First of all, I DON'T write song fics. I never read songs that people put in their stories, and I certainly won't make my readers do that. However, if you're interested, the inspiration for this story is from two separate items. One is James Thurber's brilliant short story, "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty". The other is the Temptations' "Just My Imagination", which is one of those songs that make me all giddy inside. Just because I'm a Temps fan, though, does not make me anywhere near as old as this song! Some things are just classics for a reason. –Daisy

Blaise was a writer, mostly. That's the way he described himself. If anyone asked, "and who are you?" He always replied, "I'm a writer, mostly. Blaise. Zabini."

If a fellow Slytherin introduced him, it was the same thing. "Mum, this is Zabini. He's in my year. He writes." This was apparently such an odd hobby for a Slytherin to admit to having that the subject always changed rather abruptly. Blaise felt that he could admit to having a romantic liaison with the giant squid and be thought less strange.

Only one person had ever been sufficiently interested in his hobby to ask about it, and he had fallen instantly in love with her. Blaise was like that. That had been back in Fourth Year.

"May I sit here?"

Blaise had looked up from the parchment he had been scribbling furiously on. It was very early in the morning to be at the library, but he had woken up with an idea in his head that he had to write down before he lost it. The idea, not his mind or anything. He had discovered that he was out of parchment, and tried writing on his robe before giving up and sprinting to the library and grabbing a piece of parchment out of Madam Pince's spare bin. He had repeated the main points all the way up from the dungeons and hadn't forgotten too much. Now someone was bugging him just as he was getting to the details. Damn.

As such, it took him a minute to register what the girl was saying to him.

She must have taken his confusion for a cool Slytherin glare, because she hurried on with, "Never mind. I'm sorry. You probably don't want to be both-"

"You can sit. It won't bother me."

He watched her face relax, and was back to writing before the girl had even sat down. He was beginning to flesh out details, when he realized the girl wasn't studying or anything. He looked up to find her watching him. How nerve-wracking.

"I didn't mean to bother you. I'm –"

"Hermione Granger," he finished, cutting her off for the second time. "Potter's friend."

"That's right," she replied, apparently surprised that he knew. As if there was anyone at school who didn't know who she and Weasley were, because of Potter.

"And you are – You're in my year, aren't you? Fourth Year?"

"That's right. The name's Blaise. Zabini. I'm a writer, mostly." With that, he turned his attention back to the draft in front of him. He tried his best not to show his shock at her next question.

"What do- What do you write?"

He looked up again and stared at the girl, fully intending to answer. Instead, he asked, "Why did you come over here to sit?"

"Oh. Him. Them. Krum," she replied, jerking her thumb back over her shoulder, as the group of girls stalking Krum began giggling again. "This is the farthest table from Krum and his fan club in the entire library, and I wanted some peace so that I could finish Flitwick's essay."

"I'll leave you to it then." Before she could protest, he grabbed his parchment, quill, and ink, stuffed them into his satchel, and strolled out smoothly, hoping she would think it was another case of Slytherin arrogance and not the desperately stupid actions of a man in love.

That was three years ago. She had never spoken to him again, and by Fifth Year seemed to have forgotten him altogether, as her eyes drifted over him like a stranger when they passed in the corridors.

He hadn't forgotten.

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It was a ridiculous fantasy. He knew that quite well. She was a Gryffindor, almost famous and the top of their year. She was Head Girl now, partnered with that bullying prat, Malfoy, as a school leader.

Blaise, on the other hand, did his best to keep a low profile, and fervently hoped he was relatively unknown outside his house. He certainly didn't attempt to make friends, inside or out. He had plenty of casual acquaintances, and had never desired anything more. Until that encounter with Granger.

He had experienced an almost irresistible desire to tell her everything that day. About his dreams, daydreams and night-dreams so vivid and real that he was always surprised to wake up from them and then the rush to grab parchment and pen to get it down, quickly, before he forgot.

He didn't ever call it dreaming, in case he slipped in front of his housemates. Writing was bad enough; dreaming would be unacceptable. He called them his 'ideas', which was quite scary and Slytherin-y, he thought, and intimidating enough that he was (for the most part) left alone. After all, who wanted to mess with a Seventh Year Slytherin whose bureau, desk and trunk were full of the frantic scribblings he called 'ideas'? No one. No one ever wanted to find out what those ideas were.

Except for Hermione.

He doubted that she remembered their long ago conversation at all, now, but up to now he hadn't cared. For three years his dreams had included her, in bit parts and leading roles, at least once a week. He felt an intimacy with Hermione Granger that he had never felt with another person before. He felt as if he knew her, in a way no one else did. He felt that theirs was an eternal love, one for the ages.

Of course, it was entirely one-sided. She probably didn't know that he was alive. If she did, she didn't care. So he probably wasn't rational in blaming her when the dreams stopped. But he did.

Especially since the last dream, nearly a month ago, had been such a cliffie.

The Cliffie Dream>>>>

They were lying on a blanket, the two of them, as they often did after Blaise was forced to rescue Hermione from the various perilous situations Potter and Weasley were always getting her into. They were under a tree at the lake, with a break in the clouds so that warm sunshine beamed down on the two of them. They were alone, of course. After the cheering had stopped in the Great Hall and Potter and Weasley sent to the hospital wing, Blaise had pulled Dumbledore aside (not an easy feat, what with Hermione clinging to him and all of the roses and knickers on the floor) and murmured, "I think I need some down time with the lady, old man. Keep everyone away from the lake for the next couple of hours, capisce?"

"Yes sir, certainly, Mr. Zabini. I'll send one of the house elves down with a hamper and a blanket – it will be set up before you get there."

"Fine. But no mince pie this time. I loathe mince pie."

"Of course! Tibby," Dumbledore turned to address the house elf that had appeared at his side. "Please prepare a picnic for Mr. Zabini and Miss Granger. Set it up down by the lake. No mince pie, mind. In fact, take mince pie off of the menu altogether."

So here they were, just the two of them. Hermione had stopped fawning all over him (she only really did that in public anyway) and they were cuddled in companionable silence, the light breeze tugging at Blaise's black curls as he smiled down at Hermione.

"You know, love, I can't keep rescuing you all of the time."

"I know Blaise. You won't have to anymore, though, now that you've defeated Voldemort. You arrived just in the nick of time! Harry and Ron were about to be killed, and the Death Eaters were closing in on me – where did you learn a spell that would kill them all at once?"

"I just made it up on the spot. A simple, but deadly, combination of the Protean charm and Furnunculus – once I hit one Death Eater's mark, they all turned into mushrooms at once. After that, it was a simple matter to pluck them all up, and that primavera sauce was delicious at supper, wasn't it? I – Oh, no."

"What is it, Blaise?"

"I'm waking up, love. I'll see you next time."

Blaise had just had enough time to kiss her upturned face before the dream ended. However, as he was waking, he heard Hermione scream and felt, rather than saw, the icy presence of an army of Dementors advancing.

He had woken up in a cold sweat and proceeded to write down every aspect of the strange dream. Strange at the end, that is. His dreams about Hermione always ended beautifully. He had never woken up before with something about to happen, especially something so desperately dangerous. He worried about Hermione, even though he saw her nearly every day after the dream, and was really annoyed that he couldn't get back into his dreams to save her.

It was nearly maddening enough to make him want to talk to her in the flesh.