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: This chapter is dedicated to gehenna79. She heard it first, though I somehow doubt many of the details were coherent at the time. Thanks for crawling out of lurkdom, gehenna.
Diagon Venus
Chapter 8 – Some Sign of Pursuit
Disregard my nervousness
Please ignore my vacant stares
It's just what I've been through
It's nothing like where I'm going to
Give me some sign of pursuit, a promise.
--Violent Femmes
Hermione awoke later than usual the next morning, completely rejuvenated. It was the best night of sleep she had had in ages. She stretched and yawned triumphantly and jumped out of bed in one cheeky little bounce. She actually skipped over to her mirror, humming to herself quite heartily. She caught her reflection and grinned, as she found someone completely different looking back at her.
Rowena Ravvish.
Wicked, naughty vixen and romance-columnist-extraordinaire.
Okay, so she still looked like plain old Hermione Granger. But she felt like a goddess. And it was Friday, that beautiful, blessed day of the week named after the goddess of love herself. Venerdi. Ah, yes. She was invincible. Unstoppable.
Warn the town. The beast is loose.
When she arrived at breakfast, Harry and Ron were having a particularly heated conversation about Quidditch moves. Their match against Ravenclaw was the next day, and she was glad. Although she wasn't exactly a die-hard fan of the game, at least Quidditch caused Harry to put his crystal ball to the back of his mind. From the way he was talking, he also seemed to be hell-bent and determined to get one over on Cho. Dean Thomas kept trying to throw in comments about soccer strategies. This made Ginny roll her eyes and Ron look even more homicidal than ever towards his fellow sixth-year.
"Morning!" Ginny greeted her as Hermione scooted onto the bench with that perpetually goofy grin on her face. "What are you so happy about?"
"It's just such a lovely day!" Hermione exclaimed, exhaling loudly and stretching once again. She chanced a glimpse at Zabini, who, as usual, was buried in a book. "Don't you think?"
Ginny looked up at the ceiling, which was a particularly nasty shade of grey. "It's raining, Hermione," she replied bluntly. "And it's about twenty degrees below zero out there. And I have Care of Magical Creatures this morning. I'm trying my best, I swear, but lovely just isn't the word I have in mind right now."
There was no other way to describe it, though. It was lovely. She was strangely elated, liberated. She walked to Potions with light, bouncy little steps, whistling every Roy Orbison song she had ever heard in her childhood. (Her father loved Roy.) People looked at her oddly. She grinned and waved at them, which made them look at her even more oddly. She vaguely wondered how many of them had read her column in Witch Weekly. Not enough, apparently, or they might have done as she had done the previous night. And then they would have been smiling as well.
As she passed a classroom on the first floor, she saw Dennis Creevey and a group of his buddies congregating around a handful of dungbombs. Damn. Just when she was in such a good mood, she was forced to accept some responsibility. She really didn't feel like a prefect at the moment. Nonetheless, she skipped over to them, trying to look authoritative but unable to stop smirking.
"Dennis," she cooed, ruffling his hair as though he was a toddler, "What have you got there?"
He fought back a strangled gulp, an expression across his face that was somewhere between fear at being caught and shock at her demeanor. "N-nothing?" he replied weakly.
"Dennis, do I look like I was born yesterday?" she grilled him, smiling all the while. "Let's see, then."
He held out his hand reluctantly.
"Just as I thought," she said. "Dungbombs. So, what is it? Trying to get out of an exam? Or are you just bored?"
"The latter," he responded with a sigh.
"I see." She leaned even closer and continued in a very soft voice, "Well, be a good boy. If you must set them off, then please do it in the greenhouse or the boys' bathroom. Then it's Ron's problem instead of mine." She winked. "Got it?"
But she didn't wait around to catch his reaction. She continued merrily on her way. Ah, what a lovely day! She plopped down beside Harry in Potions, and Snape was upon her almost immediately. He looked so stern and menacing that she almost laughed out loud at him. What an idiot! He really needed to get laid.
"You're late, Miss Granger. And what are you smirking about?" he asked suspiciously.
"I don't know," she exclaimed, flinging her arms out in front of her. "I'm just so happy today!"
"Really?" he replied. His arms were crossed firmly, and he stared down at her with barely hidden contempt. "Then you must be up to something. Five points from Gryffindor."
"Ahhh, Severus," she purred, leaning forward over her cauldron, "let's make it an even ten, shall we?"
Harry's jaw dropped. Snape's initial shock quickly morphed into vehemence. "Let's make it twenty," he spat back, and now he was the one leaning closer. His voice was quieter. "And one more outburst like that, Hermione, and you'll have detention as well." He spun around and strode off towards his pet Slytherins.
She giggled, but Harry looked furious. "Twenty points?!" he whispered harshly. "Hermione, what the bloody hell is wrong with you?"
"Oh, spare me," she answered, merrily crushing her scarab beetles. "It was worth it just to see the look on his face. Besides, I'll get the points back for us in Arithmancy." She gave him a naughty little grin. "Merlin, Harry, you need to relax!"
Harry looked torn between hexing her and checking her for signs of fever. "Relax?!" he cried under his breath. "You're telling me to relax?"
She did not reply. Instead, she sighed heavily and glanced over at Zabini. He was studying her with a suspicious look on his face, and he jumped slightly when she caught him. She smiled, batted her eyelashes, and gave him an innocent little wave. His eyes grew painfully wide for a moment, and then he darted back around in his seat, his face flushing. She giggled again. Harry ignored her completely. But that was okay—by now, in fact, she was used to it.
The lesson flew by in a haze. She bottled a vial of perfectly brewed Restlessness Potion and, much to Snape's dismay, presented it to him with another smile and a wink. She walked back to her desk past Zabini, who seemed to be highly uncomfortable for some reason. Wonderful! She would take advantage of that.
She cornered him in the corridor after class—not giving a damn who might see them—and backed him up against a wall. He said nothing. He tried his best to look indifferent, but there was a hunted look about his dark blue eyes, as though he had just been caught stealing from Snape's personal supply cabinet. His eyes darted around, looking anywhere but at her face, which was quickly inching closer to him. "Granger," he whispered, "What are you—"
She grabbed him by his necktie, cutting him off, but she still did not say anything. Merlin, was he squirming? Huh! It kind of suited him. She pulled him down until their noses were nearly touching, just looking at him, drinking in the cornered look in his eyes. He shuddered slightly, and then he tried to regain his composure. Of course, that was difficult to do while she had such a firm hold on an object that was wrapped around his windpipe. Ohhh, she could have stayed in this exact position all day long. Too bad she had to go to Charms.
"Granger, I—"
"Shut it, Zabini," she commanded. She barely recognised her own voice, so husky and forceful. "You know," she said, tilting her head to the side to get a better view of his nervous features, "you have wonderful lips."
"Er, thank you?" he whispered, his eyes going at once to her own lips, only inches away.
"I can't help but wonder," she continued, not knowing where this was coming from, "what you could do with them."
Bloody hell! Did he just...grunt? Or was that a whimper?
"It's too bad about rule number two," she went on recklessly. "Me and my stupid rules. This doesn't count, does it? I mean I'm really not actually touching you...just your necktie. Hmm. You look...pale. What's the matter?"
"You're choking me, Granger," he answered listlessly.
"That's funny. That wasn't my intention at all."
"I don't care what your intentions might be," he whispered. "I can't breathe."
"Yet you can talk."
"Strange, isn't it?"
"Indeed."
She grabbed his tie even more tightly and brought his ear down to her lips. That sweet, golden brown jaw line was right there—her mouth so tauntingly close to it. His hair had that gorgeous, sweet smell of wet maple leaves that she adored so much. Her lips found his earlobe but did not touch it. She secretly wanted to bite down on that soft, tender piece of flesh—she almost wanted to draw blood—but she would not allow herself to even brush her lips against it. Instead, she allowed herself to whisper to him—
"This is a little something that I like to call...revenge." She put her tongue against the roof of her mouth and rolled it while she exhaled softly. Ha! It had taken her a week to master that skill. It made a soft, fluttery sound against his ear like the buzz of a cicada. She felt him jerk, and she pulled her head back, triumphantly noting the goose bumps across the dark skin of his neck.
"Don't you have class or something?" he said at last.
"Oh, that's right!" she exclaimed suddenly, dropping her hold on his tie. Oddly enough, his face stayed exactly where it was. She giggled again, watching him cringe at the sound. "I should go."
And she left him standing there, looking quite perplexed.
The day went on in much the same way. Sweet glory! It was empowering to not give a damn about anything. She now understood why Zabini lived his whole life that way—cold and apathetic and completely detached. To master one's own insecurities, it seemed, was to be in control of everyone else.
In Charms, she ruthlessly scribbled the smuttiest fiction she had ever written, right in front of Ron, who read one or two sentences and promptly scooted his chair as far away from her as possible. In Arithmancy, she brazenly smirked at Zabini, who tried (and failed) to properly ignore her. In Ancient Runes, she won back the twenty points that Snape had taken when she went to the blackboard and solved one of Professor Coda's trickiest hieroglyphs yet. But she didn't stop there.
"Professor," she insisted, "I have a question about a very unusual hieroglyph. I found it in an old book. May I get your opinion?"
"Of course, Miss Granger," Professor Coda replied, still beaming at her over her code-breaking skills.
Hermione took her time, omitting no details, as she innocently drew a very large rendering of a hieroglyph that she knew to represent the term cunnilingus.
"That will do, Miss Granger!" Professor Coda interrupted, just before she was able to add the final flourishes. The Professor immediately cleared the blackboard with one wave of her wand before any of the other students had a chance to sketch the symbol. She then cleared her throat, blushing slightly, and added, "I don't expect you will encounter that one on your N.E.W.T.s. Please see me in private if you are still especially curious."
Hermione shrugged and returned to her seat. She did not, of course, have any intention of seeing Professor Coda after class.
Sweet indifference! The world was at her mercy! Why had she never had the gall to do any of this before? She even noticed a few Ravenclaw boys from her Ancient Runes class giving her quite suggestive glimpses on her way to dinner. (They must have figured out what the hieroglyph symbolised.) She took advantage of the sudden attention, shaking her hips in a much more exaggerated fashion than usual as she passed them. They could eat their hearts out! She was on a roll.
But alas, all good things must end, and her end came in the form of Draco Malfoy as she turned down the corridor to the Grand staircase. She didn't notice Malfoy at first. All she knew was that she was slammed into a wall by a boy whom she knew to be Theodore Nott, the contents of her bag nearly spilling out. Her eyes widened in horror and then outrage as Malfoy shoved Nott to the side and then turned to her with furious, thundercloud-grey eyes. He said nothing. Of course, he wasn't going to repeat that mistake. He simply glared at her, malice seething in his pale complexion, as he motioned for Nott to say something.
"Malfoy wants to know what kind of charm you've put on him," Nott said lazily.
It figured that Malfoy would choose Nott for this task instead of Crabbe and Goyle. After all, Nott was one of the few Slytherins in their year that had half a brain. She just stood there, trembling with rage. Nott grabbed her wrist as she went for her wand. It must have been hell for Malfoy, she thought, a tiny bit amused by the situation. There he stood—probably wanting to curse her for all she was worth—and he couldn't say a word. She felt a leap of gratitude for Zabini, deep in her chest, but it was quickly extinguished as Nott's grip on her tightened. Again, she did the only thing she could think to do. She took the deepest breath of her life and screamed as loud as she could—
"FIRE! FIRE IN THE—"
Malfoy cut her off, clamping his hand over her mouth as hard as he could, but only for a moment. And then he was the one who was screaming. He held out his hand, which burned as red as Priscilla Pernicia's robes and was rapidly swelling and blistering right before her eyes. She gasped. In the confusion, Nott let go of her, and she ran, not even feeling her legs beneath her. She ran all the way back to the Gryffindor common room. She was not hungry anymore.
Blaise did something very unusual on Saturday morning. He slept until nine o'clock. Granted, he had not really gone to sleep until four in the morning, and the five hours of sleep he had gotten consisted of a lot of strange dreams and tossing and turning. It had not yet been two days since he had witnessed Granger's little show. He patiently waited for his brain to stop whirling, but it simply wouldn't.
He couldn't sleep. He couldn't eat. He couldn't do anything but drink coffee and replay that image over and over again in his mind. Her head thrown back with the mounting tension of her pleasure, her lips slightly dry and parted. Her chest, heaving with the ferocity of her heavy, quick breaths. Her hand, working herself deeper and deeper into a fit of ecstasy.
He couldn't take it. He tried to think about word origins, about spiders, about potion ingredients—anything to distract his rampant thoughts—but it was no use. He jolted up in bed and slung the curtains aside, his eyes darting all around the room for a distraction. The room was empty. He remembered that there was a Quidditch match this morning. Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw. He was completely alone.
She said my name.
It wasn't his surname, either. She had said—no, screamed—his given name, that one little syllable reverberating momentarily off the walls and infinitely off his psyche. He clicked on his coffeemaker and stuffed his hands into his hair. Merlin, his name sounded good on her lips, her voice so high and strained and desperate.
He got up and began pacing around the room. If he didn't keep moving, he was going to have to do as she had done, and Blaise rarely pleasured himself. He was just the type of person whose brain worked forty times harder than his hormones. And his pain wasn't coming from his arousal, anyway. It was coming from his complete and utter confusion. Here he was—supposedly the luckiest bastard in the world for getting the view he had gotten—and he couldn't even stop thinking long enough to wank off. Pathetic.
The one thought that kept harassing him—the one thought that disabled him from getting really, truly aroused—was Padma. With a very sick feeling in his stomach, he remembered the last time he had gotten intimate with another person. One thing was painfully obvious now. Granger definitely thought about him in that way. This meant that, if he liked her at all, he could never, ever shag her. It meant that the odd friendship he had unwittingly created between them was completely null and void. Now, she would simply use him. Now he was stuck in the same old predicament.
Padma's words still tumbled through his head... "Surely you know that I was just using you."
But he thought this was so much more! He thought Granger was different. For the first time since that night in the greenhouse, he felt an overbearing and overwhelming sense of despair. His heart broke over the duality of sex. He had tried so hard to keep the art history lessons platonic. In fact, he had reveled in the security of rule number two without even knowing it. And Granger had broken rule number two, as far as he was concerned, by touching herself with his name on her lips.
And then she had the nerve—in the glorious aftermath of her own release—to corner him against a wall. She had the nerve to grab him by the necktie and jerk his face down close enough to hers that he couldn't hide his wild confusion. She might as well have grabbed him by the balls. It had been such a Padma-like move on her part, but she couldn't have known that. Could she?
Judith. Damn bloody stinking Judith. Was he a Slytherin or not? A new emotion played him—anger. Bitter, resentful, white-hot anger. He would be damned before he let he get the upper hand again. He would simply shut it off—these emotions that threatened to destroy him. After all, she wanted him. The prowling panther inside of him gave a sudden, nimble growl. His original game was going more perfectly than he had imagined. She was in the palm of his hand...wasn't she?
A feathery object made sudden, painful contact with his skull, knocking him to his senses. One "hoot" later, he realised that it was a barn owl that looked much worse for the wear. It carried a large manila envelope, which he tore open immediately. The owl left through the open window as quickly as it had come.
A letter fell out of the envelope, along with several blank postcards. One postcard bore the image of Michelangelo's David, the other one Botticelli's Birth of Venus. This gave him a pretty good idea of who the letter was from, and he opened it quickly, ignoring the sizzling coffeemaker that gurgled its last few drops on his bedside table.
Topolino,
Ciao! Thank you for the thank you note. I was so happy to hear from you! I made it back to Florence after the holidays, with missing luggage, a very bad hangover, and a silent vow to disown myself from the Zabini family for good. Let me know if you'd like to join me in that regard.
Now, about this girl. Who is she? Does Massimo know about her? You and your two-sentence updates! Really, Blaise, you'll be much better off if you stop trying to fight it. And do tell me more. You have certainly peaked my interest.
I shouldn't be writing this right now. I am in a very disagreeable mood. I was going for a contract with a local opera company when I realised that the owner was more interested in my breasts than my line of footwear. I promptly gave him the address of a local brothel and took my talents elsewhere. Granted, "elsewhere" at the moment consists of repairing boots for old women. I thank the gods everyday, through gritted teeth, for their mercy.
Am I the "lucky one"? I hadn't noticed. But if I am the lucky one, darling, it's because I've made my own luck.
Write back soon—
Ti amo,
Noemi
P.S. I understand that you're studying art this year at school, so I am including a few postcards from the Citta d'Arte itself.
Now he was even more frustrated, if it was possible. He felt self-indulgent and ashamed of himself. And he wanted to kill himself an opera company owner. Men and women! Did it ever end? He fell onto his bed, sighing heavily.
I am a Slytherin. I will get what I want. I will unapologetically take what I want. What is it that I want again? Oh yeah. I want to use her. I want to shag her senseless, body and soul. I want to bring her down a notch. The only problem is that she's not as high-and-mighty as I thought she was. She's normal. Okay, maybe she's a bit obsessive, but that's normal, isn't it? I'm a bit obsessive as well. I'm obsessing right now.
"ARGH!" he yelled. He was tossing and turning again.
Millicent used me. Hannah used me. Ginny used me (mercilessly). Lisa used me. Padma used me (and then laughed in my face about it). Hermione Granger will not use me. I need a weapon. Something I can use against her. Bring her to her knees. I already have a weapon, don't I? No. I can never let her know I saw her. Ah, but it's perfect. Now I know exactly how she wants to be touched. Ah yes, she will be putty in my hands. She will be helpless.
Helpless!
Bloody hell, she looked helpless the other night. I shouldn't have watched. I would be mortified if someone had caught me in that position. But what the hell was I supposed to do? Interrupt her? Stand up and say, "I'm sorry, Granger. Just let me get out of here, and you can continue...?" I bet she did this on purpose. No, I know she didn't. She had no idea I was there. Why?! Why did I have to go look at art that night? Why didn't I lock the door?
He rolled over onto his stomach and tried to smother himself with the covers.
Block it out. I just have to block it out. I have to forget about it, or I'm going to go crazy. Dio Mio! How can I face her on Monday night? How can I sit back and talk about bleeding Donatello, when I know now what this stuff does to her? Maybe I should get sick on Monday. Maybe I should just call this whole thing off. I don't really need her anymore. My marks are much better now in Muggle Studies. Well, maybe just one more session. Yes, just one more, and then I'll tell her we're done. I'm sure she'll be relieved.
It was getting hard to breathe under the covers. He wondered if he might suffocate. Then, he mused, he could possibly get sent to the hospital wing and avoid her for awhile longer.
I feel so guilty. She really has been trying to help me, I think. I should do something for her. Hmmm...Valentine's Day is coming up. Yes, that's it! I'll get her something for Valentine's Day. Something special. Something to show my appreciation.... Something to make her think I'm kind and thoughtful. Something that will make her trust me enough to spread those lovely legs. Ah, yes. And then it will all be over. I'll have her right where I want her. I can add her initials to my journal—my first actual triumph—and turn the page. Get on with it...
He didn't know how long he lay there, or whether or not what he had been doing could be officially called "sleep," when he heard voices. Malfoy and his cronies, back from the Quidditch match, sounding blissfully exuberant. Ravenclaw must have beat Gryffindor. So what?
"Did you see his face?" Malfoy cheerfully retorted. "Potter is obviously losing his touch. I can't wait to flatten them in the final. All we have to do is beat Ravenclaw by forty points. Which reminds me, someone needs to explain to Warrington how to add before the next match."
Several snorts and sniggers followed this statement. Well, at least listening to them ramble idiotically was better than thinking about Granger.
"Still asleep, Zabini?" Malfoy addressed him, apparently from across the room. "You missed a great match."
Blaise reluctantly threw the covers off and sat up, pouring himself a cup of very old, strong coffee at last. Malfoy was suddenly standing in front of him with his arms crossed. He had that ravenous, sadistic look on his face—the one he always wore when somebody got one over on Potter.
"Your sister was there," Malfoy said, a sleazy smirk crossing his face. "The blonde. What's her name again?"
"Genelle," Blaise muttered. Or, at least he assumed it must have been Genelle. She loved Quidditch. Besides, Monique was a brunette the last time Blaise saw her, and Noemi was in Italy.
"Ah yes, Genelle," Malfoy repeated. His eyes were gleaming. He looked like he wanted to pick a fight. "Don't tell me your father's conquests as a bookie have been expanded to include Hogwarts Quidditch matches."
Blaise said nothing. He merely sipped his coffee, which had gone somewhat lukewarm over the course of the morning.
"Not that I'm complaining," Malfoy went on. "Your sister is hot. Single, too, isn't she?"
Blaise blinked a few times, but that was the only semblance of emotion he allowed himself to show. "Single?" Blaise said, quite apathetically. "Malfoy, Genelle would chew you up and spit you out."
"Kinky," Malfoy whispered. He plopped down on his bed, kicking off his shoes, and watched Blaise watch him. Crabbe and Goyle were in their corner of the dormitory rehashing the finer points of the game. "So, what's going on?"
Blaise stopped mid-sip and wondered if he was still asleep and dreaming. Again, he blinked. "Are you trying to have a conversation with me, Malfoy?" he asked plainly.
"Quite pointless, I know," Malfoy said, lazily smoothing out his bedcovers. "But yes, I believe I am. I want to know what's going on between you and that Gryffindor slut."
"What?" Blaise shot back, more suddenly and fiercely than he had intended.
"I saw you outside of Potions yesterday," Malfoy drawled. "Quite a scene. You looked rather...intimate."
Blaise cocked his head to the side and observed the blonde ferret carefully. Malfoy was clearly assessing his every breath. He knew that anything he said could and would be held against him. Then again, he knew that his silence was also incriminating in this instance.
"Intimate?" Blaise repeated, trying to buy some time. "I would hardly describe my association with Granger as intimate. Frustrating at times, perhaps."
"I see we have something in common, then." Malfoy began running his thumb along the bottom of his chin. Blaise did not like the look in his eyes one bit. He looked like someone who had a gut feeling they were being played but no supporting evidence, and he looked determined to correct that little detail. "Maybe you can help me."
"Why would I do that?" Blaise asked numbly.
"Oh, I don't know...House pride perhaps? And I am a prefect, Zabini. You try to act so low-key, but I'm sure it wouldn't be too hard to find some dirt on you. If I really wanted to."
Blaise really hated the slimy git. Luckily, his face didn't show it.
"I thought about what you said the other night," Malfoy continued. "And as absurd as it seems, I think you're right. I think she does have some type of...secret admirer." Malfoy nearly choked over the words. Blaise did not move. "And I want to know who it is."
"Your guess is as good as mine," Blaise answered. He would not even let himself shrug. Any movement at all—a shrug of the shoulders, a hand running through his hair, a dart of his eyes—could be misconstrued as nervousness. If there was one thing Massimo had taught him, it was how to lie.
"I see," Malfoy whispered. If there was one thing Lucius Malfoy had taught Draco, it was how to tell when people were lying. But, at the moment, they were both at a standstill. They had both been taught well.
"You have classes with the brat," Malfoy said finally. "Classes I'm not taking. I want you to keep an eye on her. Tell me if you see anything...strange. To be quite frank, I don't think Potter or Weasley are capable of this type of magic."
At this statement, Malfoy help up his right palm. It was red and swollen, as though he had placed it directly on a steaming cauldron.
White, hot, raging lunacy hit Blaise's brain. Fury like that he had never known. Sharp, biting, untainted, all-consuming wrath. Blaise could feel his heartbeat in his eardrums—loud, fast, almost mechanical. Luckily, he did not go red. He was beyond even that. But he had to get out of that room immediately.
"Interesting," Blaise responded quietly, his voice completely shallow and schooled. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to have a bath and head for Hogsmeade."
"Then you'll help me?" Malfoy asked, smirking.
Blaise looked straight into those steel-grey eyes, hatred ripping at his stomach. Help him? He would help him, all right. He would make sure to help him right over a cliff.
"Sure," he said with a nod.
Hermione thought that Valentine's Day was the most worthless holiday of the year. Every year it was the same. Girls swooned and boys made complete idiots of themselves. Lavender and Parvati would awake two hours early and spend triple the normal amount of time primping. Hermione would get a box of chocolates from her parents, and Ron would most unromantically beg her to surrender at least half the box to him before lunch. Valentine's Day. What a worthless, pathetic, sappy load of shite.
However, when she sat down at breakfast on that dull Tuesday morning, three events happened in quick succession that caused her to suddenly re-evaluate this pitiful excuse for a holiday. The first thing that happened was that she glanced up at Harry and saw something on his neck. Something pink and round, which was definitely not the result of a misfired hex. Harry had a love bite.
Before she could even process this fact, Ginny arrived and tossed the latest issue of Witch Weekly in front of her, opened to Part I of her column. It had been printed as a special Valentine's Day insert. "Rowena Ravvish has outdone herself again," Ginny declared. "That copy is for you."
And just as her mind was about to explode from confusion and curiosity, the third thing happened. A group of owls flew overhead and dropped not one, but two parcels in front of her. She just sat there for a moment, frozen, wondering if she had walked into someone else's life. Finally, she stuffed the magazine into her bag and tossed Ron the box of chocolates from her parents, which he had already begun to eye droolingly.
"Harry," she said, completely ignoring the fact that an unopened mystery parcel lay in front of her, "what the hell is that on your neck?"
Harry turned almost purple and shifted his collar up nervously. "Potions accident," he mumbled. Then he returned to the essay he was writing.
"Who's sending you a Valentine's gift?" Ron demanded.
Reluctantly, she looked down at the long, thin red box on the table in front of her plate. The box was made of heavy, shiny cardboard and secured with a white velvet ribbon. It lay there so pristinely—so innocently—as if to say, "Bet you didn't see this one coming." Ron and Ginny were both staring at her as though she had just announced that she was quitting school and running off to join the circus.
"Well, it's obviously a mistake," she answered firmly. "That's what it is."
Harry completely ignored them all. Ron sat there with his mouth wide open, a half-eaten piece of chocolate at his lips. Ginny grinned from ear to ear.
"Aren't you going to open it?" Ginny urged her.
"No," she told Ginny. "I mean, it can't be for me. There's no name on it, and it got plunked down between the two of us. It's probably something for you. From Dean."
"That owl definitely delivered it to you," Ginny said. "Besides, I got my Valentine's gift from Dean last night."
Ron started choking. Hermione slapped him on the back mindlessly while she stared down at the box. She had a good mind to grab the box and make a run for the door. "What should I do?" she asked numbly.
Ginny sighed heavily. "Hello? Open it."
She looked from Ginny to Ron and then back to Ginny again, as if searching for confirmation that this was, indeed, happening. But there was no denying it. Someone had sent her an unexpected token. Her mind wandered to Zabini. Was it possible? He had been even more distant than usual the past few weeks, particularly after their little incident in the hall outside Potions. In fact, she had by now nearly abandoned the idea that he might want more than an art history lesson.
Hermione took a deep breath and tugged on the velvet ribbon. It was as white as freshly bleached cotton and as soft as cat hair. It fell to the sides of the box, leaving only one last motion between her and the box's contents. She cautiously lifted one corner of the box and peeked inside.
"Well?" Ginny pleaded, her voice almost a squeal.
"Well what?!"
"Well, unless there's something I don't know about between you and Fred or George, I doubt it's going to bite. Open it!"
Hermione held her breath and tossed the cover from the box. Ginny leaned in to get a better look.
"It's a quill!" Ginny exclaimed.
"I see that," Hermione replied.
"What does the card say?"
Hermione picked up the postcard, her stomach churning. It was a reproduction of Botticelli's Birth of Venus. She didn't even have to flip the postcard over, but she did anyway, her heartbeat ringing in her ears.
Happy Valentine's, Granger.
A plain, simple message scrawled in tiny, untidy handwriting. Thankfully, his name was nowhere to be found on the postcard. He must have known she would be forced to open it at the breakfast table, and he was obviously intent on protecting their secret. She felt like every drop of blood in her body had gone straight to her pounding head.
"Let me see," Ginny commanded.
Hermione tossed Ginny the postcard and began examining the quill. It was a Quick-Notes Quill—the most expensive of all the models she had been considering. Furthermore, it had been engraved with one loopy little golden initial—the letter "R". She gasped when she saw it.
As Ginny was pondering the identity of Hermione's secret admirer ("But who calls you Granger?"), Ron seemed to come out of his trance. "R?" he said, very loudly. "Who is R?"
"Must be the manufacturer," Hermione answered plainly. "Either that, or this pen was meant to be delivered to you, Ronald."
"Not likely, Granger," Ginny replied. She hastily turned the postcard around to look at the art on the front. "You know, this bloke on the left kind of looks like—"
"I have to go," Hermione interrupted briskly. She knew exactly what Ginny was about to say, and frankly, she would have stood up on the table and started belly dancing before she let that name cross Ginny's lips. She grabbed the postcard, the box, and her bag and raced off.
It was the longest day of her life. Between Harry's futile attempts to hide his love bite, Ron's chocolate-munching interrogations, and double Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts, she barely had time to think—much less to track down Zabini. She almost thought he was hiding from her, and she really needed to talk to him. There was no way under Jupiter she could possibly accept the gift. She was shocked, confused, and more than a little bit impressed. After all, she could not have picked out a better gift for herself. He knew her well, she realised. What a scary thought! But why on earth had he done it?
Determined to find out, she waited for him in a hallway that led off from the corridor to the Slytherin dormitory. It was almost time for dinner. He would be walking by at any minute, most likely alone. She waited and waited. Maybe he had gone directly to dinner after his last class, or maybe he was in the library. No, she had checked the library already, although she might have missed him.
She heard footsteps—a slow, heavy clunk-clunk just down the corridor. She closed her eyes briefly, sincerely hoping that it wasn't Malfoy. But there were only one set of footsteps as far as she could tell, and Malfoy didn't go anywhere alone. It could have been anybody. Crikey, it might even be Snape. She held her breath. The footsteps got louder. The unknown person was getting closer. She held her breath as they turned the corner, her back resolutely pressed into the wall.
It was just Millicent Bulstrode. She didn't see Hermione. She exhaled softly, realising at once how silly she was acting. Furthermore, it occurred to her that she wasn't really too keen on the idea of discussing Zabini's gift with him in such close proximity to the Slytherin common room. She gave up. After all, she had three classes with him the following day. He would not be able to avoid her. Then again, she didn't think she could make it through the night without talking to him.
She waited until Millicent Bulstrode's footsteps completely disappeared, and then she started off up the staircase. She walked laboriously, her shoulders drooping. She didn't know why she was so disappointed. She just couldn't understand why he would do something so uncharacteristically thoughtful and then disappear. He was a Slytherin. If anything, she expected him to want something in return.
She turned a corner and glimpsed his shoulder-length black curls, and all of that was forgotten.
"Zabini!" she called after him. He stopped but did not turn. "Zabini, we need to talk."
He whipped around, those dark strands of hair in motion momentarily against his dark, emotionless face. As she drew closer, she noted that he looked cornered—like a trapped animal—and completely defenseless. She saw his eyes dart to the side, as though assessing an escape route. Still, she stalked forwards, her heartbeat betraying her mission to remain calm and logical. Unbelievable. She had never realised, until that very moment, how truly handsome he was. And not in a cute, boyish way, either, although he currently had a boyish air of timidity about him. She was almost surprised to find herself thinking it, but it was true. He looked like a grown man—so calm, so controlled.
Once she was standing only a few feet away from him, she lifted up the long, red box. "Why did you do this?" she asked.
Again, he shifted his eyes away from hers. "I don't know," he answered quietly. As controlled as he seemed to be, he also looked like he might try to bolt from the scene at any moment, and sure enough— "I have to go, Granger."
"Wait!" she exclaimed. Oh no, he didn't. Not yet. "I can't accept this. I've seen this quill in Scrivenshaft's. It costs over a hundred Galleons."
Ah, she couldn't know, could she? She could never understand that those hundred Galleons had been thrown angrily across his room at Christmas, and that he wanted nothing to do with that money. He had almost sent it to Noemi, just to spite Massimo. No, the proud, righteous little martyr would never comprehend how little he cared about that money. She just couldn't, and it made him nauseous.
"Why do you always have to make such a big deal out of everything?" he spat. He didn't mean to sound so brutal. It just came out that way.
"What?!" she responded, rather loudly. "I'm sorry. Let me explain. I'm just sitting at breakfast when a top-of-the-line Quick-Notes Quill gets plunked down in front of me out of nowhere with a Botticelli postcard. What do you think my friends had to say about that?"
"Tell me," he inquired simply.
"I-I don't know," she answered. "I didn't stick around long enough to—"
"Then what's the problem? I do have a bit of sense about me, Granger. I was smart enough not to sign the card, for that very reason."
"I..." She tried to figure out what she was hoping to accomplish with this conversation. Her mind set at last, she continued, "I can't accept this, Zabini."
He thought she must be very pleased with herself, acting so bloody noble about the situation. So Gryffindor. He almost hated her for it. Indeed, now he understood why Zabinis never thanked anyone. Gratitude was such a piteous sentiment, really. And he suddenly didn't know why he had done it at all. Getting into her knickers was really the least of his worried right now. He just wanted to turn around and run.
"I'm not going to take it back," he replied firmly, shrugging his shoulders. "If you don't want it, then just exchange it. Or give it to someone else."
"But...but..." She hated herself for blubbering so foolishly. Maybe he was right. Maybe she did overanalyze everything. It was obviously not the kind of Valentine's token she thought it was. She had always imagined Valentine's Day gifts would be given with more...well, with less apathy, at least.
"But what?" he demanded. Now he appeared to be very interested in a portrait on a nearby wall.
"A Valentine's present?" she questioned him weakly.
He looked at her at last, though his focus seemed to be on her chin rather than her eyes. "Valentine's Day just gave me an excuse," he said. "You've been really..." He paused. She had been nice to him. Should he tell her that? Did he even understand it himself? It didn't matter. She hadn't done it out of the kindness of her bleeding Gryffindor heart. He had blackmailed her into helping him, and he couldn't forget that one little detail. He caught his breath at last and whispered, "I just wanted to thank you, okay?"
"Zabini," she whispered back, drawing closer to him. She was even more touched by his modesty than by the gift itself. How could she know that his modesty was a cover for guilt? "You didn't have to—"
"Forget about it," he responded with another shrug.
But she wasn't going to forget about it. That much was obvious. And she realised that he was backing away from her, ever-so-subtly. Backing away!—when all she wanted to do was embrace him. He looked terribly sad and nervous and uncertain, and that strange force of compassion once again welled up inside of her, crushing her baser thoughts, warming her from the inside out. He crossed his arms, shutting her out. More than anything, she wanted to break him down—to make him admit that he was feeling something beneath his callous exterior.
"Come here," she whispered, reaching her arms out to him.
He literally jumped away from her advance, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Rule number two, Granger," he reminded her. And now he had that commanding tone to his voice—that tone with which one could not argue.
He kept backing away, and she kept advancing, hands out and palms up like the proverbial white flag. "Zabini, it's Valentine's," she said softly. "Surely we can make an exception?"
"I'll see you later," he replied.
He left her standing there, arms open foolishly. She tucked the box away in her bag and released a long, meditative sigh.
This is it, Blaise thought to himself as he paced around the Room of Requirements a week later. This was going to be their last lesson. He had made up his mind. He simply could not take it anymore, and he had to do something about it. He felt guilty that he had ever blackmailed her in the first place. He felt angry that she had been so bloody nice about it. But most of all, he was just tired—sick and tired—of having his control tested at every turn. Sick and tired of fighting Malfoy every step of the way. He just wanted to quit, and then he never wanted to see Granger's cheeky little face again.
It wasn't like a Zabini to call it quits. Massimo would have been very disappointed in him. Oh, well, that was just one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of disappointments. It was right up there with the facts that he couldn't play Quidditch to save his life, that his eldest sister was better at running the family business, and that his cousin Nìccolo knew more about cars. It was right up there with the fact that he was every born at all. And really, what did Blaise care what Massimo thought of him? Massimo was just a greasy, two-timing, money-hungry sneak. But he was also his father.
Blaise had avoided Granger like a death curse in the past week since Valentine's Day. Stupid! He knew he had no business giving her such an extravagant gift, no matter what his motives had been. And he had given her a quill, no less—something that she would most certainly use against him. He was already feeling the effects of the publication of Part I of her story. Witch Weekly seemed to be quite popular among the fifth year Slytherin girls, and he could no longer sit and read in his common room without being ogled and giggled at. They were all apparently intrigued by the idea of having a tall, dark, curly-haired boy ravish them against a filing cabinet. Damn it, he now had fans. Nervous, giggling, shamelessly incoherent little fans, which gave Draco Malfoy one more reason to ridicule him. So much for blending in.
This is a work of fiction, said the disclaimer. Right. And he was the long-lost love-child of Voldemort and Minerva McGonagall. He couldn't wait to see what was next. He looked forward to it like one looks forward to a trip to the dentist. Bloody Granger.
"Let's make this quick," called her voice suddenly, and it was followed by a loud slam of the door. "I've got things to do."
"So sorry to inconvenience you," he spat back.
Should he tell her now? In the stream of light from the slide projector, he noticed that she had bags under her eyes. Obviously, she had not been sleeping well, either. Good. It gave him a very sick type of satisfaction. No, he wouldn't tell her now. He would wait until after their lesson to tell her. He just wanted thirty more minutes...
"Let's do it, then," she replied huffily, flopping into her chair. She didn't even have her bag with her tonight. "Michelangelo, please. I think we were almost finished with his sculpture, right?"
"I think so," Blaise muttered, taking his seat.
A nude man appeared before them, wine glass raised arrogantly as a nymph nibbled on grapes at his feet. "Bacchus," she said most unenthusiastically, "the god of wine. Here we see him drunk and stumbling around. Of course, he's not Biblical. I'm sure you know all about him already."
"I know a little bit," Blaise said. Like always, he knew more than he let on, just so he could hear her thoughts on the subject. Unfortunately, she did not really seem to be in the mood.
"He was half-mortal. His mother was a whiny little bint who demanded to see Zeus in all his glory and then spontaneously combusted at the sight of him. Bacchus was raised by nymphs and satyrs in the forest, and this link with nature caused the Greeks to associate him with the vine." She perked up slightly. "He also had a group of female followers—Bacchantes, they called themselves—who ran around getting drunk and ripping men apart, limb by limb, and drinking their blood."
"Your role models, Granger?" he sarcastically commented.
She sneered at him. "The men probably deserved it," she shot back bluntly. "Anyway, at the end of the 1400's, there was a resurgence of enthusiasm for classical sculpture, as we've discussed."
Now she sounded like Professor Binns, the sudden interest disappearing at once and leaving her droning listlessly.
"This fad, as I will call it, for lack of a better term, encouraged a lot of dodgy art deals. Our dear Bacchus here was part of one of these deals. Shady art dealers would commission Greek-looking sculptures from artists like Michelangelo and then break off an arm or a finger and try to sell them at outrageous prices as original classics. The Cardinal who commissioned Bacchus obviously had such a scheme in mind, but he refused to pay for it once it was completed."
"He got cold feet, eh?" Blaise commented with a tiny smile.
She nodded.
"It's funny how much the art world resembles the world of used cars," he mused. "You know, trying to pass something off as something it's not.... Of course, Massimo rarely backs out of deal." (Neither did Blaise. Until tonight.)
She stared at him silently. Curiosity gleamed in her chocolate eyes, despite herself. Every time he talked about his family, Granger looked ravenous for details. There had to be a reason, she thought, why Blaise was so unlike his fellow Slytherins.
"I'll tell you something I've never told anyone," he said softly. After all, if he was going out, he might as well go out with a bang.
"What's that?" she asked, dismayed that her voice betrayed her abrupt interest.
"I'm a year older than everyone else in our year," he said plainly. "I'm seventeen."
She looked stunned. She didn't quite know what to say, so she said the first thing that came to her: "You can Apparate?!"
"Not yet," he replied with a chuckle. "I'm not too keen on the idea of disassembling my molecular structure, to be quite frank. But I am old enough to legally drive, if I ever felt so compelled."
She laughed aloud at the thought of Zabini behind the wheel of an automobile, screaming Italian obscenities in traffic. She could just see him in a little Italian car about the size of a roller skate, his knees practically crammed into his chest.
He had made her laugh. A real, true, hearty laugh that rang out in the room like music. It made his heart cringe with disappointment over what he knew he had to do. He couldn't help it. She was just too close, and he just kept letting her get closer.
"So why are you a year behind?" she asked, quite rudely. "Late birthday?"
He glared at her. "I like to think of it as being a year ahead, Granger," he replied. "I had one very confusing and miserable year at Beauxbatons when I was eleven."
"You went to Beauxbatons?!"
"Indeed. Thanks to the whining and pleading of my mother. She can be quite persuasive when it comes to dealing with Massimo. She was determined to have me trained in the French tradition. Unfortunately, I don't speak French. So after that first year, she bitterly agreed that I should probably be at Hogwarts."
"Merlin," she whispered. She couldn't believe he had told her something so private.
"Anyway," he went on, "perhaps we could keep that bit of information between the two of us. Needless to say, Malfoy would shoot through the roof in glee if he ever knew."
Now that he had broken the ice on which they had been treading for the past week, she felt more comfortable. And she still wanted answers about the quill. She dared to bring it up again. "Zabini, about Valentine's Day—"
"I don't want to talk about it," he said firmly. The slight smile on his face had disappeared, and his brow was suddenly furrowed. "Just forget it, Granger. Massimo sent me that money for Christmas, and I really don't want anything to do with his slimy Galleons. All right?"
All right, she thought. At least he had finally given her a reason, though it seemed to be quite a flimsy excuse. She hoped, at least, that there was more to it. But she was probably deluding herself.
"Have you used it yet?" he inquired tentatively.
"W-what?" she said, his question interrupting her thoughts. "Oh, the quill. No, I haven't. I've just gotten so accustomed to writing in longhand. I don't know if—"
"Old habits die hard, eh?" He wondered if she was being honest.
"Right," she said, looking away. She hadn't even opened the box again since Valentine's Day. She had not wanted to think about him.
"Did you see your column?" he asked.
"Oh...yeah..." she responded. "I can't believe that people are actually reading that rubbish. And to think that I just started this thing on a whim!" She sighed heavily and looked up at Bacchus, all drunk and naked and smirkingly beautiful. She had to get through the lesson. She had to get away from Zabini.
Blaise wasn't too comfortable, either. He had to end this thing before he unwittingly divulged his life history to her. And if she continued to be so clueless—if she continued to not acknowledge his nervousness and confusion for what it was—he was simply going to have to let her know. Even if it meant touching her. NO. Then she would use him.
"Next slide, please," she said at last.
Creation of Adam. The image flashed upon the screen, and it was such a startling change from Bacchus and David and Judith and everyone else that she actually gasped. It was like they had skipped a slide. It didn't fit. A quiet tension filled the room, thick as molasses, as both of them struggled to make sense of the sudden change. Blaise did something he had never done in any of their lessons. He rose from his chair, his hands thrust deeply into his pockets, and he approached the screen.
Tension. Sweet, relentless, aching, endless tension. It was just a painting, but in that one seemingly innocent painting, Michelangelo had created the world's greatest tension. Two figures—God and Adam—reaching. Reaching, and not connecting. And they would stay that way forever. As long as that painting existed, those two fingers would never touch.
"This is one of Michelangelo's signature paintings," Hermione explained quietly. "It's part of the ceiling fresco in the Sistine Chapel. He lay on his back for four long years—"
"I don't want the details," Blaise interrupted. "Just tell me what it's about."
Hermione cleared her throat. "God has just created man in his own image, and He is reaching out to touch His creation."
"Why is Adam naked, and God is wearing a dress?" Blaise inquired. These small details bothered him immensely.
Hermione thought it was a pertinent question, and one she had secretly asked herself at one time. "It's a cloak, not a dress," she patiently corrected him. "I guess the Roman Catholics just couldn't bear the thought of God in the nude."
She watched breathlessly as Blaise drew even closer to the screen.
"That's what my father would look like," he stated simply, "if he had grey hair. Except I've never seen an expression like that on Massimo's face."
"And look at Adam," she went on. "His hand lightly propped on his knee. He reaches out to his Father almost hesitantly. Do you see the earth and sky separating them? Michelangelo was trying to make a definite point here. How can we be so close to our Creator—to our parents—yet so far away by default?"
"I see it," Blaise replied. He saw it, all right, and it grabbed his pumping heart and twisted it around violently in his chest. "God is clothed in lilac and surrounded by angels. Adam is stuck in his green mountain of humanity."
"Yes!" she exclaimed. Trapped in a world of green and so hesitant to make contact.
"And that cherub," he said, running one long finger against the line of the angel's face. "That cherub seems to be the only one who knows what's going on. She tells us everything without saying a word. She smiles at us so pitifully, as though we should be ashamed."
Hermione swallowed deeply, stunned once again by Zabini's sharp intuition. He had this silent, screaming empathy about him, and she wasn't even sure he knew it.
"Look at their hands," he said.
"Yes," she answered. "God is so anxious to touch Adam's finger."
"And Adam is so reluctant to embrace his Father."
They were thinking as one now, she realised. Good art had a way of doing that to people. They were...they were...connecting. She got up from her chair and paced slowly to his side.
"Massimo hates me," he said suddenly.
"You keep saying that, but it's just not true. It can't be true. No father can hate his own creation."
"Poor Massimo," Blaise muttered. "After four attempts and three daughters, I guess he was expecting more."
She was now standing beside him, marveling at how his navy blue eyes caught the light from the projector. He stared forward relentlessly, totally consumed by the tension on the screen. He seemed to be in another world. She wanted so badly to touch him. That strange compassion burst like wildfire inside of her, flooding her, blinding her.
"Zabini," she whispered, "I'm about to owe you five points."
She couldn't help it. She was pleasantly surprised to find that he did not stop her. He didn't even look at her as she reached one hand up—reaching, reaching—and then paused. The moment her fingertips grazed the side of his face, he jumped. He looked down at her, his face blank but his eyes wide and vibrant.
"Zabini," she whispered, lightly stroking his cheek.
And then it happened.
It was so quick—so immediate—that she didn't know how it happened. His arms flattened her against him. He clutched at her recklessly, as though he had never been hugged before. All pretenses of control came crashing down around them. He buried his face in her neck and inhaled deeply, shuddering. He grabbed at her back and her shoulders, frantic to pull her closer. He shoved his fingers into her hair and clasped her head in his hands as though he was hanging on to life itself. Years and years of pent-up frustration manifested themselves in his fumbling hands, grasping wildly for an answer outside of himself.
She gasped, trying to steady herself. It was no use, so she returned his clutches instinctively. This wasn't what she had in mind, but...it was better! It was so lovely! One of her hands went to his head, his cool hair a striking contradiction to his warm breath. The other hand went to his shoulder, massaging it timidly.
Blaise had no idea what he was doing, and he didn't need to know. He didn't care. Surely he was crushing her. Yet he held onto her as though he had grasped a bare electrical wire—his muscles contracting under the current—unable to let go. His entire body shook with the force of it, until he was pressing his lips against the skin of her neck in order to steady himself, half-kissing and half-breathing his way up to her ear. And then he could not stop. He kissed his way down one side of her jaw and up the other. Frantic, forceful, open-mouthed kisses. He placed them on her temple, her forehead, her eyebrows, cherishing the contact of each one. The bridge of her nose. The soft apple of her cheek. Getting closer and closer.... Soon there would be nothing left to kiss except for....
He paused. Her lips were right there, gently parted. All he had to do was lean in those last few centimeters. Her eyes were closed. Her breaths were quick and shallow. A scarcely audible whimper broke from her throat. She waited....
No. Not on the mouth. Then she owns me.
He suddenly dropped his hands and backed away from the embrace. Her eyes remained closed for a moment, and then she looked up. He was looking at her as though he had just walked in on his parents doing something that he didn't want to think about. His hands went to his pockets again, his last thread of self-control belied by the nervous gesture. She watched him, trembling.
"Sorry," he whispered. It didn't even occur to him that Zabinis did not apologise. This was it. If he was going to stop this thing, then he was going to have to do it right now. "Granger—"
She did not speak. All logic momentarily evaded her. He had just kissed her everywhere—everywhere but where it mattered. She knew, even before he continued, what was coming—
"—I don't think we should do this anymore." His voice cracked on the last syllable, and he hated himself for it. "My grades are much better. Really."
Silence. The rules were broken, and they knew it. There they stood, both of them helplessly gazing up at the signpost in each others' eyes. It was either the beginning or the end. It seemed to be a choice between crossing a river or climbing a mountain. If it was the beginning, then they had a steep climb ahead of them. If it was the end, then they would have to wade onward, fighting all the while against a ceaseless current.
He knew that one word out of her mouth—any word—would change his mind. Any protest, any insult, any plea at all would be enough to keep him from giving up. As it was, she could say nothing.
"I'm sorry about everything," he announced at last. There was a quiver in his voice that he didn't recognise. "About your story, about these lessons, about the rules.... Stupid, really. You don't owe me anything."
He waited one final moment for an answer that did not come. Then, in a few quick paces, he was out the door and out of their bargain. She was completely unsure how she felt about that, so she just stood there numbly. The buzz of the slide projector seemed very loud, almost deafening. She stared straight ahead at a candle on the wall that now seemed overly bright and intrusive. Surely her feet were resting firmly on the floor, but she didn't know how or why.
After what seemed like hours, she reluctantly came to her senses and headed for the door. She flung it open impatiently, only to find herself staring straight into the folded arms of Draco Malfoy.
Endnotes: People, I am going to have to take a break from this fic for about a month. I have never in my whole life written like this, and I am exhausted. It's time to re-group and scribble some cookies. Maybe actually balance my checkbook. Sorry to leave you hanging. I'll be back soon...and, until then, your reviews are greatly appreciated.
Review Responses:
Zaralya: Thank you, darling! Evil cliffhanger? ME?! Surely you jest! Don't worry... I don't think Blaise will EVER admit that he saw her.
Procella Nox-noctis: Marry you, 'Cella? Somehow I think your intentions are not so honourable. (smirks) But here it is... rule number two has officially been broken, though not in the way you might have imagined. What did you think of the Barberini Faun? And how was your shower? (naughty smirk)
Dixi: Law school?! God, no WONDER you read fanfiction. I'm so happy about my timing! And as for the Godfather thing... There probably won't be any horses' heads or car bombs or guns taped behind toilets in this fic. Just a handful of quotes and Massimo as a Wizard version of Vito Corleone. And, of course, the constant theme to "keep your friends close and your enemies closer"! Happy belated birthday!
Cate: That's my job...to educate and entertain. Thanks for letting me know it's working!
Inell: È sempre quei calmi, no? Girl, you don't know this (because I am such a shameless lurker), but I absolutely ADORE your DraMionAise work. I mean, come on. There's only one thing that's better than sex with a Slytherin, and that's sex with TWO Slytherins at the same time.
gehenna79: Thank you! It means so much to me. And I promise you much more angst soon.
scifichick774: Yes, it's a constant struggle to seamlessly blend description and dialogue. Thank you for your encouragement!
Kurayami Pansa: Yeah, I just love Ron Weasley. He's so clueless, and he just screams comic relief. Glad I could make you laugh!
Raincld: Thank you! I am a HUGE fan of quietones. Which BZ/HG writer hooked you? I used to be a HP/HG shipper, but then I read a little story called The Importance of Ancient Runes, and the rest is history. Do you have work archived on quietones?
trova: OK, OK! They broke the rule! What do you think? Trust me—this is only the beginning.
Demoness Mark: Thanks! I'll have to check out Jael. But Judith is still my fave!
Alenor: Glad you enjoyed it! Welcome back!!
La Rose Noire: That was a very eloquent and humbling review. I am a firm believer that it's not the actual story that matters as much as HOW you tell it. Thank you so much!
Pallas Athena1: Nah, Hermione will never know that Blaise saw her "stress-relief." (By the way, I love that terminology!) And as for Draco, well...the more I write the little bastard, the more I like him, dammit. He might end up playing a bigger role than I had originally intended. And yes, Judith is a metaphor. Maybe. I wonder if I'm dropping enough hints. Oh, well. Thanks a million for the review! You have a deep understanding of what makes these characters tick. That's what makes you such a great writer, and I thank you for your thoughts!
silverphoenix3: Tasha, it is all your fault that I am hopelessly obsessed with Blaise Zabini. You are my hero (heroine, rather). Of course, if I would actually review half of the stuff I read, you might know that. But to have you call my fic "stunning"...I really don't know what to say. I mean, "thank you" just doesn't cut it. You get the picture.
circumambientrose: Thank you! Let me know what you think of this chapter!
Louise: And here we have more Cracking!Blaise. Enjoy, and thank you!!!
hoofservant: Oh, no. I am tamlane's inflated ego. Stop, quick! (kisses hoofservant) I love you, sweetie.
Donroth: HA! The funny thing is that I thought that fact was blatantly clear from page one. Yes, this fic is a self-parody to a certain extent. (And I use the word "parody" because I find my Hermione to be almost as ridiculous as I am.) Anyway, we could argue self-insertion and Mary-Sue-ism all day long. To quote joan the english chick, "I'm Mary Sue, I'll bullshit till the cows come home if people let me." With any luck, my bullshit is semi-interesting enough to allow me 8-10 more chapters of remorseless self-indulgence. If not, please do not hesitate to let me know.
Khaila: Thanks! I know, I just love this pairing.
kePPiE: I AGREE! All for more Blaise, raise your hand!!! (raises both hands)