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: Whew! I actually got dizzy writing this chapter. It was almost...orgasmic. The answer, Procella, is that I am a great fan of Italian art. I have a Bachelor of Arts degree in Interdisciplinary Studies with a concentration in art history. To put it bluntly, art really does it for me. As you're about to find out...
Diagon Venus
Chapter 7 – Secret Admirer
"between thought and expression
lies a lifetime
situations arise
because of the weather
and no kinds of love
are better than others"
--Lou Reed
One night in mid-January, Blaise sat in the common room by the fireplace and pretended to read. Blaise was an expert at pretending to read. He even moved his eyes and flipped the pages in a timely fashion. No one ever suspected him. Tonight, as usual, this served a dual purpose. For one thing, it helped him ignore the fact that Millicent Bulstrode was staring at him with visions of firewhiskey dancing in her eyes. Second, and most important, was the fact that pretending to read gave him a chance to inconspicuously eavesdrop on Malfoy's conversation.
The topic of discussion on this particular evening was Malfoy's recent catastrophe. After his brief stay in the hospital wing during the holidays, Malfoy was slightly less keen on rambling on and on about the various torture plots and lewd acts he wanted to perform on Granger. In fact, he would not even mention her name anymore. She was now simply "that Gryffindor (expletive of the week)." He even once referred to her as "She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." That brought a smile to Blaise's face. Granger would surely have laughed her arse off over that one.
Malfoy was pacing in front of the sofa, where Crabbe and Goyle looked bored and somewhat constipated. (Or perhaps they were suffering from their usual indigestion. Thanks to the two of them, the Slytherin common room was typically evacuated shortly after dinner.) Poor Crabbe and Goyle. If Blaise had heard Malfoy recount the tale five times, they had probably heard it fifty or more.
"And I was certainly not going to let You-Know-Who get by with spitting in my face," Malfoy said. His chin-length white-blonde locks flew all about his face as he paced back and forth in agitation. "I mean, there are hundreds of girls who would practically beg for me to touch them. And what an humble sacrifice on my part...to even consider fondling someone like her! So I open my mouth to tell her what an ungrateful little snob she is, and then..." He paused. He had been trying for days to come up with a perfect description of what had happened. It was really pathetic.
"We know," said Goyle. Actually, he belched the statement. Goyle's belching record was nineteen words (not including "a" and "the"). Then, in his normal voice, he continued, "You couldn't say anything."
"Exactly!" exclaimed Malfoy. "But it's not because I didn't want to. I really, honestly couldn't do it. And when I tried, it was like someone had sewn my lips shut. UGH! I can't figure it out."
"Maybe she put a hex on you," Crabbe said lazily.
Blaise rolled his eyes. Why someone like Malfoy would consult Crabbe and Goyle for answers to anything was beyond him.
"But it would've had to be wandless!" Malfoy cried, growing more angry and frustrated by the moment. "Either that, or she would've had to do it sometime between Saturday and Sunday morning. And that's impossible! I never even saw her during that time."
He picked up a vase and threw it across the room. It shattered into pieces at the feet of several timid-looking second-years who promptly packed their bags and headed through the portrait hole. Typical Malfoy. When in doubt, throw something. Blaise thought back to Christmas—to the bag of Galleons he had thrown across the room—and he was suddenly ashamed by his own immaturity. Still, his father had been the source of his anger on that occasion. He certainly wasn't about to start tossing vases out of sexual frustration.
"That know-it-all slut!" Malfoy yelled. "I don't know how she did it, but she's good. I'll give her that much. But even she is not that good. I mean, she might get straight Os, but she really doesn't know her arse from a hole in the ground. Merlin, I'd like to—"
"Maybe she has a secret admirer," Blaise interrupted matter-of-factly, snapping his book shut and looking up at Malfoy with steady, heavy-lidded eyes.
Once the trio had recovered from the fact that Blaise had actually spoken, they burst into laughter. "Woo!" Malfoy cried, clutching at his side. "That's a good one, Zabini. That Gryffindor skank...a secret admirer!"
The laughter continued. Blaise simply waited, as indifferently as ever, for their silly display of masculinity to subside.
"Well, it's obvious," Blaise went on when their laughter died down into chuckles, "that someone doesn't want you messing with her."
Malfoy straightened up a bit, as though actually considering this idea. "Who on earth would do that?" he asked. "They would have to be out of their gourd. The only person I can think of is Longbottom, and...well, we all know how perfectly inadept he is."
Now, however, Malfoy was pacing again, his pointy face screwed up in concentration. And a new emotion played about his eyes and lips. Jealousy. Blaise could see it. Malfoy had not considered the thought that someone else would actually be interested in Granger. Blaise just watched him. He assumed that Malfoy's next move would be to list all of Granger's flaws in order to quell his own feelings of insecurity, and sure enough—
"But she's a stubborn bitch!" Malfoy said. "And she's so ugly. Anyone who ever saw her when she had those buck teeth is probably still having nightmares." Malfoy shuddered noticeably. "And that hair...eww."
Blaise shrugged casually. "You know, some men might find her hair to be exceptionally sexy," he commented blandly. "They might think it makes her look like she just woke up after a night of passionate sex."
All three of them were now looking at Blaise as though he had just announced that he was running for Minister of Magic. Blaise did not flinch. Malfoy shoved his hands into his pockets and observed Blaise with interest.
"Well, well, Zabini," he drawled. "It looks like someone has given the matter a great deal of thought."
"Not at all," Blaise replied. He rose from the chair, his towering frame a good four inches taller than Malfoy's. "I'm simply trying to be objective." He nodded towards Crabbe and Goyle and added, "I thought you might value some real input."
All three of them were speechless. Blaise took the opportunity of their silent shock to gather his things in one swift motion and head for the portrait hole. He climbed out of the common room and strode up the stairs towards the library. He shouldn't have said anything—he knew it—but he wanted to give Malfoy something to think about. Besides, the binding was nearly untraceable.
He found himself thinking about Granger's hair. In fact, he could not stop thinking about it. He thought about how it might look blowing gently in the breeze, or pinned up in clips at various places along her temples, or spread out against his pillow...WHOA! But it was true. Her hair was so wild that it always looked as though she had just emerged from a quickie in a broom closet. Granted, he had never thought about it that way before, but after viewing her hair in the soft, magical light of a slide projector, he had become almost obsessed with it. If nothing else, it made her seem more human. And sometimes it matched her eyes...
And then there she was, her mountain of frizzy curls spilling down her back as her head bent over one of the desks in the library. He briefly wondered what she would look like in a blue-and-white checkered dress with braided pigtails...NO! We're not in Kansas anymore, he thought to himself, feeling an odd jerk of—desire?—at his groin. It was a mistake to come to the library. Damn it! The library was his special place. Could he not escape from her anywhere?
Relieved that she had her back to him, he slithered away to the fiction section without being noticed. He sat down at a small, round table near the back of the library and pulled out his quill and some parchment. He had a relentless urge to write a letter to Noemi and tell her everything. He pulled out the book she had sent him for Christmas—it was now one of his favourites—and stared down at the cover. Word Origins and Their Romantic Meanings by Wilfred Funk, Litt.D. Anyone with a surname like "Funk" had to be worth reading. He tried to imagine going through life with a surname like "Funk." He had a sneaky suspicion he never would have lasted an hour in Slytherin with such a surname.
He opened the book to the page marked by the receipt and skimmed down the page until a certain paragraph jumped out at him.
"The Malays purposely have no name for tiger lest the sound of it might summon him or offend him. The ignorant of Madagascar never mention the word "lightning" for fear it might strike."¹
And so it was with the name "Voldemort" in the Wizarding world. And now with the name "Granger" in the Slytherin dormitory. And for a Zabini, it was the same with the words "thank you."
If his life depended on it, he could not have guessed why he had felt the need to utter those words to Granger after their first art history session. Zabinis never used the words "thank you." For one thing, those words implied that one had been done a favor. Zabinis did favors for other people—favors that they could collect upon at a later date, perhaps—but they did not accept favors from anyone. That was a sign of weakness. For another thing, to thank someone invoked the idea that one actually felt gratitude, and Zabinis, of course, felt nothing. To say "thank you" was to actually acknowledge another person's compassion. And Blaise had not really known that such a thing as compassion truly existed.
Thank you. How could Donatello elicit such a sentiment from him?
No one in his family had ever thanked servants or waitstaff or clerks or anyone. To a Zabini, servitude was expected, taken for granted. One was certainly not supposed to be openly grateful for it. Actually, that wasn't true. There was one person in his family who was different. And he could think of one more circumstance where gratitude was appropriate. So he picked up his quill and wrote.
Cara Noemi,
Thank you for the Christmas present. Also, congratulations on your exquisite pair of stilettos. I am fine. There is a special girl. I am trying my best to hate her, but she is just so damn disarming. By the way, I would scarcely call myself an "Adonis." (And if I am, she hasn't seemed to notice.) Massimo sent me two hundred Galleons. I wish he hadn't. You're the lucky one, you know. I miss you.
Ti amo,
Topolino
He read back over it, wishing he had been more eloquent. But with his sister, he didn't have to pretend. He packed his bag and headed off to the Owlery, once again carefully avoiding Granger.
Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table, feverishly flipping through the unabridged version of Gardner's Art Through the Ages. She loved this book, even if it did weigh nearly 5 kilos. In fact—as it was hardbound and consisted of exactly 1,200 pages of artistic glory—it would not even fit in her bag. She was forced to carry it around under her arm, and this was no small feat.
She had found a new passion...art history. She could not seem to get enough of it. Having already learned everything there was to know about Italian Renaissance art, she had now turned her attention to Greek art. She had also begun to study Italian in small doses. She somewhat lamented the fact that Hogwarts did not teach these things. What good was any kind of life—Muggle or Wizard—without an appreciation of the finer things? She began to regret dropping Muggle Studies after her third year.
There was one thought that would not extricate itself from her racing brain. Without Zabini, she would have never really pursued any of this stuff. Without Zabini, she would still be struggling for ideas on how to begin Part I of her column. Without Zabini, she might have never known about the beauty of Michelangelo's marble sculptures. Without Zabini, she might have been still trudging along, cluelessly devoted to Arithmancy equations. Again, she couldn't figure out if that was a good or a bad thing.
She stared at him across the Great Hall. He now typically sat facing her. They both arrived each morning for breakfast around 6:30am. They sat at their separate tables and read. Once in awhile, she would look up and find him staring at her. From his blank, emotionless face, he would wink at her all of a sudden and flash her that semi-smile, and then they would bury themselves once again in their books. It was intoxicating—this secret between them. And in the early morning, when the Great Hall was occupied by only a handful of students, she was able to connect with him in that small, subtle way.
She propped her chin on her hand and idly stared down at the Nike of Samothrace. It all seemed like a dream. She was now two-thirds of the way through writing Part II. As it turned out, her leading man was fighting against the demons that possessed him. He was cold and casual—despite his random outbursts—but underneath it all, there was a hero dying to be released. This man taunted her heroine relentlessly. He was always there—lurking but not touching, talking but not saying what he really meant. She wondered if Witch Weekly would even publish the column. It was getting so ridiculous, really.
And so was Hermione. She was becoming so ridiculous that she barely recognised herself. Gone were the days of finishing essays ahead of time and making clothes for house-elves and following Harry and Ron around like a puppy dog. She was becoming independent, in a way that she had never considered. Suddenly, life was more than a fight to get her hand in the air before anyone else. Suddenly, she saw the satisfaction of sitting back and watching the people around her. Had Zabini taught her that?
All she knew was that she was beginning to feel something for him. It frightened her. And it was more than his good looks—(oh, yes, he was quite good-looking). It was his detachment, his seeming apathy and extreme control that fascinated her. She had no idea he was so intelligent. He had a quick wit, as well, which constantly kept her on her toes. She never knew exactly what to expect from him.
Then again, she did know what to expect. He would arrive on Monday evenings at the Room of Requirements, indifferent and seemingly empty as always. Then they would begin the lesson, and he would astound her with his insight. He had this cunning ability to cut to the quick of any piece of art that they studied. She would spend a week preparing herself for these discussions, and then, in one plain sentence, he would summarize the entire concept of the work of art, as though he didn't even need her help. He seemed to be an expert at these things—at human nature.
Furthermore, she had learned things about him that were quite disarming. One of these things was the fact that he had actually asked the Sorting Hat to put him into Slytherin. Also, he seemed to hate his father. His father was constantly cheating on his mother, which he found to be detestable. He had an older sister named Noemi, whom he loved dearly, and she was a shoe designer. He, too, thought Professor Snape was a total git, and he abhorred Divination. He loved the scent of lavender, and he had a weakness for the crescent moon. He adored language, greedily devouring definitions and words origins. And it really pissed him off that people mistook his silence for stupidity.
Yes, after only four sessions in the Room of Requirements, she felt like she had known him for years. He opened up to her hesitantly—almost resentfully—and yet, at the same time, he seemed to be aching for companionship.
For Hermione, however, it was becoming a struggle to keep her eyes off of his hands and his hair and his lips. He seemed to be completely clueless about how his appearance affected nearly every girl with whom he came into contact. The more she tried to talk herself out of it, the more she found herself really wanting to break rule number two. And the bastard seemed to know it.
She flipped the page in Gardner's and nearly melted. The Barberini Faun. What a fine piece of Greek Hellenistic sculpture that was. Merlin's ghost—he looked just like Zabini. Well, maybe Zabini was not quite so muscular, but everything else was strikingly similar. The drunken faun lounged on a rock, one arm thrown behind his head. His eyes were closed, a slight grimace on his face as he dreamt. And his legs—she blushed!—were thrown wide open, leaving nothing to the imagination. Well, almost nothing. Apparently, the Greeks had a thing for breaking the phalluses off of sculptures, much like teenagers steal the mascots of rival schools and carry them away as trophies. Mister Barberini Faun had obviously fallen victim to such a robbery. What a pity.
She squirmed in her seat a bit. Damn Zabini. Either he was truly set on winning their bet, or he was painfully shy. In fact, he had completely stopped flirting with her. She had thought this would be a good thing, but now she missed it. She would have paid her salary from Witch Weekly to have him do that ear thing one more time. Damn it. That was rule number three. For a Slytherin, he seemed to be terribly good at following the rules.
Here she was trying to write a romance, and her muse decided to be a gentleman. And it was all her fault! Or maybe he just wasn't interested. Yes, that seemed to be a more likely explanation. She remembered how he had trapped her against the door. She thought about the way the top of her head barely reached his collarbone...
"Hermione!"
She looked up, a bit startled. Ron was standing behind her, looking down over her shoulder at the open book. His face was a bright crimson hue, and a pained expression of shock danced in his eyes.
"Those people are naked!" he exclaimed in a whisper. He put his hand over the Barberini Faun, as though shielding her innocent eyes, and looked around to see if anyone else had noticed the content of her book. "You shouldn't be looking at pictures like that!"
"It's art, Ronald," she replied. She gave him a look of pity and patted him on the shoulder. "What's the matter? Does Mister Greek Sculpture make you feel inferior?"
He glared at her, his face now clearly red from anger. "I'll have you know," he said, "that Mister Greek Sculpture has nothing on a Weasley. In fact—" He lifted his hand and looked again. "—Mister Greek Sculpture seems to be somewhat lacking, if you know what I mean."
"And what a shame it is!" she said with a sigh. She flipped back a page and pointed to the Venus de Milo. "Is that better?"
A very cheeky grin crossed his lips. "Not bad," he said. "What happened to her arms?"
"Think of it as a plus," Hermione whispered. "She doesn't have anything to slap you with if you fondle her."
"And it's always been my lifelong fantasy to fondle a piece of rock," he added sarcastically.
"I don't know," she quipped, looking pensive. "If I'm ever in Munich, the museum guards will probably have to drag me away, kicking and screaming, from Mister Greek Sculpture."
Ron could not help but laugh. Then he straightened up a bit—that old, familiar "wait-a-minute-I'm-a-prefect" look on his face. "Seriously, Hermione," he said, "what's gotten into you? First, it's trashy romance novels, and now it's...smutty arwork."
She shrugged her shoulders. "Your mother seems to think it's normal," she stated matter-of-factly.
His jaw dropped. Then he cleared his throat. "You know," he whispered quietly, "my mother also has seven children."
"Eww, Ronald...please! I don't want to think about it."
"Neither do I," he said, now looking a little pale. "But you might want to consider that fact before you start taking her advice on...these things."
She put her flaming head in her hands and laughed joyously. She had forgotten how amusing Ron could be when he wasn't acting like a complete jerk. And it felt so good to laugh.
She suddenly looked up, realising that Ron had come in alone. "Where's Harry?" she asked, a more serious expression on her face.
Ron stopped eating and played with his food, which was highly uncharacteristic of him. "I don't know," he muttered, shrugging. "Probably chasing after Professor Pernicia."
"What?!"
"Even I am starting to worry about him," Ron said. He looked at her as though begging for a voice of reason. "He's almost worse than Lavender and Parvati put together!"
"What are you talking about?" she pleaded.
"He's gone round the bend over Divination," Ron explained quietly. "Professor Pernicia claims that she can get in touch with Sirius. And you wouldn't believe some of the things she's come up with."
"Like what?"
"Well, for one thing, she knows details about Grimmauld Place. She knew about the portrait of Sirius' mother, and the family tree, and Kreacher. She claims that Sirius' spirit is still there."
"What a load of shite," Hermione asserted. "Really, where do these crazy fortune-tellers get off, manipulating people like that in their time of grief?" She thought for a minute. "Anyone could know about Grimmauld Place, Ron. The Blacks were very influential. I wouldn't be surprised if Pernicia used to give Mrs Black private readings."
"I don't know..."
"What else?"
"She knows what happened," he said. "She knows about the veil."
"That's not so unusual. She works for Dumbledore, right? And besides, she's teaching Harry Occlumency."
"Well, it's all becoming very tedious," he announced. "I'm sick of it. Harry spent most of the Christmas holidays practising Divination. Trying to make contact with the dead. It's really starting to freak me out. We went to Diagon Alley, and he actually bought a crystal ball!"
"Ron," she said, her voice calm and soothing, "Harry's dealing with so much right now. He's lost the only thing like a real living relative that he had left. We have to be patient with him."
"And I don't like the way he talked to you, either," Ron spat. "In fact, I wanted to talk to you about it. But you just disappeared! What happened to you before Christmas?"
"Oh, just stress," she said, fidgeting slightly. "I think I've bitten off more than I can chew."
His eyes narrowed, assessing her. "But you have time to read romance novels?" He looked away. "And what is going on with you and that Slytherin?"
"Nothing!" she yelled. A few people looked at her oddly. "Nothing. Harry was just imagining things."
"Who is he, anyway?" Ron continued. "I don't even know him."
"Neither do I," she lied. She couldn't look Ron in the eye. "I don't even know what Harry was talking about."
There was an awkward silence. She tried to convince herself that she had to lie to him. She was forced to lie to everyone lately, and she hated it.
"Listen," he said at last. "We haven't been to see Hagrid in ages. Why don't you come with me tonight? We'll go try to choke down some of his baking, or something. Get the scoop on Grawp. What do you say?"
"That sounds good," she said, thinking she could definitely use a break. Then she remembered it was Monday. "No, wait! I can't. I'm really sorry, Ron."
"Why not?" he begged. "Please, Hermione. Harry's got his Occlumency tonight. I'm going to go crazy if I have to sit around watching Dean and Ginny get it on in the common room."
"Get it on?"
"You know what I mean. Crikey, they could at least find an empty classroom or something. I think they do it just to watch my blood pressure go up."
She chuckled. Poor Ron.
"Come on, Hermione. Please?"
"I told you, I can't. There's something I have to do."
"What?"
Great. Here comes another lie, she thought. She tried to think of a discreet way to phrase it, so that she wasn't necessarily lying. "I promised to help someone," she said.
"Who?"
Damn Ron and his questions. "Just...someone who needed my help."
"A Gryffindor?" he probed, one eyebrow arched.
There was no getting out of it now. She would have to lie. "Yes," she said. "A third-year. You don't know her."
He did not look satisfied, but he didn't ask any more questions. She let out a sigh of relief.
"Well," he said, getting up to leave, "have fun in Potions."
She nodded and watched him go. She was lying to everyone recently. She was even lying to herself.
It was Monday evening, 7:15pm. Blaise's new favourite day and time of the week. He was already in the Room of Requirements, waiting on her. As usual, she would arrive promptly at 7:30. They would sit back in their armchairs—that small table, now equipped with a coffeemaker, separating them—and they would talk for almost two hours about art and religion and life in general. For six years, there had been no one with whom he could talk about these things, and now his cup was overflowing. Now he could not seem to shut up.
Their discussions went beyond scholarly and philosophical musings. Now he knew all kinds of interesting tidbits about Hermione Granger. For example, she lamented the Gryffindor colors because she thought she was too pale to wear red. Like him, she also despised giggling girls and could pinch a Knut like nobody's business. She had a somewhat dry sense of humour, not unlike his own, and she loved ice cream, particularly chocolate mint. She didn't say it outright, but she worried a lot about Potter. And sometimes she was actually insecure about her intelligence.
He now knew all of these things, and the more he found out, the more he wanted to know. He had never suspected that beneath the bossy know-it-all and the pile of fuzzy hair there was an actual human being. He was beginning to like her much more than he should, and it made him so nervous. As a member of Slytherin House, he had survived years of torture and degradation, but he would never live it down if they knew he wanted to actually date a Gryffindor.
Therefore, he had stopped flirting with her and had begun to revel in their strange friendship. He was afraid that continuing to flirt would give her the wrong idea. But, wait a minute! Hadn't his original plan been to simply get into her knickers—to use her as he had been used? He cursed himself for opening up, and yet he could not stop doing it. He had never had a real friend before. What was she doing to him? He hated to admit it, but he had lost control of the situation. He had run out of ammunition, and it didn't bother him half as much as it should have. Still, he couldn't let her know it.
His heart leapt as the door opened. "Hey, Zabini!" she called. "I'm sorry I'm a few minutes late. Ron is getting a little too curious for his own good."
She locked the door and walked over to her usual chair, sitting down heavily. "What's on the agenda for tonight?" she asked.
His heart was racing. She had absolutely no idea that he had been waiting all week for this moment. The lilting sound of her voice, the completely unladylike way she slouched back in her chair with her legs slightly parted, her hair all aglow in the light of the slide projector. He was nearly beside himself with ecstasy. His face, as usual, was completely void of expression.
"I'm sick and tired of architecture and Pietàs," he told her plainly. "Let's do some Painting."
"Got a brush?" she quipped weakly.
Oh, if he did, her body would be the perfect canvas. He put the brakes on that train of thought right there.
"Ha, ha," he answered sarcastically, pouring himself another cup of coffee. "Is Botticelli all right with you?"
"Perfetto," she replied. She also seemed to be learning some Italian in her spare time. Although between studying, writing romantic fiction, and tutoring him in Muggle Studies, he couldn't figure out how she had any spare time. Nevertheless, he was impressed.
"Allora, ci cominciamo," he said with a tiny grin. Let's begin.
"Sandro Botticelli. First slide, please," she commanded the slide projector.
Madonna of the Magnificat flashed upon the screen. He instantly fell in love with Botticelli. This was no Late Gothic Madonna Enthroned. No, this woman was beautiful. Granger rambled on about the writing in the book and the pomegranate symbolising Jesus'suffering. He was more interested in the fact that these people portrayed on the screen in front of him seemed to be real. Their movements were subtle, gentle, majestic. And Mary looked like Noemi.
"Zabini?" Granger's voice called to him.
Oops. She had caught him not paying attention.
"She looks like my sister, Noemi," he said.
"Your sister looks like that?" she asked.
"Well, almost. Noemi has black hair, of course."
"Blimey, Zabini, is everyone in your family beautiful?"
Whoa. He could not believe she had just said that. And from the horrified glow on her cheeks, she couldn't believe it, either. He just stared at her, wondering what he should say. His veins felt like they were crawling in a rush of heated blood.
"I mean," she went on, fumbling a bit for words, "you're not so bad-looking yourself." He looked away. "Come on, Zabini. Surely you know that."
"Neither are you, Granger," he said softly, "if the truth be told."
"Anyway," she continued quickly, "we should go on. Are you comfortable with this one?"
He wasn't comfortable at all. He drained his coffee cup and refilled it. There was no way he would make it through tonight's session in his current frame of mind. "Yes. Madonna of the Magnificat," he repeated. "Andiamo." Let's go.
On they went through a maze of very similar paintings. He couldn't concentrate on anything she was saying. All he could think about was her gently parted knees and her firm, professor-like voice. It was driving him to insanity. He almost wanted to grab his bag and run from the room. How much longer could he take this?
"Zabini, are you okay?"
He looked over to find her staring at him curiously, one of her eyebrows arched. He wanted to grab her and kiss the living daylights out of her. On the mouth. What was happening to him?
"You're really quiet tonight," she commented, her voice hushed.
"I'm always quiet," he spat back, sounding much more irritable than he meant to sound.
"Not lately," she replied. "You've been talking my ears off recently. Is something wrong?"
Is something wrong? Yes, as a matter of fact. My brain is mush. My head is spinning. I'm losing my mind, and it's all your fault, you little wench. Why the hell did I ever put my hands on your bloody story?
"I'm fine," he said nonchalantly. "I have a headache. That's all."
"How many cups of coffee have you had?"
"I don't know. Five or six. In the past hour."
"Damn, Zabini! It's a wonder the entire room isn't shaking!"
Wasn't it? He knew he was, and it had nothing to do with caffeine.
"Maybe we should stop for tonight. We can meet this weekend and pick up where we left off."
"NO!" he exclaimed. Great Merlin. What the hell was that? Zabinis did not make exclamations of any sort. He lowered his voice. "I'm fine. Let's just go on."
On they went. Adoration of the Magi. Coronation of the Virgin. He tried not to let on that he was now actually squirming in his chair. The Return of Judith. Oh, no. Not Judith again. Now Granger was all excited, and she was ranting and raving once again about this "heroine" who had lopped off some poor man's head. Her voice grew crisper, more musical, until he thought his heart would burst and fill his lungs with blood.
Then came the famous Birth of Venus. He was about to crack. He was just trying to figure out how on earth Granger could compare this naked goddess to the Virgin Mary when she stopped talking abruptly. She started...giggling? He had never heard her giggle before. He almost pulled a muscle in his neck as he turned his head to her to see what all the fuss was about.
"What's so funny?" he demanded.
She pointed at the screen. "The man and woman on the left," she commented quietly. She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. His name is Zephyr, and the woman is his nymph."
"What about them?"
She hesitated a moment and then looked over at him, smirking. "They kind of look like us."
He looked at the screen again. Sure enough, he could see what she meant. Zephyr had a long, well-defined body and curly, dark hair. His nymph had Granger's bright eyes and her wild, honey-coloured hair. Zephyr's skin was dark and smooth; the nymph's flesh was porcelain white. The nymph's body was twisted all around Zephyr. Other than their skin tones, it was impossible to tell where one body began and the other one ended.
"Basta!" he cried, jumping out of his chair. Enough. He was breaking. "I'm sorry, Granger. I have to go."
"Okay," she said, gathering her bag. "We did pretty good. We almost made our way through Botticelli."
He stared at her as she rose from her chair. She was now looking at him as though she was highly concerned. She approached him, one of her hands reaching out to him. "Are you sure you're okay?"
He backed away. If she touched him—if she lay one fingertip anywhere on his body—he would simply lose his grip on reality. "Really, I'm fine," he replied. "I'm sorry I wasn't more...attentive...tonight."
She shrugged and crossed her arms. "We all have our off days, Zabini."
"Right," he said, backing away towards the door.
"So, I'll see you next week?"
"Right. Next week."
By Thursday night, Hermione was losing it once again. She tried to write, but she couldn't think of anything to say. Then she tried to study. Her efforts were futile, to say the least. She tried to knit hats. Her hands shook so badly that they ended up all crooked. She finally gave up and went to her dormitory. Lavender and Parvati were not there, thank goodness. She lay back on her bed and thought about Zabini.
He was acting really weird. What was wrong with him? Other than the fact, of course, that he was stubbornly shy, possessed by demons, and obviously had a split personality? She groaned loudly, not caring who heard her. On Monday night, he had seemed so distant, so distracted. He probably just wanted to make an excuse to leave so he could go shag his virgin-of-the-month. She hated herself for wanting him.
Merlin, did she want him, though. In fact, she was this close to making a complete fool out of herself and taking matters into her own hands. What would she owe him if she broke rule number two? She added it up. Five points to Slytherin, a week's worth of Arithmancy homework, Malfoy's wand snapped in half, and an hour of free reign in the Astronomy Tower. Well, actually, they had just decided on the points. It didn't matter. It was all worth it.
She took out Gardner's and flipped to the Barberini Faun. She licked her lips. She couldn't take it. She wanted to...she wanted to...
She didn't have time to process her feelings any further. Ginny Weasley burst through the door, her face flushed and a huge, goofy grin all over her lips. "Oh...my...God," she said, racing to Hermione's side. She threw down an issue of Witch Weekly and began flipping through it. "You must read this," Ginny said.
Ginny found the page she was looking for and thrust the magazine at Hermione. Still shaking slightly, her stomach twisting into knots, Hermione looked down at the dog-eared page. "Intimate Encounters of a Darker Nature" by Rowena Ravvish. Her competition piece. In print for all the world to read. Holy shite. Her face burned. She was trembling.
"I don't know who this Rowena Ravvish person is," Ginny said, wiggling her eyebrows, "but she can write like nobody's business. If they keep printing her stories, I'm not going to need Dean anymore."
Hermione said nothing. She read the opening paragraph, remembering the exact moment she had written it. She frowned. She really had been an amateur. She didn't know how she had won. She was a much better writer now, she thought.
"It's odd," Ginny said. "The hero kind of reminds me of...Victor Krum."
Did she know? She couldn't know, could she?
"Dark, Russian..." Ginny went on. "And he's so unbelievably sexy! When I read it, I immediately thought of you. You simply must read it."
Hermione threw the magazine down. This was it. No more lying. She had reached her limit. She looked Ginny straight in the eye. "I don't have to read it, Ginny," she whispered. "I wrote it."
Ginny's jaw dropped. "No. Way."
Hermione nodded her head in tiny, stilted movements. "Ginny," she said, "can you keep a secret?"
Ginny smirked. "Depends on the secret."
"You have to swear."
"Okay, okay, I swear. I swear on my broomstick. Spill it."
Hermione reached down and dug in her bag for the letter she had gotten from Witch Weekly. She unfolded it and handed it to Ginny, who looked like she might topple off the bed at any minute. Ginny took the letter and began to read aloud:
Dear Miss Ravvish,
We are proud to enclose your 100 Galleon prize money for your competition entry, "Intimate Encounters of a Darker Nature." As outlined in the competition rules, this story is now the property of Witch Weekly and its subsidiaries, in conjunction with the Diagon Venus literary society. It will be published in the second January issue of Witch Weekly, and may not be otherwise reproduced...blah, blah, blah...
As the winner of the competition, you are entitled to a six-month contract for a romance column consisting of six entries between 8,000 and 12,000 words each. Payment for each entry is 200 Galleons, and will be made in full upon completion of the sixth entry. If you wish to comply with the enclosed contract, please sign and date it and return it with your first submission by 15 January...blah, blah, blah...
"I can't believe it!" Ginny screamed. "You cunning little wench!" She got up and started pacing around the room. "You're famous!" she cried out. "Bloody hell, you're rich!"
"No, Ginny," Hermione responded, trying her best to remain calm. "Rowena Ravvish is famous. And I won't be rich for another six months."
"But you are Rowena Ravvish!" Ginny cried in glee, jumping up and down. "And what an awesome penname!"
"Shhh!!" Hermione demanded. "No one knows about this, okay?" (That was almost true.) "And I want to keep it that way."
"So this was the independent study, huh?" Ginny asked, trying to compose herself. "Hermione Jane Granger...romance columnist!"
Hermione had to smile, despite herself. A million thoughts and questions were racing through her mind, but one rose to the surface above all the others. "Do you think anyone else will notice?"
"Notice what?"
"You know...that the hero is Victor."
"Nah," Ginny assured her, making a dismissive gesture with her hand. "It's too vague. I wouldn't have known, if you hadn't told me all about it. Although..." Ginny paused and gave Hermione a devilish grin. "You obviously didn't tell me everything, did you?"
Hermione blushed feverishly. "Actually, Ginny, I made most of it up."
Ginny giggled and returned to the bed, sitting down heavily. "Well," she said, "you have a very vivid imagination."
Hermione shrugged. "That's a writer's number one tool," she said. "Though I must admit, I'm finding that the series is a bit trickier to write."
"Lost your muse?" Ginny retorted, grinning. "Looking for a one-way stop to Bulgaria on the Floo Network?" Again, her eyebrows danced up and down suggestively.
Hermione chuckled. She had definitely told Ginny too much already. Besides, Zabini was her new secret—her new treasure. And she liked it that way.
"So," Ginny probed ruthlessly, "how much of it did you make up?"
"Everything but the kiss," Hermione admitted, fiddling with her robes. She wondered why she suddenly felt a bit ashamed of that fact.
"That's it?" Ginny asked, blushing. "You mean, he never even copped a feel?"
"Copped a feel?" Hermione repeated.
"You know...no hand up the shirt?...Nothing?"
Hermione shuddered. That question made her think about Zabini's long, olive-coloured fingers. "Nothing," she whispered. "He was a perfect gentleman."
Ginny suddenly looked a little uneasy. "Oh," she said. "Damn. I kind of feel like a slut, then."
Hermione glanced at Ginny suspiciously. She had a feeling she was about to get too much information. But she was suddenly curious, as well. She needed details for her column, and she certainly wasn't getting very far in that aspect. "You don't mean you've—"
"Sadly, yes," Ginny answered with a sigh.
"Why, you little devil," Hermione whispered. "Dean?" She tried to imagine it. Then she decided she didn't want to imagine it. But, then again, she kind of did.
"No," Ginny said. "I don't think you know him. It was during that week that Dean and I were broken up."
"What?!"
"Hermione, Dean wouldn't even kiss me at that point. I guess he was afraid that Ron would hurl him through a goal post or something. Well, I'd had enough. And it was after a Quidditch game. You know...the first game against Slytherin. I don't know why, but nearly knocking people dead really turns me on."
"I can't believe you're telling me this."
"You're right. I'm sorry."
"No! " Hermione cried. Then, in a softer voice, she added, "
Ginny got that mischievous look in her eyes again. "He really didn't have that much choice in the matter. I don't know what came over me. I had just come back inside, and I saw him standing there, looking all lost and defenseless, and I just took it."
"You what? I mean, not right there in the hall?"
"No, of course not. I shoved him into a broom closet." She started giggling. "Poor little boy. I don't think he even realised what was happening until I ripped his robe off of him."
"You WHAT?!"
"Yeah, he was pretty shocked for a minute. But once he figured it out, he didn't seem to mind. Anyway, that was it."
Hermione was stunned. Speechless. And somewhat intrigued. She idly wondered if that whole surprise-attack thing would work on Zabini. But it didn't seem very romantic. Of course, she didn't tell Ginny that. She just sat there fidgeting. "Well..."
"Do you think I'm horrible?" Ginny asked tentatively.
"No, Ginny," she said with a sigh, secretly somewhat jealous of her, "I don't think you're horrible." Ginny looked relieved, and Hermione went on, "In fact, I asked your mother to send me some romance novels about a month ago, and she said she thought it was perfectly normal."
"Mum said that?" Ginny appeared to be absolutely aghast.
"Believe it or not," Hermione replied.
"Well."
"Indeed."
"So, anyway..."
"Yep."
"Okay."
They were quickly running out of one-word sentiments. Ginny looked ashamed. Hermione wanted to be anywhere else. Actually, there was one place she wanted to be above all others. She looked down at her clock. "Nine-twenty," she said aloud, just to have something to say.
"Still early," Ginny replied.
"Yeah. I think I'll go to the library. I'm working on Part II now."
"Oooh," said Ginny. "Do I get special privileges? I mean, as the long-time friend of our rising romance author, can I be the first to read Part I?"
Hermione smiled. "Too late," she said. "I owled Part I over Christmas." It was her turn to look mischievous. "You'll just have to wait, like everyone else.... And it's really good, too."
"Please!" Ginny begged. "Tell me something about it."
"Okay, I'll tell you one thing," Hermione replied. "There's this really interesting scene involving a filing cabinet."
Ginny squeaked. "Where do you get this stuff?"
"Imagination," Hermione replied simply, in a tone of voice to rival Zabini's. She packed her bag and headed for the door, Ginny not far behind. "Remember...not a word, okay?"
"My lips are sealed," Ginny answered.
Ginny was no Lavender or Parvati. She knew she could trust her. And it felt so wonderful to finally tell someone!
She raced through the common room, through the portrait hole, down the corridor. She still had the Barberini Faun on her mind, and she wasn't stopping until she had him spread out on that big screen in front of her, larger than life and larger than all her fantasies.
Her conversation with Ginny had done nothing but further fuel her raging hormones. She thought about Zabini, about rule number two, about a broom closet, about a surprise attack.
Her feet moved even faster beneath her.
She thought about Botticelli's Birth of Venus. About Zephyr and his nymph, their bodies tangling together like serpents. Dark skin on pale-white skin. Hair mingling. Eyes wide open and alert. Intrigued. Enraptured.
Her body ached.
She thought about Judith, the seductress. Holofernes, helpless. Zabini, against a wall. And she had him trapped there. The snake, caught in the mouth of a lion. The tiger tamed.
Her blood raced.
She thought about Michelangelo's Slaves, struggling in their marble prisons. Bodies writhing and twisting. Helplessly. Hopelessly. Fighting to free themselves. Fighting for release. Squirming, motionlessly. Aching and moaning, with no sign of relief in sight.
Aching. Relief. Release.
She paced in front of the blank stretch of wall. If she had ever needed anything in her life, she needed this right now. She needed a screen. A slide projector. Greek Hellenistic sculpture. And a couch—the Roman kind, that was more like a bed. She needed it now.
The door presented itself politely. She tossed it open, entered the room, dropped her bag. Slammed the door. Locked it. Looked up. There he was.
Mister Greek Sculpture. The Barberini Faun. Hair tousled. Chest wide and open. Legs splayed. Phallus unfortunately missing. She chuckled.
She moved to the couch and lay down, staring. She got comfortable.
In her mind, the sculpture was Zabini. Asleep and defenseless. She wanted to pounce. To take him by surprise. She could. She would.
"Give me everything you've got!" she demanded of the slide projector. "The Dying Gaul. The Laocoön group. Hermes. Athena. Hell, give me Venus, too. Just make it Greek and keep it coming!"
The slide projector obeyed. The images began to flash, one right after another. People twisting. Struggling. Sleeping. Weeping. Bathing. Dying. Living.
The buzz of the slide projector was maddening—steady, relentless. A rattle and hum, like something between the growl of a lion and the hiss of a snake.
Bees buzzing. Blossoms opening. Rain pattering. A crescent moon hanging. An old man moaning. A wolf howling. Bacchantes dancing. Wine dripping.
She felt it all, like lightning. She reached down. She felt her own flesh, deliciously hot and wet. Venus. She was Venus.
"Faster!" she cried.
The images flashed. Clicked. Moved. A crippled old woman became a sleeping Cupid. A man and his sons fought a serpent. A woman's robes hung at her hips. A drunken satyr attacked a resisting nymph. A man sliced his own throat to prevent defeat at the hand of his enemy. A god held a child, dangling grapes before him. Teasingly. Tauntingly.
Ah, all of humanity! All right in front of her! And only one thought in her mind.... Only one word on her tongue!
"BLAISE!!"
She thrashed about helplessly. She thought she might suffocate.
"Stop," she whimpered.
The images stopped. A dead halt. The Barberini Faun.
She lay there, panting. Fighting for precious air and for her own sanity. Her lips were dry. Her hair was damp. She shook from head to toe.
When she could stand, she went for the door. She grabbed her bag and exited the room, never looking back.
Blaise just sat there. Fully clothed. Head in his hands. He had been asleep when she came in. He wished he had stayed that way. But no one could have slept through that.
She said my name.
He had come in to study. He had not bothered to lock the door. He had pushed a chair to the very back of the room, wanting to look at things from a different perspective. Wanting to get a different view. And did he ever.
She said my name.
He had fallen asleep, lulled into a dream state by the hum of the slide projector. He had awoken, helplessly trapped in the whole situation. He had tried not to watch. He had really, really tried not to look.
She. Said. My. Name.
He had the perfect ammunition. He would never, ever use it.
¹ Direct quote from Word Origins and Their Romantic Meanings by Wilfred Funk, Litt.D. Funk & Wagnalls: New York, 1950. My favourite book on etymology.
More A/N:
Hehehe. What is it about (ahem!) self-gratification that turns people off? Studies show that three-quarters of the human race do it. Personally, I think the other quarter is lying about it.
Oh, well, I tried to make it as tasteful as possible. I really just wanted to torment Blaise. I'm determined to make him crack.
And yes, I know that Ginny and Hermione were a little too giggly, and that this chapter was a little too choppy near the end. Forgive me.
I have put links to fairly good pics of the Barberini Faun and Birth of Venus on my bio page, for anyone who would like to look at these fine pieces of art.
To my lovely reviewers, for whom carpel-tunnel syndrome is all worthwhile. This is the part where I thank you and then divulge some of my secrets:
hoofservant: Ah, yes, my dear. Bouncing and wiggling will also get you everywhere. (Or at least, if nothing else, it makes me update more quickly.) I'm so happy to tease you. For me, writing is like sex. No, it's better than sex. Because I get to pin you, the reader, down. I get to torment you with my typing fingers. And if I'm REALLY lucky, I get to hear you beg. Believe me, however, when I say that it is I who is at your mercy. Grazie mille.
Zaralya: You're right. Blaise does not come from a picture-perfect family. Your review lets me know that I am doing my job. There is definitely a reason why he is so cold, so emotionless. A million thanks for reading and reviewing!
trova: It's funny, isn't it?... How these little things we learn in school keep popping up again and again in the most unexpected places? I urge you to embrace your education. Once it's over, you'll be begging to go back. Thank you for continuing to read and review!
Kurayami Pansa: Yeah. Insecure-In-An-Obsessive-Kind-Of-Way! is more Draco's style, I think. Blaise is much too perceptive for that. But how do you like Tormented-By-Watching-Hermione-Get-Off!Blaise? Poor, poor little boy. Hehehe. And thanks for the welcome back! You're wonderful!
Dixi: I can't believe you would think of my update as a reward! I'm so flattered! Out of curiosity, what was your seminar paper about? Oh, and Massimo is much more than a used car salesman. You'll find out in a few chapters. My ultimate goal here is to link Harry Potter with The Godfather. Those are my two favourite things on earth!
Procella Nox-noctis: 'Cella, thank you SO MUCH for linking my fic! I am horribly embarrassed to admit that I couldn't figure out how to do it myself. Sorry to disappoint you, but rule number two will be carefully danced around for awhile longer. I can promise it will be worth the wait, though! Thanks again!
Louise: Thank you! Is this enough tension for you? Ah, Noemi...the feminist, the independent woman. I just love her. God, I'm lucky to have reviewers like you!
flatfoot-92: You're still here! I thought I had lost you! Let me emphasize that I certainly did not want to offend anyone. I was raised in a Baptist church, but you must admit that Christian philosophy is not so nice to women. (Ahem!—Paul) I can't help but let my own opinions shine through. And I'm very happy that you are still able to enjoy my fic. Thank you for your review!
imogenhm: Thank you! Here's more!
Pallas Athena1: Ti amo, dolcezza mia. This you know. And you're right! Hermione is starting to realise her power. Judith is the very basis of this story, and I am humbly pleased to have you acknowledge that. (In fact, Judith has more to do with this story than meets the eye. I'm sure you have it figured out.) I BOW DOWN TO YOU FOR UPDATING GREY. I'm on a different end of the spectrum from you, but I have a feeling we'll meet in the same place. Maybe. Ti amo.
GemStew: Oh my god, I got a "DARLING!" Thank you for that! I can't tell you on here what I would do with a Blaise Zabini if I had one. I would surely be banned. You get the picture.
Aruca: What a fantastic compliment! If I can make you smirk, I've done my job. And I know just how you feel. I read Italian books (I especially love Tre Metri Sopra il Cielo), but writing in Italian is quite a different story! Thanks again!
tweetygurl88: Applause for moi? Thank you!
Donroth: Yes, Blaise is quite addictive! (Granted, he's still no Lucius, though! Pallas is really doing a number on my brain. And please never talk about Lucius tied to a bed under the Imperius Curse again. It makes me unable to sleep at night. Mmmm.) Anyway, I had you drooling and fainting? Mission accomplished!
conquistador: Thanks for checking it out! Ah yes, the power play. It's a constant tug of war. God, I love Zabini.
HogwartzBoizRHottiez: Thanks! In my mind, Blaise kind of looks like a cross between Peter Facinelli and Shia LaBeouf... Hope you like this chapter!
Aurora Hyperion: Thanks so much! Engrossing? Wow! Ah, this human condition we all share! It's a beautiful thing.