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: Hmmm. I don't know about this chapter. Now we begin to get to the meat-and-bones of these characters and their situation. I fully expect to lose some of you by the wayside, particularly since I am using art history and Biblical references as a platform for HG/BZ to begin to open up to one another. Some of you will get bored. I just don't know. Thanks in advance to those who stick around. An even bigger thanks to those who review.
Diagon Venus
Chapter 6 – From Abraham to Judith
"A trouble that can't be named
A tiger's waiting to be tamed"
--Coldplay
Before the end of the weekend, before she even had a chance to recover—and way before the deadline for Part I—Hermione was already hard at work on Part II of her column. As it turned out, the leading man was hopelessly possessed by demons that caused him to think and act like a complete imbecile. Yes, her heroine would just have to deal with the fact that the object of her affections was a heartless, lying, sneaking, emotionless, sinister, ruthless, prowling, malicious, perverse little prat.
An even at that, she thought she was being gracious.
Yet deep down—very deep down—she could not dispel the idea that he had done this to her because he might have actually liked her. Sure, it seemed to be a very wild stretch of the imagination, but it did not seem to be impossible.
She reviewed the situation. When in doubt, make a list.
1. He had found her Potions notes, and they had obviously taken him by surprise. But he didn't post them on the notice board. No, he simply returned them to her, even though it made him blush.
2. For some odd reason, he had decided to flirt with her. Or maybe he was just tormenting her. But that didn't seem very characteristic of him. He was no Malfoy.
3. She had flirted back, with a slick wit and a merciless bravado that she did not know she possessed.
4. He had swiped her story. She would get back to that one.
5. He had allowed her to make a fool of herself on parchment in Ancient Runes. But that was kind of her fault. She had encouraged him.
6. He had waited until she was desperately rewriting her story, and then he had confronted her. And bribed her. Without any sign of remorse.
Yes, he was possessed by demons. That was the only logical explanation.
She tried to look at it from a different perspective. In the past two weeks, this poor, quiet little Slytherin had been knocked to the ground by a hysterical female, used for sexual favors by an engaged Ravenclaw, tormented about said Ravenclaw by none other than herself, and then written about as though he was a piece of meat. Okay, she could see how that might lead to some bitterness, but it was still no excuse.
Damn. Anyway she looked at it, she couldn't tell whose fault it really was. But he definitely should not have taken her story—her treasure—and then used it against her so vilely.
There was one thing working in his favor and one way in which he was as good as his word. Draco Malfoy attempted to hurl an insult at her on Sunday morning, and he found himself in quite a predicament as a result. Now Malfoy was not only stuck at Hogwarts for Christmas with a father locked away in Azkaban. He was also lying in the hospital wing with his lips curiously sealed together. For once in her life, Hermione actually wished that Malfoy would try to put his hands on her, just so she could witness the outcome. When the incident had occurred, Zabini had caught her eye and winked at her. Ha! He was obviously intent on protecting the subject of his heartless bribe. For all it was worth, she couldn't figure out if that was a pro or a con. At the moment, however, with the memory of the ferret's shocked expression still running through her mind like a sugar high, it seemed to be a pro.
Either way, she quickly learned that it was very difficult to stay angry at Zabini.
He lurked about the library quietly and casually—almost too casually—and he watched her with a miniscule smile as she flipped through Gardner's Art through the Ages. He never approached her. No. He simply leaned against the bookshelves, his unnaturally tall frame carelessly poised and arrogant, just looking. She tried not to meet his stare. Every time he looked at her like that, she was torn between slapping the living daylights out of him and throwing him to the carpet in a passionate frenzy. She hated it. And she loved it.
And to think that a month ago, she had barely known he existed! Then again, a month ago she was still knitting hats for house-elves.
Why on earth had she responded to that call for entries? The answer was simple. She had no idea she would win. Oh, if she had only known what it would be like to catch Zabini in a moment of passion, to see her wasted reflection gaze at her out of a mirror, to feel the trauma and the glory of sweet surrender to a muse that was beyond her—she would have burned that edition of the Daily Prophet on the spot. And then she would have done it all over again. She thought about housewives like Mrs Weasley sitting by the fire, growing aroused by her own words and ideas, and it was all worth it. She couldn't wait until Part I was published, just to see if the name Rowena Ravvish crossed the lips of anyone she knew. It was almost like being immortal, even if it was just a worthless column in Witch Weekly. Hell, no one would probably ever even read it, other than Zabini.
On Christmas Eve, she was hard at work in the library. She pushed the art history books aside and picked up her quill to write. Sometimes, when she looked at those ancient sculptures, she became even more aroused than she had been when she flipped through the Kama Sutra on that fateful night. The artists of the Italian Renaissance, in particular, really knew how to portray the human body. Chiseled and carved out of marble, or cast into bronze, the figures seemed to twist and writhe despite the rocks and metal in which they were imprisoned. Six hundred years after the fact, and they still had not managed to free themselves. Occasionally, she understood exactly how that felt. Also, Michelangelo's David had a great arse.
She was thinking about David's arse when she felt a tickling purr at her earlobe. She whipped her head around and found herself face-to-face with Zabini. His black curls hung across his cheek, his face only inches from hers. Why did he feel the need to get so close to her? She could see the creases in his bottom lip. He didn't smile. He never smiled, lest it be that very slight curve at the corners of his mouth—more of a satisfied, self-righteous half-gleam on his face than a real smile. At least it was not a smirk.
"Writing again, Miss Ravvish?" he asked quietly.
She clenched her jaw and watched his eyes smolder. "Don't call me that," she commanded in a whisper.
"So you think you're the one calling the shots here, do you?"
Still no smirk. No smile. No sign of emotion whatsoever on his olive face, except in those unearthly blue eyes.
She chuckled. "As long as you're failing Muggle Studies, I know I'm the one calling the shots."
He shifted a little bit uneasily. She could tell she had hit a nerve. He placed his hand on the table by her parchment and leaned his weight on it. Why did he have to be so tall, so domineering? Why did his fingers have to be so long and thick and dark? It just wasn't fair.
"I'm not failing," he asserted. She could see his jaw working. "Zabinis do not fail at anything."
And now she understood that he was not just talking about Muggle Studies.
"Whatever," she said, waving her writing hand in his face. "I'm busy."
"I can see that," he answered. "I just wanted to make sure you would be ready for Monday night."
She slid her chair away from him in order to get a more definitive look at his face. He refused to back down. So did she.
"Monday night? I can't wait," she responded, raising one eyebrow.
Then it happened. It was very small—barely noticeable—but a tiny smile crossed his lips.
"Neither can I," he whispered. "Happy Christmas, Granger." And then he was gone.
He had achieved his obvious goal. She was completely rattled. Why did he have to do things like that? It made it nearly impossible for her to properly hate him. In fact, she found that she could get no farther than simply despising him.
She tried to get back to her column, but a sudden realization halted her progress. She remembered the dream she had that night in the library after finishing Part I. It had made no sense at the time, but everything suddenly clicked into place. In the dream, she had been stretched out on a desk, a body—Zabini's body, she now realized—nearly on top of her. And that purr at her ear. . . . So that was when he had robbed her of her secret! She had thought the library was empty, but he had apparently been there, lurking about. He had seen her perform the Coperto charm, and his curiosity had gotten the best of him. And that soft rattle at her ear in her dream. . . that was Zabini. The fact that he would do it again was like an admission. She found herself wondering once more if that was a pro or a con. And overall, she discovered that she really didn't care. Or at least, she didn't want to think about it any more.
She packed her things and took out the brown envelope. It was sealed, addressed, and ready to go. At last, her moment of reckoning was upon her. She did not have to owl it; she need not go through with any of it if she didn't want to. But if she owled it—if she truly decided to begin this thing—then she knew she would have to finish it. And a lot could happen in six months. What if she got writer's block? What if no one liked it?... And worse than anything, what if anyone else discovered her secret? Some part her, however, instinctively knew—in the same way she had known that Mrs Weasley would come through for her—that Zabini's lips were sealed. Even if she didn't help him with Muggle Studies, she somehow knew that he wouldn't tell anyone. But he was obviously enjoying his gloating privileges, so she decided to humour him. After all, he was her leading man, and she needed more details—more, at least, than the blatant detail that he was possessed by demons. She smiled. Maybe he wasn't possessed by demons at all. Maybe he was really that clueless.
Either way, she did not want to wait until the next Hogsmeade weekend. If she was going to owl her column, she decided, then she was going to do it right then. She picked up her things and headed off down the corridor. The school was dark and cold, particularly since almost everyone had gone home for the holidays. The stone walls and floor echoed her hammering footsteps as she paced towards the Owlery. She was more than aware, all of a sudden, of her own conspicuous presence, and she slowed her feet and turned corners more cautiously.
That's not prefect behaviour, he had said. In fact, that was one of the first things he had ever said to her, and he was right. Running. Knocking people down. Scribbling fantasies onto parchments of notes. Spitting in the face of another prefect. It might not have been prefect behaviour, but it was just so liberating.
She wondered what Harry and Ron were doing on that Christmas Eve. Perhaps they were sitting up drinking butterbeer with Lupin and Tonks and the rest of the Weasleys. Maybe they had even been let in on some more secrets of the Order. She hadn't even thought about the Order for what felt like an eternity. However, she thought about Sirius often, despite herself. She didn't really like Sirius—she never had—but after studying those marble figures that fought against years of constraint forced upon them by the hands of the sculptor, she thought she might have understood him. Or maybe not. Sirius had caused many of his own problems out of nothing but his own self-righteous pride. Harry was becoming more like him than he knew.
Just as she pondered this, she thought she heard Harry's name, spoken silkily on the lips of an older woman. She recognised the voice, and she certainly knew the voice that followed it.
"You'll find it to be more difficult than you might expect."
That was Professor Snape's voice, ringing out down the corridor in a grumbling whisper.
She silenced her footsteps even more and peeked around the corner. Snape was against the wall, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets. In front of him—and slightly taller than him, so that he actually had to look up at her—was Priscilla Pernicia. She wore robes of red velvet that clung to her milk-white skin like raspberry syrup. Her head was thrown back in her arrogance, her lips pursed, her train of straight, black hair elegantly spilling down her back. Merlin, she was beautiful. Her crimson lips shamed the hue of her robes, and the skin of her face seemed ghostly pale in comparison to them. Hermione watched as Professor Pernicia lifted a long, thin finger and trailed a scarlet nail down the side of Snape's neck.
"I don't know about that, Severus," she cooed. "You'll find I'm quite good at what I do."
Snape attempted not to look particularly hot and bothered as her long fingernail slid down the front of his robes. He failed miserably, of course. "Then enlighten me, Priscilla," he whispered. "What does a fortune-teller like you know about Occlumency?"
"Why, Severus, I'm surprised," she replied. Her fingernail now danced at his waist. "Divination is nothing more than a flair for Legilimency."
"I see." He paused, obviously collecting himself. He tilted his head to one side and smirked at her. "Then tell me, Priscilla...what am I thinking right now?"
She chuckled lightly. "You're wondering if I'm wearing a bra," she said. "You think I am. And then you're trying to figure out if it unhooks in the front or the back."
Hermione saw Snape raise one eyebrow.
"Well," Priscilla continued, "please allow me to keep you in suspense no longer." She took his hand in hers and guided it towards her chest. She stretched his fingers apart and placed them around the motionless curve of her breast. Snape made no sound—not a whimper, not a gasp, not a sigh—nothing. He continued to smirk up at her.
"You know," he said, brushing his thumb along her nipple, "you have a difficult task ahead of you. Potter is especially stubborn. I would also warn you against leaving him alone with your pensieve."
"Severus, I have nothing to hide...unlike some people. I'm not sure exactly what you're up to—or why Dumbledore trusts you so much—but let me assure you that I don't. Trust you, that is."
His hand moved slowly down her side and into the folds of fabric between her legs. "You don't need to trust me," he replied. "I don't want you to trust me. And I don't want to find out you're playing your little games with Potter. Not only would that make his head that much bigger than it already is, but I'm also quite sure that Dumbledore would not approve. And if you're so hungry for...attention...then you know where my office is."
"I'll keep that in mind," she responded plainly. She turned to go, her crimson robes in motion behind her.
Hermione carefully backed away and went about her former task of climbing upstairs to the Owlery, her mind racing once again.
With or without an alarm, with or without classes to attend, Blaise found himself wide awake at 5:15am on Christmas morning. Like everything else in life, Christmas required coffee. Lots of it. And not your everyday cup of morning joe. Christmas required espresso-strength syrup, so dark and thick that a spoon would stand vertically in it of its own accord. Blaise didn't like Christmas at all.
He shivered in the dry cold of his dormitory room and massaged his eyelids, waiting on the coffee-maker to brew a full cup. Everyone else was still asleep, their bed curtains drawn together. Blaise did not even want to look towards the end of his bed. He already knew there would be nothing there except several envelopes bearing impersonal cards and money. Or even worse, gift certificates. Nothing said "I-don't-know-what-to-get-for-you-but-I-don't-quite-trust-you-with-money" like a gift certificate. It was his mother's favourite gift to give. She might as well have thrown fifty Galleons a year out into the middle of Lock Ness because Blaise had never redeemed a single one. Merlin, how he hated Christmas.
Despite himself, he got up and gathered the armful of gifts from the foot of his bed. There were several envelopes and bags of coins, just as he had suspected, but there were also two actual parcels. He poured a cup of coffee, took a large sip, and decided to begin on the envelopes first.
He carefully released the seal on a long, thin, blue-and-gold envelope, and inside he found a letter and a 50-Galleon gift certificate to Flourish and Blotts. The letter bore the loopy, pretentious handwriting of his mother. Her English was terrible.
My darling Blaise,
I wish you to decided to visit France with us. We have a marvelous time. Genelle and Monique are decorated a huge tree, and even Noemi visits from Florence. Your grandmother wants to see you. You like the books, I know. So I get for you this coupon. Your eyes will go blind from the reading, I am afraid.
I miss you, my darling. Please write to me.
Happy Christmas,
Mama
Plain, simple, and highly impersonal. He couldn't believe he had actually gotten an "I miss you" out of her. His mother was usually ice-cold and emotionless.
The next two envelopes bore more gift certificates, these from two of his older sisters, Genelle and Monique. They did not even include cards or letters. Blaise thought suspiciously that his mother might have purchased the certificates herself and put their names on them. He tossed them aside. Genelle was the oldest, and a mastermind entrepreneur. She would most likely take over the family business, if and when old Massimo finally bit the dust. Blaise thought his father might just be too mean to die. But he knew Genelle was waiting for that day with baited breath. Monique, on the other hand, was a complete wastrel. She didn't care whose money she spent—Massimo's, her husband's, or any of her numerous boyfriends'—as long as she got whatever she wanted, precisely when she wanted it. Monique reminded him of his mother.
He opened up one of the parcels next—a box of biscotti and panforte from Grandma Zabini, with a card laid inside. The cover of the card bore a smiling cartoon reindeer whose red nose blinked on and off. Inside the card was nothing more than a heart, drawn so shakily that it might have been rendered by a three-year-old. That heart meant more to him than a million "I miss you"s from his mother. His Grandma Zabini could not read or write at all, and he was amazed that she still even had the ability to hold a quill. She was ninety-three.
The next envelope was green and silver with a seal in the shape of a serpent. It was attached to a green velvet bag, which Blaise knew, without counting, contained exactly two hundred Galleons. It was the same every year. Blaise ripped open the letter, hating his father. He hated the green and silver envelope, hated the small, perfect penmanship, hated the way Massimo Zabini assumed that his son's affections could be bought and paid for so easily.
Blaise (it said),
I'm sorry we could not all get together for Christmas. (Yeah, right.) You should have gone to France. Your mother misses you. (Not as much as she misses her lying, cheating husband, I bet.) I'm sure you understand that I had very important business in Torino. (Is that was he was calling it nowadays?) Perhaps we can all vacation together this summer. (I won't hold my breath.) Your Christmas gift is attached. (And a lot of thought went into it, obviously.) You get more difficult to buy for every year. (Like he'd ever tried.) Keep in touch, son.
Papa
Blaise threw the bag of coins across the room as hard as he could. It made a loud clunk when it hit the wall, and then it landed with a thud on the carpet. He threaded both hands into his hair and sighed heavily. He wished his father hadn't bothered acknowledging him at all. Blaise felt like the great afterthought of human existence. His father made him feel that way.
There was one gift left. A plain, brown parcel secured with hemp. Once he had calmed down, he eyed the parcel suspiciously. There was a name written across the front in small, sepia-coloured lettering. "Topolino." His nickname, Italian for "little mouse." Only one person had ever called him that—indeed, there was only one person who could get by with calling him that.
Noemi Sofia Maria Zabini, his sister. The black sheep. The Squib. The one that the rest of the family conveniently forgot to mention in everyday discourse. She was a shoe designer and a dedicated feminist, which Blaise found to be quite admirable and suiting to her. She was the only one who did not live in England. She had left that cold, dreary, misty isle at the age of twenty, with a pocket full of her own hard-earned money and no wish to ever be dependent on Massimo Zabini or any other man. She had set up shop in Florence, Italy. Now, at the age of twenty-eight, she was quite a prosperous designer, particularly among rising opera stars.
Blaise felt like he was six years old again. He tore the paper off the package, all the while with a silly grin on his face. Noemi. What on earth had she gotten for him?
It was a hardbound book of word origins, and he flipped through it excitedly. He could not have selected a better gift for himself. There was a letter inside the front flap, and he nearly ripped it in his thrilled impatience to get it open.
Topolino,
Happy Christmas! When I saw this book in the English section of Fetrinelli's, I immediately thought of you. I think one of my favourite entries is "hysteria." Leave it to a bunch of white men to name a loss of emotional control after the uterus! They have obviously never witnessed Papa at a football game or Nìccolo beneath the hood of a Lada. But that is neither here nor there, is it?
I'm stuck at Granny's house in France for the holidays, as I'm sure you've heard. I don't know how the hell I got talked into coming here. Genelle and Monique are making me hysterical, and I assure you it has nothing to do with my womb. I wish you were here. I bet you're glad you aren't. Papa is in Italy, of course, whoring himself as usual. Oddly enough, I did not get a card from him this year. I think he is still upset about the marinara incident. Ha! It was so worth it.
Mama showed me a recent photograph of you. Good Lord, Blaise! What happened?! You're not such a little mouse anymore, are you? I didn't realize I had been gone for so long. You have become quite the "Adonis" since I saw you last. Are there any special little girls in your life? No, don't tell me. I don't want to know. Unless one of them breaks your heart. I'm no witch, but I am a firm believer in Chinese water-torture.
Anyway, I hope you're doing well. My own crowning achievement this year was designing a pair of stilettos for Cecilia Bartoli (photo enclosed). Quite an accomplishment, if I say so myself, with Ferragamo right down the street.
Well, enough of my drivel. Send me an owl if you have a moment. I'd love to hear all your news.
Ti amo,
Noemi
P.S. I left the receipt in the book. Quite tacky, I know. Now you know exactly how much I spent on your Christmas gift. But I thought you might need a bookmark. Ciao!
It was like a breath of fresh air—the book, the letter. He couldn't wipe the stupid grin off his face. He felt renewed and justified, and he was suddenly very glad that it was Christmas. There was one person, after all, who was thinking of him and wishing him well. He wished that Noemi was right there. He would have told her everything that had been going on in his brain for the past six years. And he knew she would have really listened.
He found the photograph and laughed out loud. She had folded it in half so that the emphasis was on Cecilia Bartoli's shoes. They were a fine pair of stilettos—black and strappy, with a delicately pointed toe. Noemi was brilliant at what she did, and she did it all with little or no help from anyone. Blaise envied that about her.
Then he looked at the receipt. Fetrinelli's. Firenze, Italia. 8 June. 17:56pm. She had purchased the book for him six months before, obviously on her way home from work. It meant the world to him. 14,000 lire. That was about 5 British pounds. With less than ten pounds, Noemi had made Blaise happier than Massimo could ever make him with millions of Galleons. At once, Blaise's heart was torn, completely rift open. He wanted to laugh, to run about joyously. At the same time, he felt his eyes stinging with the realisation of exactly who did and who did not truly love him. Bittersweet was the operative word, he thought.
He crept over to the wall at the other side of the room and picked up the bag of gold coins. He hated it, but the money might prove to be useful at a later date.
Monday night rolled around more quickly, perhaps, than either party had anticipated. Hermione tried to smooth her hair and adjust her robes to make her chest look larger. Blaise misted cologne over his chest and put on a white button-down shirt—shirttail out—and a black blazer. She was going for the slick, respectable look. He was going for the carelessly tragic intellectual look. Neither one of them understood why they were suddenly making such a fuss over their appearances.
Hermione slung her bag of books over her shoulder and tried to mentally go through the details of Ghiberti's Gates of Paradise. Blaise slipped his wand into the inside pocket of his blazer and attempted to come up with an opening line. Neither one of them found themselves to be especially witty or clever at the moment, with the prospect of confronting each other so close to becoming a reality.
Hermione waved to a first-year on her way through the common room. Blaise avoided Malfoy's glare as he walked past the Slytherin fireplace. Hermione went down a set of stairs. Blaise went up, up, and farther up. Hermione walked quickly and purposefully towards her destination. Blaise sauntered casually, secretly hoping she would have to wait on him.
Hermione threw her head back and took a deep breath.
Blaise felt the corners of his mouth stretch into a tiny smile, almost entirely against his will.
"Hi," they said at exactly the same moment.
They just stood there for a moment, looking at one another.
"You showed up."
"I didn't have a choice."
"Are you ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
They began to pace past the blank stretch of wall. He had to concentrate very hard on needing a slide projector, as he suspected that Hermione's current requirement was a room full of sharp objects or comparable weapons. A door appeared in front of them, and Blaise clasped the brass doorknob and stared down at Hermione.
"Well, Granger," he said. "Let's see what we have to work with, shall we?"
An enormous screen covered one whole wall. The loaded slide projector stood near the back of the room casting a stream of dust-speckled white light onto the screen. There were two fluffy armchairs that looked way too comfortable for studying, and there was a small table between them that was ideal for holding Blaise's coffee mug. It was a shame he had forgotten his coffee. A few candles flickered on the walls, giving just enough light to keep them from stumbling on their way to the chairs.
"How romantic," Blaise commented, that same emotionless half-smile on his face. "I almost think I should carry you across the threshold."
"Don't push me, Zabini. I swear I will—"
"Just wait until we get inside, Granger," he interrupted her. "Then you can scream and yell at me until your little heart is content."
She entered the room, tossed her bag into a heap on the polished wooden floor, and went for the chair nearest to the door. He closed and locked the door behind them. She heard the tiny "click" as it locked and felt her body jerk slightly at the sound. Locked in a candlelit room with a Slytherin. Part of her really hoped he was a gentleman. The other part of her wondered how good it would feel if he wasn't.
He slowly approached the other chair, pushing his hair out of his eyes. He glanced over at her momentarily before he sat down, silently reminding himself that this was not going to be easy, and that was what he liked about it. The way she crossed her arms so defiantly intrigued him. She was fighting him, and she was fighting herself. It was beautiful to watch. He plopped down in the chair and looked up at her.
"Have a seat, Granger," he suggested.
"I'll stand for now, thanks," she responded. With her arms still crossed, she began to pace in front of him. "We need to establish some ground rules."
"Rules?"
"Yes, Zabini, rules. Number one: You are to take this seriously. I am not going to waste my time doing all this extra research if you're not going to actually try to learn something."
"Perhaps you haven't noticed," he replied blandly, "but I take everything seriously. Particularly my studies."
"Right," she said. She could not help noticing how long his legs were—bent at the knees and protruding casually from the fluffy edge of the seat. "Number two: No touching."
At this, he actually chuckled.
"What are you laughing about?" she demanded.
"I'm just surprised," he answered through his delicate half-smile. "I would have guessed that would be rule number one."
She looked flustered all of a sudden, as though reconsidering her own apparent folly. "Yes...well..."
"Don't worry, Granger." His words were slow and calculated. "I'll try to keep my hands off of you. Can you make me the same promise?"
"You have quite a high opinion of yourself, don't you?"
"Not at all. I just think we should level the playing field. You know, start from zero. What do you think?"
Tied at zero. A clean slate. It almost seemed fair.
"All right," she muttered.
"So," he said, "I am to take this seriously and refrain from fondling you. Anything else?"
"Yes. Rule number three," she said, regaining some control over herself. "Never do that ear thing again."
"Ear thing?"
"Oh, you know what I'm talking about. That...that fluttery thing."
"Why?" he asked. "Do you find it distracting?"
"No," she lied somewhat shakily. "Not distracting. Just...just...annoying. That's all."
"I see. Well, I certainly did not mean to annoy you."
"Rule number four," she continued, allowing for no more of his interruptions. "No one is to know about this. I'm not in the habit of tutoring people. Besides, if Harry and Ron found out—"
"Ah yes," he whispered. "I'd hate to insert a kink into the well-oiled machine that is the Golden Trio."
"Look," she said assertively, "I'm thinking about your own welfare here."
"How thoughtful of you. I suppose living with Draco Malfoy for six years has taught me nothing about how to defend myself."
Why did he have to have a comeback for everything? And not just that. He had a good comeback for everything. She straightened her robes and said quietly, "I suppose that's all."
"Good. Let's begin." He spoke to the screen in front of them. "We need Italian Renaissance sculpture. A mixture of it, from the beginning."
An image suddenly flooded the screen. Two panels in low relief. They depicted the same scene, but differently. Two sides to one story.
"Ah, yes," she whispered, overcome by the raw power of the visual imagery. "This is a great place to begin. The Sacrifice of Isaac." She cleared her throat and thought about what she had read. She sat down in the armchair, feeling a bit more comfortable. After all, reciting random facts was her forte.
"These two pieces," she began, "are rarely viewed individually. It is the comparison of the two opposites that make these pieces so compelling. They were entered into a competition for the doors of the Florence baptistery. Ghiberti—that's the one of the left—ended up getting the commission. Brunelleschi ended up putting the dome on the cathedral. He was more of an architect than a sculptor."
She looked over at him. His eyes refused to budge from the screen in front of them. "The Sacrifice of Isaac," he repeated quietly. "What was that all about?"
"Well..." How could she describe it to him? She decided to take a simple and unemotional stance on the subject. "You see, Abraham—that's the man with the knife—really loved his son, Isaac. He and his wife, Sarah, had been trying to have a child for about sixty years."
"That's a lot of shagging," he mumbled.
"Without a doubt," she replied, fighting back a chuckle. "Anyway, Sarah finally got pregnant when she was about ninety-something. You can only imagine how happy Abraham was. He finally had a son to carry on his lineage."
"Every man's dream," Blaise said sarcastically.
"And God began to get worried," she continued. "God thought that Abraham loved his son, Isaac, even more than the Almighty himself. So he decided to test Abraham."
"Test him? He doesn't sound very confident in his abilities as a god."
"Indeed," she replied, stunned by Zabini's intuition. "He told Abraham to take Isaac up on top of a mountain and slaughter him like an animal."
"Your god seems very cruel."
"Not my god, Zabini. We digress from the story."
"Please continue."
"So Abraham did as God commanded. He took Isaac to the top of the mountain, prepared to slay his own first-born son for the cause in which he believed so adamantly. These panels here," she went on, pointing, "depict the scene immediately before the slaughter. Abraham raises his knife to his son's throat, and just before he follows God's command, and angel swoops down to stop him. The angel announces that it has all, of course, been nothing more than a cruel test."
"Wow," Blaise said. He let out a sigh.
Hermione was quite pleasantly surprised. She had not really expected him to be so attentive, and his obvious intrigue with the subject matter excited her. Here they were—a Gryffindor and a Slytherin—learning together. Talking about art and religion. These were things she didn't even discuss with Harry and Ron. Things she had never really thought about before.
"Can you pick out the differences in the pieces?" she asked tentatively.
"Of course," he said at once. "It's easy. Brunelleschi's panel is so much more...brutal."
"That's what a lot of people seem to think," she answered, again surprised by his clever observation. "Perhaps that's why he lost the competition. But if you look closely, you'll notice how much more realistic the scene appears in Ghiberti's work. Ghiberti was an expert at bronze relief. He blended everything together—do you see that?—while Brunelleschi simply seemed to fit the objects onto the panel more haphazardly."
A silence pervaded the Room of Requirements. Neither one of them were thinking about Ghiberti's mastery of bronze. They were thinking the same thing now, their brains working in unison without any realisation of that fact on the part of either one of them. It was Hermione who finally put their thoughts into question format.
"Do you think a Death Eater would do that?"
"What?" he mumbled. But he knew what. He wanted to hear her say it.
"Sacrifice their own son like that."
Blaise was completely non-committal. He merely stared ahead, his fingers laced beneath his chin.
"I mean," she went on, "if Voldemort—"
Blaise did not even flinch.
"—ordered Lucius Malfoy to slit Draco's throat, do you think he would do it?"
Blaise finally spoke. His voice was soft but firm. "I don't want to think about it. And I don't have to think about it. My father isn't a Death Eater."
She paused. Deep down, he wanted her to continue. He wanted her to ask questions. He would not, after all, volunteer any information that she didn't request.
"What does your father do?" she asked hesitantly.
Blaise looked over at her. "He's a used car salesman, among other things."
She laughed out loud. "A used car salesman? You're joking."
He shook his head.
"That's kind of...dodgy...isn't it?"
"He was a Slytherin."
"And so are you."
"Because I asked to be a Slytherin." He had never told this to anyone before. "The Sorting Hat tried to put me into Ravenclaw. And that would have given old Massimo one more reason to hate me."
"Zabini, I'm sure he doesn't hate you."
"He doesn't like me much, either."
Blaise could not figure out why he had told her this. Perhaps it was because he had encroached upon her deepest secret, and he felt he owed her something. But mostly, it was just because he finally wanted to tell someone. It was the real reason he had wanted to get her alone, even if he didn't realise it.
She was completely speechless. To be suddenly—almost unconsciously—given such an intimate peek into Zabini's psyche.... It was frightening yet refreshing. He looked straight into her eyes as if he wanted to tell her more, as if he was fighting with himself. She decided not to push him anymore at that moment.
"So," she said, retreating to their former topic, "do you think Lucius Malfoy would slaughter his own son?"
Blaise shifted in his chair a bit. "Granger," he said, measuring his words, "we all know what a smarmy little git Draco Malfoy is. And I wouldn't put anything past his father."
"Well, anyway," she whispered. "Let's go on, shall we?" She looked back towards the slide projector and then back up at the screen, saying, "Next, please."
Both of them sat still a moment, quietly viewing the next slide. It was a gruesome panel, depicting a scene that was even more brutal than Brunelleschi's version of Abraham and Isaac. A plump, horrified man raised his hands in disgust as he was offered a severed head on a plate.
"Well," Blaise spoke finally, not knowing what else to say. "Please enlighten me, Granger."
"Donatello's Feast of Herod, commissioned for the Siena baptistery. Donatello was Ghiberti's apprentice, but he eventually surpassed Ghiberti, particularly in the field of free-standing sculpture."
"What about the story?" he implored.
She grinded her teeth. She didn't like that story. As usual, it was a woman who was to blame for the hideous and violent acts committed by men. "Where to begin?" she said with a sigh. "King Herod captured and imprisoned John the Baptist, who was the cousin of Jesus. King Herod was also married to his own brother's wife, I might add."
"Is this a Bible story or a soap opera?" Blaise asked with a chuckle.
"Soap opera?" Hermione replied, smiling. "What do you know about soap operas?"
"I know they're addictive," he said. "My sister, Noemi, tapes them while she's at work. I've watched them before. They're actually kind of amusing."
All right. So his father was a used car salesman, and his sister watched soap operas. Were they Slytherins or not? She had no idea how to comment on these revelations, so she simply continued the story.
"Anyway, John the Baptist scolded King Herod for taking his brother's wife, Herodias. This made Herodias furious. So Herod throws a big birthday bash for himself, and Herodias' daughter does some belly-dancing for him and his guests. She pleases everyone so much that Herod promises to give her anything she asks for, up to half his kingdom. Her mother, Herod's wife, tells her to ask for John the Baptist's head on a platter. This panel shows the scene where Herod is presented with John's head."
"That is really disgusting," he said matter-of-factly. "This story is in the Bible?"
"And it's one of the mildest tales, believe it or not. I think they just slipped it in there to make women look bad. Christians are always trying to blame everything on women. They seem to think women are inherently evil or something. It makes me glad I'm a witch, actually."
"Women are evil," Blaise replied, thinking at once about Padma, using him so mercilessly. About his mother and his sister, Monique—so cold and callous. Hermione studied him with a certain contempt in her eyes. "I mean, some of them are evil," he quickly added. "Some women could make Lucius Malfoy look like an angel. Take Bellatrix Lestrange, for example. Didn't she—"
"Kill her own cousin?" Hermione finished for him. "Yes."
"I grew up in a house with four women, Granger," he said. "I know all about how evil women can be."
"Four women?!" she exclaimed.
"My mother and three older sisters."
She laughed again. "No wonder you're so quiet."
"Exactly," he said. "I never could get a word in edgewise, could I?"
She could already see a different side of him. There was a tormented aspect to his character that no one would have ever guessed existed. He hid it well beneath his silent arrogance, but now that he was talking, she could see it so clearly. It wasn't a plea for sympathy or a cry for compassion—it was just a coldly simple statement of the facts. She felt compassion for him nonetheless, even though she did not want to admit it to herself.
"How can you help but love women, though, if you are a man?" Blaise mused. He looked over at her, and for once, his eyes traveled lower than her face. He allowed them to move down her neck, over her shoulders, across the bulge in her robes that was her breasts, down her arm to the tiny hand that rested on the arm of her chair. She felt his heavy gaze and shifted in her chair a bit. "Women are so deliciously mysterious," he continued. "So different from us. So emotional. So small and soft—"
"Next slide, please!" she interrupted him. He met her eyes once more and gave her that half-smile. "Good," she said, as the next slide popped into view. "More Donatello."
Thus, they continued, Hermione explaining the stories behind the images and making random comments on the artists' techniques. The slide projector seemed to be stuck on Donatello. Some of the works were so obscure that Hermione actually had to consult Gardner's. This, of course, caused Blaise to reprimand her. ("I thought you were prepared!" followed by "Give it a rest, Zabini! If you've seen one marble saint, you've seen them all!") St. John, St. Mark, St. George. The Pazzi Madonna. ("This is getting tedious," Blaise said.) The prophet Habbakuh. ("Obviously not known for his good looks," Blaise commented.) The famous bronze sculpture of David. ("He killed a giant with a slingshot? He looks like a stiff wind would knock him over! And why is he totally naked except for a hat and a pair of boots?") The Penitent Magdalene. ("She's got more hair than you, Granger.")
She sighed heavily and stuffed Gardner's back into her bag resolutely.
"What are you doing?" he asked, sitting up suddenly.
"I think we've both had enough for one night," she replied, rubbing her eyes.
"I didn't mean to wear you out," he said, a very miniscule smirk playing across his lips, his defenses weakened slightly from exhaustion.
"I could keep going all night," she told him, fighting back a yawn. "I thought you might be tired."
"You underestimate my stamina, Granger." The smirk grew wider, and he sat back in his chair, one hand beneath his chin and his eyes heavy upon hers.
She shifted her weight and put her hands on her hips. "I do hope we're still talking about Italian Renaissance sculpture," she said dryly.
His eyebrows shot up in feigned innocence. "What else would we be talking about?"
"Okay, I'll admit it," she said. "I'm exhausted."
His eyes once again traveled down the length of her body and back up again. She saw him do this, but she did not budge. "Just one more," he pleaded lightly. He didn't want her to go. He never got so much attention—he had never wanted so much attention—and it was addictive.
She submitted to him, flinging herself once more into the armchair. "One more," she said. "That's all. Next slide, please."
She perked up, unable to believe her eyes. "Donatello's Judith and Holofernes," she told him. "Very interesting."
The image on the screen showed two bronze figures, slightly turquoise with age. A smiling woman stood above a partially beheaded sitting man. One of her hands held up a knife, poised to strike him again, while her other hand clutched his hair. The look on her face showed triumph, intrigue at her own violent action.
"Another evil woman?" Blaise asked.
"Quite the contrary. She was a heroine, and she was, most likely, the only woman in the Bible to ever stand up and do something about her situation. In fact, she was just brave enough to get herself conveniently excluded from modern versions of the Bible."
She looked over at Blaise, expecting to see him sneering at her feminist interpretation. Instead, he looked highly interested in hearing her opinion. His dark blue eyes shone brightly in the dusty light of the projector—wide and captivated.
"The king Nebuchadnezzar held the Jews in captivity and was planning on destroying them. Judith had to do something to save her people. So she waited until Holofernes, the commander of Nebuchadnezzar's army, got terribly drunk at a banquet. Then she flirted with him...pretended to submit to him. And at the final moment, she took out her knife and chopped off his head with two blows to his neck. Thus, her people were saved."
"Interesting," was his only comment.
Hermione was suddenly very passionate about the story and the image in front of them. How brave Judith had been! She had known what she had to do, and she had simply done it. "You see, Zabini," she explained, "your typical Biblical heroine is someone like Esther. And what made Esther so heroic? The fact that she crawled on her knees to beg a man for mercy? Judith did not intend on going so quietly, or going on anyone else's terms. And what better weapon can a woman use against a man, other than her own physical charms?"
Hermione glared at him suddenly, her eyes bright and focused. It was the truth—he had said it himself—and she almost wanted to rub it in his face, this power that women had over men. She wanted him to acknowledge her. She wanted to hear him agree with her. The power play in the image before them was all too familiar, though she saw it at once more clearly than ever before. Men and women. He who controls and she who submits. The tiger and the tamer.
"The old seduce-and-destroy technique, huh?" he finally responded. His face was now serious again, emotionless.
"You're quite familiar with that technique, I presume?" she retorted, a bit disappointed by his reaction.
"Yes, I am," he answered. "I've been on the receiving end of that technique more than once."
"Oh, poor Zabini," she mocked. "Don't tell me.... Some girl got you drunk and then had her way with you, right?"
She had stuck a knife through his chest and twisted it, without even knowing what she was doing. He fought to keep his gaze steady and deliberated on how to answer her. She had asked that question so sarcastically. She couldn't have known it was the truth, and he certainly did not want to admit it to her.
"I think you're right," he said at last. "That's more than enough for one night."
"So much for your stamina," she spat back. She picked up her bag and headed for the door. She didn't hear him get up and follow her, so she was startled when she reached for the doorknob, pulled, and found that the door would not open. She looked up to see his hand against the door, holding it closed. He leaned his weight on it, trapping her. She turned around, her back against the door, and stared way up into his rigid face. Part of her hated him for controlling her so easily. Part of her wanted to stay, just to have the last word.
"Was there something else, Zabini?" she asked, her chin raised as defiantly as ever. She refused to be intimidated, no matter how tall or seemingly strong he was.
He just stood there awhile, looking down at her, loving to watch her fight with him, marveling at her independence. At the same time, he felt strangely naked. He had told her too much. "I'm not like that, you know," he whispered. "Not like you might think I am, anyway."
"I don't know you at all," she said. "You protect me, and then you bribe me. You flirt with me, and then you tell me you're 'not like that'. To tell you the truth, I am utterly and entirely confused."
Her honesty was refreshing. In fact, her honesty was her most lethal blow, as he was completely unaccustomed to such a tactic. He could see the confusion in her eyes, and it reflected his own confusion. One thought kept occurring to him—one question that seemed foreign and unreal—What am I doing?
"Zabini," she whispered. "What are you doing?"
She was reading his mind. He could think of nothing to say, so he just stood there mutely, trapping her against the door. She was so much shorter than him, but she seemed unfazed, even as he stared into her eyes, judging her reaction.
She was anything but "unfazed." In fact, her heart pounded against her breastbone as though it would burst. It wasn't fear or anger that pumped her blood so hotly through her veins. It was compassion, and it swelled in her belly and sent waves of warmth through her limbs. And even beneath the sudden compassion, there was a small tickle of desire. He looked so bare and defenseless—so uncertain. And he smelled like the forest, like wet leaves, like rainwater.
"Rule number five," she whispered. "You're not to look at me like that."
"Like what?" he asked. His face was blank.
You know perfectly well like what, you bastard.
"Like you want to break rule number two."
He paused, as if to consider this. "And what if I did?" He leaned a little bit closer.
Oh, God! I think he's going to kiss me. He's going to lean down, and he's going to kiss me, and I won't be able to do anything except maybe like it. And kiss him back.
"Granger?"
"Yes?"
"You will break rule number two before I do."
He's right! I want to touch him. I want to reach up and run my fingers down his cheek. I want to sift my hands through his curls. I bet they're soft. They look soft.
"That's doubtful, Zabini."
"Wanna make a bet?" he asked, still not smiling.
She threw back her shoulders and tilted her head, her chin still high in the air. "Five points to Gryffindor if you lose."
"Five points to Slytherin if you lose."
Green light. Mount your brooms. Play ball.
"A History of Magic essay," she said, raising the stakes.
"A week's worth of Arithmancy homework," he replied.
"Malfoy's balls on a platter."
"Malfoy's wand, snapped in two."
"Malfoy seems to be getting the raw end of this bet."
"Who cares?"
"Okay. If you lose, I get an hour of free reign in the Slytherin boy's dormitory."
"And if you lose, I get an hour of free reign in the Astronomy Tower."
I'm the Wicked Witch of the West. I'm melting! I'm melting!
"Perhaps we should just stick to five points to the House of the winner."
"Deal."
He still did not move.
"Granger?"
"Yes?"
"About these art history lessons..."
"Yes?"
"Thank you," he whispered.
He let her go, and—oh!—how quickly she went. When she was gone, he grinned from ear to ear.
More A/N: Now, for anyone else who may still be out there lurking, and for any of you who are still with me here, you can expect an update very soon. The next chapter is already written, and I think it's much better than this one. This chapter was kind of introspective, but a crucial one to the plot development, nonetheless.
And now, for the shout-outs to my precious reviewers:
Zaralya: I think I'd give my writing hand to be "Poor Hermione." Ah, Zabini...the sneakier he is, the more I love him. Thanks for reviewing!
Donroth: What a compliment!!! I have a confession to make. I really don't like Draco Malfoy. I see Draco as an especially pretty Dudley, and that's about all. A spoiled rotten little tattle-tale with almost no redeeming qualities. Lucius, however, is an entirely different story....(Must stop dirty thoughts.) Anyway, I am honoured that you would almost turn traitor because of this little fic!
Dixi: Wow! A lurker! Many, many thanks for speaking up. Reviewers like you make my caffeine breakdowns all worthwhile. And yes, Zabini is definitely going to be in over his head.
hoofservant: Clapping your hands and bouncing and saying things like "Goddess bless" will get you everywhere, darling. Sorry you had to wait!
Louise: Yep. There just aren't enough Zabinis to go around. Just wait until you meet Massimo.
Pallas Athena1: Oh my god. You gave me a "woohoo"! You have a very, very special place in my heart. But you know that, don't you? (Now, where is this new chappie you promised?)
mageofknowledge: I agree! Thank you!
Procella Nox-noctis: Thanks for the glowing review and the advice! I'm new to this whole fanfic thing. Thanks for making me feel like part of the community!
trova: Thank you for continuing to read and review!
Alenor: You have this uncanny gift for giving back-handed compliments. Did you know that? But as one of my most loyal reviewers, I thank you dearly. I hope you'll keep reading.
Antisocial mint: That's a HUGE compliment! I humbly thank you!
Kurayami Pansa: Thanks! Possessive!Blaise is also one of my favourites. And Clueless!Blaise is just so fun. But I must admit...Trapping-Hermione-Against-A-Door!Blaise really makes my blood race.
Morvidra: Grazie! Ho visitato Italia due volte, ma aprendo ancora. È una lingua perfetta, no? Appassionata—aspra ma graziosa—e tanto Blaise! (E sì, l'Internet conta.) Spero che godi questo capitolo, e grazie di nuovo!
tweetygurl88: Thanks so much! It's all for people like you, sweetie.
Grazie mille a tutti, e fino a presto...
tamlane