes in there somewhere amongst the chaos. While in class, she somehow managed to concentrate. As soon as class was dismissed, she was writing again. She completely ignored Harry and Ron. Merlin, she didn't even have time to fool with Zabini right now, even though he gave her a very odd look in the library on Wednesday night. When Thursday evening rolled around, she had effectively memorized the bare necessities for Potions on Friday, scribbled her way haphazardly through her Arithmancy homework, and completed a not-so-brilliant essay for Charms. That was it. No other schoolwork would be required until after the New Year. She felt bad for skimping on her assignments, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but that first article.
It wasn't as though she was facing a deadline. After all, Part I of the series was not due until 15 January. The only problem was that inspiration had a definite deadline. She learned quickly that the muses were simply not going to wait for her to finish lunch. If she didn't get it out right then, she might as well have given up altogether.
This would have been so much easier with a Quick-Notes Quill. She made a mental note to buy the best one on the market when she received her 100-galleon prize money for her competition piece. For now, longhand would have to do. Her wrist ached, her neck muscles grew painfully tight, and there was ink everywhere. She had bags under her eyes, and she couldn't remember the last time she had brushed her hair. Still she wrote. There were no longer, it seemed, any people around her. In fact, there were no other people in the world, she thought idly, other than the two people in this massive story that she had created. They were all that mattered.
And then she finished. It must have been around 9:30. It was the night before the last day of class. The library was completely empty. Part I was complete.
It was almost anti-climatic. Now what?
She read all the way through it, double-checking for errors and smiling once or twice at her own comedic tone. Then she scribbled out a cover letter, stuffed the letter and the finished column into a thick, brown envelope, and released a long, exaggerated sigh that had been weeks in the making. As she went to shove the envelope into her bag, she happened to notice the purple paperback sent to her by Mrs Weasley. She picked it up and looked at the cover with a grin. Forbidden Legacy. This would require a more comfortable seating arrangement.
She picked up her bag and found a big, fluffy chair near the back of the library. As she sat down and opened the paperback book, she tossed the bag down beside the chair. The envelope was crammed inside, but the corners still stuck out conspicuously, as her bag was stretched to its seams with books and notes. She took out her wand and aimed it at the brown envelope that contained her darkest secret.
"Coperto!" she whispered. She smiled happily as the envelope disappeared, blending in with the papers around it. Now she could safely lounge back into the billowy comfort of the chair and delight in some well-deserved reading time.
The romance novel began slowly. In fact, Hermione could have thought of a hundred sentences that might have captured the reader's attention more effectively. But what did she really know? She was new at this. And she was so sleepy. Her eyes grew heavy.
She turned the page.
She was in Arithmancy. She was walking towards a mass of wavy black hair, feeling very hot and somewhat nervous. His head was bent over a journal. He didn't seem to notice her when she leaned over his shoulder. In an Olde English font, he had perfectly rendered a set of huge, black letters. "H.G.," they said. What did it mean? She thought for a moment that it might have something to do with "hair gel," but that made no sense.
She was thrown atop the desk. A long, lean body settled itself against her. The Arithmancy classroom was suddenly an office of some sort. She could see the flicker of the fluorescent lights above her. The hair on the head beneath her chin was soft and slightly tangled, like a pile of discarded corn silk. She fought for air. What was happening?
She screamed out a word—a name, it seemed—but no sound came from her throat. She was answered by a tickling purr at her earlobe. Whoa. That felt really good. Her body was melting. Her legs parted...
She awoke with a start and jolted from the chair. The romance novel was on the floor beside her bag. She grabbed both of them and ran.
When she reached her dormitory room, Lavender and Parvati were deep in giggly conversation. They looked up at her, their noses upturned as always when she was in their presence.
"What the hell happened to you?" Lavender asked.
"I fell asleep in the library," she replied.
Lavender snickered at her, and she realized what an idiotic statement that must have been to someone who did not appreciate books as she did.
Her head was pounding. She must remember to eat something tomorrow. How long had it been anyway, since she had eaten? She couldn't remember. She thought she might be hallucinating. The bed curtains felt like sandpaper as she pulled them apart and plunged onto her bed.
"Sleeping in your clothes again?" Lavender's voice said above the deafening ache in her head.
"Yes," she whimpered.
Silence. Good. Maybe they would shut their mouths and go to sleep. She pulled the curtains closed and thrust her head against her pillow.
"Anyway," Parvati's voice continued, "we have to go to Padma's fiancé 's house for dinner on Christmas."
The pain in Hermione's head receded slightly, overcome by a dim feeling of sudden curiosity.
"Her fiancé?" Lavender asked.
"Yes. Poor Padma. The wedding is already planned, of course, for the day after graduation. I'm so glad I'm the younger twin. Our parents don't have any plans yet for me, as far as I know."
"She has to marry him?"
"They say they'll disown her if she doesn't. I feel so bad for her. She really wanted to do research for the Department of Counteractive Charms."
"She must be really smart, huh?"
"She didn't get put into Ravenclaw for nothing."
A pause. Hermione held her breath.
"But Padma decided not to go quietly, if you know what I mean."
Another pause.
"What do you mean?"
And then a chuckle.
"Well, she was determined that Armand would get her second-hand."
"No way. You mean she—"
"Yep."
"Wow," Lavender whispered. "Who?"
"Blaise Zabini." There was almost a tinge of pride in Parvati's voice.
"Oh. . .my. . .god. When?"
"Just the other night. In the greenhouse."
"And?"
"Well, she didn't give me all the details, of course."
"Of course."
"But she did say that it was one hell of a way to go."
Giggling. Wild, unrestrained giggling.
"I can't believe it."
"I know. She said it was surreal. He snuck up on her."
"He's good at sneaking, isn't he?"
"That's not all he's good at, according to Padma."
"Oh, and he's absolutely beautiful. Tall, and dark, and Italian. And that hair."
"They say Italians make the best lovers, you know."
More giggling.
Lavender's voice dropped suddenly. Hermione had to strain to hear her. "Did she say if it...you know....hurt?"
"Apparently, it hurt like hell. She said he has a dick as thick as my forearm."
"Ouch."
"Indeed. I don't care how beautiful he is. That's just freaky."
Giggle, giggle.
Hermione thought that she really did not need to be hearing this right now. She tried to block it out. After all, she was very sleepy.
"Apparently," Parvati continued, "he has a reputation for being the 'Hogwarts Deflowerer.' And he's good at what he does, from what I've heard. Lisa Turpin is the one who recommended him to Padma."
Hermione willed herself to sleep.
Friday morning. 6:02am. The last day of classes before Christmas holidays. The Great Hall was nearly empty. Blaise unenthusiastically munched on his cornflakes and read from his pocket dictionary.
²tie. verb. 1: to fasten, attach, or close by means of a tie 2: to bring together firmly: UNITE 3: to form a knot or bow in ( a scarf) 4: to restrain from freedom of action: CONSTRAIN 5: to make or have an equal score with
Unite. . .constrain. . .equal score. One little three-letter word, and so many different meanings. He pondered the definition with a crease in his brow. Malfoy was right; he shouldn't think so much. Thinking only led to more questions.
He placed the receipt/bookmark between the pages and refilled his coffee mug. There was only one other person at the Slytherin table this early, and he suddenly had a desperate urge to talk to her. He gathered his things and paced down the table towards her. Then he sat down heavily, resolutely, and crossed his arms on the table in front of him. The stunned look on her face was priceless.
"Millicent," he began quietly, "let me ask you something."
She stopped eating at once, her fork halfway to her mouth and motionless. "Yes?" she replied.
"We," he said, then thought better of it. Well, he couldn't stop now. He tried a different approach. "You and I..."
"Yes?" She was grinning. She obviously knew what was coming, and she was determined not to make it easy on him.
He cleared his throat and tried again. "You and I," he whispered, "did the deed, right?"
She laughed. It was not a giggle or a snicker or a chuckle. It was downright cackling. She dropped her fork and wiped her eyes.
"Did the deed?" she repeated joyously.
He should have known that this was a huge mistake.
"Please stop laughing, Millicent," he whispered. "This is hard enough as it is."
"It was hard enough back then, as well," she retorted. "And long, and thick..."
"Forget it," he said, reaching for his bag.
"No, Blaise, wait," she commanded, honestly attempting to compose herself. "What did you want to ask me?"
"Well," he continued against his better judgment.
"Spit it out, Zabini—no pun intended." She was enjoying this very much.
He drew a deep breath. "Was I any good at all?" he asked very abruptly.
"Good?" she repeated. "You were drunk, Blaise. Very drunk. You couldn't have aimed a Quaffle through the bleeding Arc de Triomphe, if you catch my drift."
He put his head in his hands and exhaled loudly.
"But other than that," she went on, more quietly than before, "you were amazing."
He peeked tentatively through his fingers. "Really?"
"Yes, really. You were playful and gentle...and just rough enough when the moment called for it. Oh, and the very girth of your penis should be against some sort of law. In a good way."
He took a sip of coffee, somewhat appeased.
"Why the sudden inferiority complex?" she asked.
"Let's see," he replied. "Could it possibly have anything to do with the fact that the last girl I was with dumped me approximately 3.5 seconds after the fact?"
"No."
"Yes," he said. "And to top it off, she's engaged to someone else." He paused and lowered his voice even more. "She called me the 'Hogwarts Deflowerer.'"
"I've heard that one," Millicent said, chuckling again. "Wait a minute...I think I started that one. Sorry about that. I didn't think it would catch on so well. But it has worked out in your favor, hasn't it?"
"I suppose," he replied through gritted teeth.
"Aww, poor wittle Bwaisey-poo," she said mockingly. "Can't get anyone to wuv him for his bwain?"
He glared at her.
"It might help, you know," she whispered, "if you would form a complete sentence once in awhile. This is the most words I've heard you speak in six years, including our little tryst."
She was right. He knew it. And he hated her for it.
"Anyway," she went on, "back to our former topic of conversation. I've heard that you've improved immensely in that area, if that's possible. How about a repeat performance? Minus the booze this time, of course. We could consider it payment. I hear you're struggling at Muggle Studies."
He couldn't help looking shocked. "How did you even know I was taking Muggle Studies?"
"I have my sources," she replied with a knowing grin. "So, what do you say?"
He knew what he'd like to say. But he'd been brought up to never insult a female, even after a merciless tirade such as the one he had just suffered through.
"I'm thinking of asking Hermione Granger to help me," he commented casually. "She's Muggle-born, after all, and she seems to jump on any opportunity to study."
Millicent's mouth was hanging open. "I think you need to go see Madame Pomfrey," she said. "All of this meaningless shagging has obviously taken its toll on your senses."
"I'm serious."
"She'll laugh in your face! And then she'll hex you into oblivion."
A very Malfoy-like smirk crossed his lips as he stood up. "I'll make her an offer she can't refuse."
Millicent continued to look baffled. He threw his bag over his shoulder and began to leave, but then thought better of it.
"Oh, Millicent," he said dryly.
"Yes?"
"Do you remember what happened last year to Marietta Edgecombe?"
"Yes..."
He bent over the table and stared her straight in the eye. "Speak of any of this to anyone," he whispered, "and you'll be begging for her complexion. Only, instead of SNEAK, yours will say something to the effect of SCREAMS DADDY IN THE THROES OF PASSION."
"Y-you wouldn't," she stuttered, her face reddening.
"Don't tempt me," he answered. "Ciao."
Hermione felt a hand shaking her. No, she refused to wake up. It felt too good to sleep at last.
"Hermione!"
Damn. That insistent, shaking hand would just not leave her alone. She turned her head away and buried it in her pillow. "Go away," she mumbled.
"Hermione," the voice continued. Shake, shake, shake. "Come on! You have to get up. What's wrong with you?"
She turned to the owner of the voice and looked up through squinted eyes. It was Ginny, already dressed and looking highly concerned from behind a curtain of gleaming red hair.
"Hermione!" Ginny said again.
"Okay!" she yelled. Ouch. Yelling made her head hurt. "What time is it?"
"A quarter past seven," Ginny answered.
That certainly got her attention. She sat up quickly, her hand going to her messy hair.
"It's the last day of classes," Ginny said. Ginny's voice seemed very loud. "I couldn't figure out why you weren't at breakfast. I had no idea you'd still be in bed."
Hermione crawled out of bed lazily and began stretching. She closed her eyes and yawned deeply. When she opened her eyes, she noticed that Ginny was staring at her as though she had sprouted antlers.
"Holy shite," Ginny whispered.
"What?" Hermione asked, the back of her hand going to her cheek. "Do I have drool all over my face or something?"
Ginny said nothing. She simply grabbed Hermione by the arm and dragged her over to the mirror. Hermione looked up and let out a startled cry.
Someone in the mirror was looking back at her blankly, but that could not have been her. A ponytail holder held a lump of hair at the side of her head, but most of her hair had escaped from it and was twisted and tangled about her face. She looked as though someone had punched her square in both eyes. There were rings of purple all around her eyes, sagging into deep bags just above her cheekbones. Her cheeks were dark and hollow. Her lips were pale and dry and cracked.
"Holy shite," she whispered, echoing Ginny's sentiment precisely. "I can't go to class like this."
Ginny plunked a chair down in front of the dresser. "Sit," she demanded. Hermione did as she was told, utterly speechless at the sight of her reflection. Ginny picked up a brush and began working with the fuzzy knots of hair.
"Now I want you to tell me," Ginny said, giving the brush a futile yank, "exactly what's going on."
No, she couldn't tell Ginny. She didn't want to tell anyone. This romance column was her secret—her treasure—and she didn't want to share it with anyone. It was hers and hers alone. But look what it had done to her!
"I've just been busy," she replied weakly.
"Busy, my arse." Ginny pulled and pulled at the lump of hair. She was trying to be gentle, but it didn't matter. Hermione's head was already dully aching. "I'm in my O.W.L. year, Hermione. I know busy, and this is more than busy. This is just plain scary."
Hermione had to agree. Surely this had not happened overnight. Why hadn't Lavender or Parvati confronted her? Oh yeah, Lavender did say something the night before, but Hermione thought she was just being catty.
"Haven't you been sleeping?" Ginny asked.
"I slept last night," she replied. Her lips were chapped, and it hurt to move them too much.
"I haven't even seen you since Wednesday morning," Ginny went on. "When have you been eating?"
"I haven't."
Ginny sighed heavily. She had finally managed to get most of the tangles out of Hermione's fussy hair, and she began twisting it into a loose bun.
"I'm taking you to Madame Pomfrey," Ginny announced.
Hermione glanced over towards her overflowing book bag.
"Oh, no, forget your books," Ginny said. "I doubt you'll be going to classes today. Come on. I'll help you to the hospital wing before my Transfiguration class."
Hermione silently obeyed. When they reached the bottom of the staircase, she paused and looked down at her disheveled robes.
"Don't worry," Ginny assured her. "There's nobody in the common room right now. They're all at breakfast. Let's just go."
Ginny dragged her along speechlessly. They didn't stop until they reached the hospital wing. Luckily, they hadn't run into anyone in the corridors. Ginny marched along, glancing around for Madame Pomfrey and pulling Hermione along behind her. She found Madame Pomfrey at last, who looked down at Hermione and gave a little shriek.
"My dear," she said, placing a hand on Hermione's forehead, "are you ill?"
Hermione hated for people to fuss over her. "I feel fine," she lied.
"Well, you certainly don't look fine. Go lie down, Miss Granger. I'll be with you in a moment. I can take it from here, Miss Weasley. Thank you for seeing Miss Granger up here safely."
Ginny nodded, gave Hermione one last wary glance, and then headed for the door.
Hermione lay down and put her arm over her face, shielding her eyes from the bright sunlight that streamed in through the windows. She felt cold and shaky and numb, all at the same time. She hated to worry anyone, but she was especially glad that Ginny had intervened. The thought of her reflection haunted her, and she shuddered involuntarily.
"Now," Madame Pomfrey's voice demanded from above her, "tell me how on earth you managed to work yourself into such a state, Miss Granger."
"It's a project I've been working on," she answered. "I just lost track of time, I guess."
"When did you last eat?"
Hermione thought about it for a moment. "I had a glass of orange juice on Wednesday morning," she said. From the look on Madame Pomfrey's face, that was not an acceptable answer. She continued, "And I've had quite a bit of coffee."
"Coffee? How much coffee?"
"I don't know. I've been filling up a thermos before dinner and sneaking it into the library."
"You're much too young to be drinking coffee," Madame Pomfrey asserted. "I've told the Headmaster it's not a good idea to offer coffee at mealtimes. I suppose he expects you students to practice a little moderation."
Hermione felt very small and ashamed all of a sudden. It was certainly not like her to be so out-of-control.
"First things first," Madame Pomfrey said. She tapped her wand on the bedside table, and a small feast appeared—a huge bowl of steaming soup, a chunk of bread, a colorful plate of mixed fruits, and a pitcher of milk. "I want you to eat every bite. And then rest. I'll send a note to your professors excusing you from classes today."
She walked away in a huff, mumbling something about coffee. Hermione stared down at the food. She was a bit hungry, though she had now reached the point of hunger where one is actually sickened by the thought of eating. She poured herself a glass of milk and drank it slowly. It tasted like honey nectar to her, and her appetite suddenly took her over full-force. She ate as though she had never eaten before, nearly choking on a mouthful of bread and grapes. She ate until every crumb was gone, and she even picked up the bowl like a mug so she could drain the remnants of the smooth, flavorful soup. She thought it might have contained a smidgeon of Pepper-Up Potion because she suddenly felt completely rejuvenated and relaxed.
She wiped her mouth on a napkin and lay back down, her belly full and her eyes heavy. She hated to miss class, but she just couldn't keep her eyes open...
Friday afternoon. 2:47pm. Ancient Runes, the last class before the break began. Where the hell was Granger? She wasn't in Potions, and she wasn't in Arithmancy. Blaise had not seen her all day. Just when he had the perfect ammunition, the little wench disappeared. It figured.
Professor Coda was moving about the classroom passing out parchments. Just as she reached the back of the classroom and began to hand Blaise one of the papers, Granger burst through the door.
"I'm sorry, Professor," she whispered. Her hair was wet and hung in little spirals down the back of her robes. She appeared to have just gotten out of a bath, thrown on some clothes haphazardly, and raced to class. She was out of breath.
"Miss Granger," Professor Coda whispered back very softly. Blaise tried to eavesdrop without looking too suspicious. "I received a note from Madame Pomfrey saying you would be absent this afternoon."
"I'm feeling better now," she whispered. "I'm sorry I'm late. I just couldn't miss Ancient Runes."
That little goody-two-shoe brown-noser, Blaise thought.
"That's okay, dear. Take these parchments and have a seat by Mr Zabini."
Blaise felt his stomach drop somewhere around his knees. Granger sat down and handed him one of the parchments, an odd little twinkle in her eye. It was almost as if she had planned this.
"Okay, class," Professor Coda said, "I've just given you your holiday assignment." She began pacing back to her desk at the front of the classroom. "These are very difficult hieroglyphs, so I'm going to allow you to begin now. Please work quietly. If you have a question, feel free to bring your parchment up to my desk. I would remind you, however, that this is N.E.W.T.-level material, and I will be offering less assistance as the year progresses. You may begin."
Blaise opened his textbook and dipped his quill in his ink bottle, but he found that he could not seem to concentrate at all on the characters in front of him. He could smell Granger's soap—a very light mixture of honey and patchouli—and it was far more distracting than he wanted to admit to himself. He leaned down over his parchment, his wavy, shoulder-length hair covering the side of his face as he tried to steal a glance at her out of the corner of his eye. Was she okay? Should he ask? Ugh...maybe it was a female problem, and in that case, he didn't want to know about it.
She thrust a piece of parchment on top of his textbook page, nearly causing him to jump out of his seat. He looked over at her. She was nodding towards the parchment. He looked down and saw her perfect, neat little handwriting right in front of him.
Did I miss anything in Arithmancy?
He looked back at her. He didn't know quite what to do. She opened her eyes more widely in expectation and made a little gesture with her hand. Damn. He was not going to be able to ignore her. He wrote back in his best handwriting, which was still nearly illegible.
You can borrow my notes if you like.
She looked somewhat surprised but smiled slightly at him. She leaned over and began to write back, just below his last sentence.
Are you staying at Hogwarts during the break?
He centered the parchment between them, somewhat hoping that this was not going to turn into a full-blown conversation on paper. Although the idea did interest him just a bit. It was strangely liberating to communicate this way. It gave him time to formulate the perfect words.
Yes.
Me too. Maybe we could go over them one night in the library?
Maybe so.
Sweet Merlin, he felt so guilty. If she only knew what he had planned for her. He almost felt bad about it, until he read her next statement. It had absolutely nothing to do with either Arithmancy or Ancient Runes.
You're quite the buzz in the Gryffindor girls' dormitory.
What the hell? Okay. So she wanted to start playing again. He was fine with that. In fact, he was prepared.
My one true mission in life.
You know, what with your recent activities.
What activities?
Spare me, Zabini.
Oh, those activities.
Not to mention the pair of green underwear that was supposedly found in Greenhouse 3 the other morning.
He almost chuckled. Padma just had to leave something behind as evidence, didn't she?
That wasn't me.
Oh, really?
I don't own green underwear.
Right. A Slytherin with no green underwear.
Well, I don't normally wear underwear at all.
He had to restrain himself from laughing out loud. She was so flustered that she almost knocked her ink bottle over. She didn't write back for a minute. He waited, holding his breath.
Did you know that you bear the title of "Hogwarts Deflowerer"?
For pity's sake, not that again. He made a mental note to swap Millicent Bulstrode's shampoo with wart cream.
So I've heard.
Is it true?
I don't kiss and tell.
Come on.
Besides, I'm currently closed for business.
Why the change of heart?
More trouble than it's worth.
Trouble?
Why, Granger, I would almost think you were propositioning me.
Never.
Never say never.
They looked at each other. He remained expressionless. She was bearing that newfound smirk. This wasn't a battle. It was outright war. She hesitated, and then wrote back, her script a little smaller than before.
So, what's it like?
What?
You know.
No.
She exhaled loudly and grabbed the parchment from him. They were running out of room. She flipped it over, cast an empty glance at him, and then wrote something, carefully shielding the parchment from him with her arm. When she returned it to him, she looked away.
Sex.
The word was written so tiny that he had to lean down very close to the parchment to read it. And when he did, he grinned. He couldn't help himself. In fact, he almost chuckled. Damn, this girl had guts. It was shocking and strangely arousing. He didn't even mind when she turned back and met his stare with bright crimson cheeks. Did she expect him to put down all the gory details on paper? He looked straight into her cinnamon-coloured eyes as he moved his quill across the parchment.
I'd be happy to show you.
Despite her maddeningly flushed cheeks, despite her now trembling hand, she recklessly wrote back. He had to admire her for it.
I thought you were "closed for business".
I'd be willing to make an exception.
Never mind.
What's the matter, Granger? Scared?
That word is not in the Gryffindor vocabulary.
This piece of parchment is becoming a bit incriminating for my taste. Perhaps we should get to it. (to Ancient Runes, I mean.)
I agree.
So you'll leave me alone, then?
Wouldn't that be like admitting defeat?
Oh, were we playing?
Maybe. Who won?
I'll give you this one Granger, just to shut you up.
How kind of you. So then it's: Granger 2, Zabini 1.
I see I owe you one.
I'm sure you'll think of something.
Indeed. Constant vigilance.
She crumpled up the piece of parchment and stuffed it into her bag. He rather wished she would set fire to it. He had a strange idea that she might do just that once they were dismissed from class. They both tried to work on their hieroglyphs. Neither one of them seemed to make any progress. First it was Potions, and now it was Ancient Runes. If she kept this up, he would never be able to study properly again. Maybe that was her plan.
Professor Coda dismissed them, and Granger practically bolted from the classroom. Again, he felt a small tinge of guilt. If only she knew.
Hermione awoke before anyone else on Saturday morning and strolled off to have a bath. She vowed to herself that—no matter how inspired she became, and no matter how busy she was—she would never ignore her appearance as she had done for the past few weeks. That person she had seen in the mirror yesterday morning had been like a cross between a pikey and a zombie. And she vowed to never drink coffee again. She didn't understand how Zabini seemed to live off of the stuff.
She sunk down into the steamy water and allowed her mind to wander back to the "parchment war" in Ancient Runes. She giggled to herself. If someone had told her a year ago that she would be exchanging crude quips of innuendo with a Slytherin, she would have laughed herself silly. However, she was intrigued by him. In all her years of being verbally assaulted and harangued by Malfoy and his minions, she had never once seen Zabini among them. She thought back on Umbridge's Inquisatorial Squad. As far as she knew, Zabini had not been a part of that, either. And if he had really shagged Lisa Turpin, as Parvati had commented, then he must not be too prejudiced against Muggle-borns. Well, he might have been. It seemed that men would happily insert their penises into anything that was willing—Muggle-borns, old women, goats, even each other. But still, it made her think of Zabini in a slightly different light.
She dressed and went to breakfast. She wanted to beat the rush and get to Hogsmeade before she was forced into saying her farewells to Harry and Ron. She didn't even want to see them. She really should say goodbye to Ginny, but even that thought bothered her a bit. She was still somewhat embarrassed that Ginny had seen her in such an unattractive mental and physical state.
After eating a balanced breakfast of porridge, bananas and orange juice, she headed out into the crisp, cold outdoors and down the path to Hogsmeade. She had set up a postal drawer in the name of Rowena Ravvish on their first Hogsmeade weekend, and she was hoping that her prize money of a hundred galleons had arrived. She was planning on using it to buy Christmas presents, and she might as well owl her romance column to Witch Weekly while she was there. This was one piece of post that she really did not feel comfortable owling from Hogwarts.
The prize money had indeed arrived, and she looked down at it with an overwhelming sense of pride and accomplishment. She had earned every Galleon herself. She had competed, and—thanks to a type of cleverness that she didn't even know she possessed—she had triumphed over both amateur housewives and seasoned writers alike. The irony of the situation was not lost on her. She had won, and she had never even gone farther than kissing Krum on the lips.
She pulled out a handful of coins and put them in her pocket, and then she carefully stowed the rest in a hidden pocket in her bag. She needed to owl her story, so she aimed her wand at her bag and whispered a soft Finito Incantatem. Her stomach did a slight somersault. The brown envelope did not appear. She had not even thought about it since Thursday night—she was just so thrilled to finally be finished with the damn thing—but she had certainly expected it to be there, and it wasn't. She tried not to panic. Perhaps, she thought logically, it had gotten mixed up with the textbooks and papers she had removed from her bag that morning. After all, it was still under the Coperto charm. She scolded herself for not checking to make sure it was in her bag before she got all the way into Hogsmeade. Oh well, the deadline wasn't until 15 January, and she was sure it was hidden somewhere in the pile of books on her bed.
She sauntered into shop after shop, purchasing Christmas presents and proudly plunking down her hard-earned money. It felt so good to be independent. She bought a five-pound parcel of assorted sweets for Ron, and she purchased and earthy, low-cut Missoni jumper for Ginny. Ginny had taken quite a liking to Muggle clothing, and she wore it all so well. Harry was trickier. She suspiciously fondled a book on controlling one's temper, but she didn't think that was an appropriate Christmas gift. She finally settled on a coffee-table book of wizards who had fought against and defeated the Dark Arts.
Her last stop was Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop, where she studied several different models of Quick-Notes Quills. They were very expensive, and she really did not want to spend all the rest of her prize money in one place. As she stood there examining them, a cold, listless voice issued from behind her.
"Well, well, if it isn't Granger."
She turned around and glared into the steely grey eyes of Draco Malfoy. Merlin, she couldn't even do some simple shopping without being harassed.
"All by yourself?" he drawled.
She did not at all like the tone of voice he was using. It was even more menacing, if possible, than his normal condescending inflection. She said nothing. He circled her slowly, his eyes roving up and down shamelessly over her small frame. Goyle and Theodore Nott stood nearby looking antagonistic but slightly bored.
"You're not going home for the holidays?" he inquired.
"No," she replied simply. Why on earth was he looking at her like that? She tried to straighten herself under his stare, her chin thrust into the air boldly.
"Neither am I," he said bitterly, "seeing as my father is still in Azkaban."
"Where he deserves to be," she fearlessly commented.
She didn't know how it happened, but suddenly—forcefully—his right hand began digging into her ribs just below her breast. She was too shocked to say anything. She was just trying to assess the fact that Malfoy was actually touching her when she felt one of his fingers brush against the bottom curve of her breast. She stared at him, speechless.
"Maybe you deserve to be taught a lesson as well, Mudblood," he whispered.
She reached in her pocket for her wand. He anticipated her move and gripped her wrist painfully. She did the only thing in the world that she could think to do at that moment. She worked a large quantity of saliva to her lips and spat all over his pointy little face. It had the desired effect. He let go of her at once, wiping his face as he stumbled backwards into Goyle and Nott.
She did not wait for him to recover. She scooped up her bags and bolted from the shop, running as fast as she could away from Hogsmeade and away from the thought of Malfoy's hands on her body.
She did not bother looking back. Her brain was in overdrive, hopelessly attempting to process the details of what had just happened. He would have never tried something like that in the halls of Hogwarts. He was such an underhanded little bastard. She made another vow to herself—to never again go into Hogsmeade alone. It wasn't fair! She should be able to go anywhere she liked.
"Granger!" called a deep voice as she made her way across the courtyard.
Just great. Zabini was the last person on earth that she wanted to talk to right now, but nonetheless, he was sauntering casually towards her, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his black hair tousled in the icy wind. She stared at him, still out of breath and flustered by the events of the past fifteen minutes.
He reached in his bag and pulled out a small bundle of parchment. He handed it to her nonchalantly. "Arithmancy notes," he explained. Then he noticed her furied distraction. She was surprised to find that he looked worried, his eyebrows forming a thick, black line above his cornflower-blue eyes. "Are you okay?"
She took the notes from him, still panting. "Fine," she answered breathlessly.
"Are you sure?" He looked really, genuinely concerned, and it stumped her.
She paused. Her bags were heavy, and she couldn't think clearly. "What do you care?" she spat.
He shrugged his shoulders and turned to walk away.
"If you must know," she called after him, suddenly wanting to tell someone what had happened, "I just had quite an interesting conversation with Malfoy."
He whipped around. Concern quickly transformed into anger. His eyes went from violet-blue to charcoal-navy. "Really?" he said.
"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" she continued.
He surveyed her eyes intently. "I know he's an unscrupulous little git," Zabini said. "And he seems to have an unhealthy obsession with you lately."
"Hmph," she replied. Zabini just looked at her, his eyes glowing fiercely with what uncannily appeared to be hatred.
"You know," Zabini went on, "I wouldn't be opposed to returning him to his ferret form permanently...if you requested it."
"But he's in your House," she said, completely confused. "And he's a prefect. Sure you wouldn't—"
"Just say the word, Granger."
She was speechless, once again. The way he was looking at her...it was almost like he was willing to protect her, to stand up for her. Where was this coming from?
"Thanks anyway, Zabini," she said. "I'll have these notes back to you by tomorrow night."
He nodded slightly and watched as she walked away.
Before long, Malfoy was the least of her worries. She stood in her empty dormitory room frantically screaming Finito Incantatems at everything in sight. She sifted through all of her papers, she overturned and flipped through textbooks, and she rummaged in her now-empty book bag for the millionth time. The brown envelope containing her story was nowhere to be found. All that work—and a near-nervous-breakdown—and she had nothing to show for it.
She sat down on her bed at last, trembling horribly with rage, and tried to retrace her steps. It was impossible. It could be anywhere. Since she had performed the Coperto charm, she had been all over the school. The library, the dormitory, the Great Hall, the hospital wing, Ancient Runes, Hogsmeade. With a very nauseating ache in the pit of her abdomen, she considered the fact that her story could now be anywhere. She tried to compose herself. At least, she reasoned, it was invisible. If it had fallen out of her bag at some point, maybe no one would ever find it. Then again, neither would she. And if someone did find it, she really needn't be that concerned. There were no identifying links to her anywhere in the contents. She had signed the cover letter Rowena Ravvish.
She tried to convince herself that this was not such a big deal. Maybe someone would find it, and they would owl it to Witch Weekly without even looking inside. It was doubtful, but it could happen. The problem was that she would never know! She would simply have to rewrite it. It would take a bit of effort, but she had three weeks without any distractions. The hard part—the mere construction of the story—was over. If she tried hard enough, she was sure she could re-create it. She stuffed her bag with empty parchment and headed for the library.
Saturday night. 10:34pm. The library. Granger was at it again. Great Merlin! Blaise almost felt sorry for her. Nah. That wasn't sympathy that grumbled in his chest. It was the prowling panther, poised to attack. This was it...the moment he had been waiting for since Thursday night. If only Malfoy hadn't intervened. Granger didn't tell him what happened, but he took one look at her face and knew. That bloody bastard. How dare he put his hands on Blaise's soon-to-be-won trophy? Blaise had never known he could feel such fury. He had, however, taken care of the problem. And now his moment of glory had come.
With his bag tossed over his shoulder and a confident gait, he paced slowly over to the table where Granger was sitting, her hand flying over the parchment like wildfire. She did not even look up. It was slightly pathetic. He pulled out a chair and sat down right in front of her, his fingers casually laced together. He didn't say anything. He waited on her, and sure enough...
"I don't have time to play with you, Zabini."
"Granger," he said slowly, "you might be interested in what I have to say."
"Unless Malfoy is dead, or you've found something that belongs to me, I don't want to hear it."
She didn't even look up. He had to get her attention...and her trust.
"Malfoy won't be bothering you anymore," he commented dryly.
It worked. She looked up at him. She did not respond, but he saw the curiosity in her eyes and continued.
"I put a binding on him. He will find that he no longer has the ability to speak to you...or touch you...and if he does, he will regret it."
She stopped writing, sat back, and crossed her arms. She stared at him curiously. "A binding," she repeated. "That's ancient magic. I've read about it. How did you learn to do it?"
"My mother is French, and she's from the old school of thought."
"She didn't go to Hogwarts?"
"She didn't go to any kind of school."
Granger looked intrigued. "And your father?"
"Slytherin. My grandfather brought his family here from Milan when my father was just a child."
"So you're a first-generation Englishman, huh?"
"No," he replied, shaking his head. "Son'italiano, per primo e per sempre."
He watched her shiver at the sound of his native tongue. "First and always an Italian," she replied with a grin.
He nodded slightly, very impressed that she had understood him. "But I'm not here to talk about la mia familiglia."
She tilted her head and raised her eyebrows as though entreating him to continue.
"I need you help," he said plainly.
"My help," she uttered with a laugh. "Right."
"Do you know anything about Art History?"
"A little bit. Why?"
He proceeded to explain, and he allowed no emotion whatsoever to play across his face. "It's the topic of study this year in Muggle Studies. The professor seems to think it contains a lot of beneficial information on general history and mythology."
"That's generally why people study it," she answered sarcastically.
"Yes, well...I'm just having a spot of trouble with it. It's all a bunch of Bible stories, you know. And my parents aren't exactly devout Catholics."
"I see," she said, studying him carefully. "And you think that I know all about Bible stories because...?"
"You're Muggle-born, aren't you?"
"You mean I'm a Mudblood?" she spat viciously.
He cringed and stared her straight in the eyes. "I don't like that word, Granger," he replied softly. "Please never use it around me again. I hear enough of it as it is, believe me." And it was the truth.
She shrugged. "My parents are Atheists," she said with a smirk.
Damn, he had to hand it to her. She was good. He thought he would test her, just to see how good she really was. "Never mind," he whispered, and he got up to leave.
"Wait!" she said. "Sit back down, Zabini."
Hmmm. . .so she wasn't that good after all. The poor thing couldn't call a bluff. He sat back down, resuming his exact former position.
"I know a little bit about it," she said. "And I could do some extra reading, I guess. But why in the world are you asking me?"
That was exactly what he had hoped she would ask. He bored holes into her eyes with his and responded blandly, "I kind of like you, Granger."
"My life is now complete," she tossed back at him sardonically. "Really, Zabini. Flattery will get you nowhere. Don't say things you don't mean."
"How do you know I don't mean it?"
"How do I know the sun is going to rise tomorrow?" she quipped. "Spare me. You are a Slytherin. You couldn't be honest if someone fed you a gallon of Veritaserum."
He said nothing. He simply watched her turn the idea over in her clever little mind, and he waited. It would be soon.
"This would require a lot of extra research on my part. Not to mention the fact that I'm very busy at the moment," she said, gesturing to the pile of parchment in front of her.
He waited. He was more than ready to pounce. If only she would say those five little words. And then she did.
"What's in it for me?"
Ah, yes. Sweet glory. He licked his lips and smiled. "How very Slytherin of you," he clearly and slowly iterated. "I thought you'd never ask."
She raised on eyebrow.
"I'll tell you what's in it for you," he whispered triumphantly, leaning over the table so that their noses nearly collided, "Rowena Ravvish."
In his wildest dreams, his darkest fantasies, he could never have anticipated such success. Her jaw dropped and the color left her cheeks like spiders fleeing from a basilisk. He almost felt sorry for her. He thought for a moment that she had stopped breathing. He waved one hand in front of her face. "Are you still with me, Granger?"
She nodded slowly.
"Good." He pulled the envelope from his bag and tossed it onto the table. "That," he said, "is quite a brilliant piece of writing. You should tell Witch Weekly to sod off and start writing novels. Granted, it's not my favourite genre, but it's very good, nonetheless. Did you really write it?
More speechless nodding.
"I'm impressed. Your exposition is fantastic. You really leave me wanting more. Your heroine is so real...even humourous, which totally surprises me coming from you. And your leading man is so—" Again, he leaned very close to her. "I don't know. What's the word I'm looking for? Ah, yes...familiar."
He finally heard a slight sound escape her lips, somewhere between a gurgle and a sob. He chuckled. This was even better than coffee. Hell, it was better than coffee and sex and the smell of old books put together. She was totally floored. He wanted to get up and run around the table, cheering for himself. Blaise Zabini has caught the Snitch. Slytherin wins. It was so cruel, but it was just so damn funny.
"Really, Granger," he whispered. He gently reached over and lifted her chin. "There, that's better. You're kind of pretty, you know, when your mouth isn't gaping open like that."
She simply would not say anything. He wondered if he should poke her. She appeared to have gone into some type of trance.
"Hermione Granger speechless," he said. "I'll have to write this one down."
Still no reply.
"Anyway, getting back to your little (ahem!) story," he said with a cough. "I really am impressed. I think my favourite part was the scene in the file room. You know, where the tall, skinny bloke with curly black hair had his girlfriend up against the filing cabinet and her pelvis—how did you put it?—oh, yes...lashed out at him uncontrollably. That's quite descriptive. And once again, oddly familiar. I would almost venture to think—"
"OKAY!!!" she screamed at last. Madame Pince gave them a reproachful look that caused her to lower her voice a bit. "Okay, okay, okay! So I saw you in the fiction section with Padma Patil! I didn't have anything else to write about. I mean, don't think for a moment that I fancy you or anything. In fact—just for the record—I HATE YOU."
"Strong words, Granger, he replied calmly. "But I'm glad to see your tongue is still working. I was beginning to worry."
"What do you want?" she demanded beneath her breath. "Money? Homework? Sex?"
He chuckled. He could have sworn that she said that last part almost hopefully. "I don't need money, Granger. And I'm smart enough to do my own homework. And if you would like to have sex, I'd be more than happy to oblige you. But it's certainly not required."
She was shaking her head at him, completely tongue-tied.
"Like I said," he went on, "I need your help with Muggle Studies. And in return, I will be willing to keep your little secret, Miss Ravvish. With two Vs."
He had gone too far. He thought he was about to get slapped very hard across the face, so he got up quickly and grabbed his bag.
"Are Monday evenings good for you?" he asked. "Around 7:30?"
"Perfect," she said, grinding her teeth and looking homicidal.
"Good. Then it's a deal. We'll start a week from Monday with Italian Renaissance Sculpture. Meet me in the Room of Requirements."
"The Room of Requirements?"
"Of course. We'll need a slide projector, won't we? And some comfortable chairs.....Maybe a filing cabinet."
He definitely should not have added the part about the filing cabinet. He saw her reach in her robe for her wand.
"By the way," he said quickly with a wink, "I think we're tied again."
A/N: OKAY! Before you have a chance to criticize me on the staccato nature of what you've just read, let me remind you that this is my first fic. I decided to experiment a bit with pacing and point-of-view. I hope it worked. I'm sure you probably caught the blatantly obvious and overtly cheesy Godfather reference. I couldn't help myself. (:D) And I hope you don't hate Blaise for being so merciless. I told you people not to feel too sorry for him!
AND NOW THAT I'VE SET THE STAGE for the coming chapters, I regret to inform you that I will be on holiday 1-9 October. Also, my 1990 Toyota Camry has unexpectedly bit the dust, so I foresee some automobile shopping in my future. I probably won't get around to updating for a few weeks, even though the next 2 chapters are already written in longhand. Please don't give up on me! I do have definite plans for this little story. And I thought that THIS was a particularly nasty little place to leave you hanging.
Grazie e fino a presto,
--tamlane
trova!: Thank you for the awesome compliment!
Zaralya: Yeah, I'm pretty turned on by "accidentally flirting!Blaise" myself. Thanks for reviewing!
Echidne and Jyestha: There is no way on earth I would make Hermione a love-starved schoolgirl. We all know she's way too smart for that.
Louise: YAY! A real, true O&U girl! To answer your question, I plan on updating once weekly. Most of this story is actually already written, but it's in longhand. It takes freaking forever to type it up, but that's just the way I write. Thanks for the review!
Alenor: Yep, I think Hermione knows. Thanks for your dedication to my little fic.
antisocial mint: Wonderful! There is definitely something going on with Harry, but you won't find out until much later. And yes, Blaise is a product of fanon. I am really going to laugh if JKR turns him into a witch doctor from Zimbabwe or something. (Not that that would be bad...)
Kurayami Pansa: You're always so nice. I'm dedicating this chapter to you!
Pallas Athena1: Yep, game is on. Nothing sexier than a man who needs to be tamed, in my opinion. We'll see how Hermione does when I toss her the whip. And as for Priscilla Pernicia...my lips are sealed. Thanks for the review! By the way, if you don't update Grey soon, I will be forced to exact my revenge. I don't know exactly what that will be yet. But it will not be pretty!
ALSO, I have updated my manifesto on my bio page, for anyone who's interested. I know I should just go ahead and start a livejournal, but I am SO scared of COMMITMENT! teehee.