Please read this before beginning this fanfiction:

As those of you have read the latest Harry Potter book, the ending with which we were left is not exactly a great one with which to begin an at least semi-happy story. Thus, this fanfiction will take place at the end of sixth year, but without any of the occurrences that happened to Dumbledore and all that depressing ... stuff (don't want to give any spoilers away to people who haven't read the Half-Blood Prince).

ALSO, before the sixth book came out, there were all sorts of variations on what Blaise Zabini, the Italian Slytherin, looked like (God forbid the horrible images the female Blaises have given me). As the kind of beginning of the book describes, he is a "tall black boy with high cheekbones and long, slanting eyes." And, since I know how hard it is to alter an image of a character you have once they have been ingrained in your imagination, I will provide all of you with a picture of who should play Blaise for the movie (i.e. he has the physical characteristics of him, so you have an accurate image of him).

Actually, I'll give you two pictures of two different men. I couldn't decide who looked better and since they're somewhat alike, I'll allow you to choose who you want in your imagination as you read this story (and perhaps other Blaise fanfictions).

EDIT: You know, what? Stupid won't allow me to post the picture URLs, so just go to my profile and click on my homepage to view them, please. Stupid

Standard Disclaimer: As you should know, I don't own anything from Harry Potter. This story is the only thing I can lay claim to. And I do. So, please don't steal it or any of the ideas from it (unless you e-mail me and we work something out).

Now, please enjoy the good part of this–the story!

The Sedative Qualities of Coffee
by violetjewelz
+ Prologue +

"Now, now, now," a fat bald man of a short stature began in a booming voice as he finished twirling his silver moustache. "As you all know, tonight is the last meeting of the Slug Club for this year." Judging from the pompous airs about him, one would have thought that there would have been groans of disappointment from his audience, but everyone remained oddly quiet–except for a black-haired boy with emerald eyes who seemed to have had a small grin on his face.

"But please conceal your dissatisfaction–" A quiet bark of laughter seemingly came from the direction of the black-haired boy, but Horace Slughorn went on as if nothing had happened. "–for this last meeting will end with a surprise that will cause all of you young witches and warlocks to further your social standings with not only each other–but of those you will have neither known nor met before."

Professor Slughorn, who had been the new Potions teacher for the year, was being unnecessarily loud, for the amount of people who were currently in his presence were only a nominal few: Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived; Cormac McLaggen, an autocratic Quidditch player; Blaise Zabini, a strikingly handsome black Slytherin; Melinda Bobbin, whose family owned a chain of apothecaries; and Hermione Granger, undoubtedly the brightest witch of her age.

Marcus Belby, Neville Longbottom and Ginny Weasley had all been invited to the first meeting of the year, which had been on the Hogwarts Express, but they didn't end up making the cut. While the young warlocks had been a trite upset, the youngest Weasley didn't seem to have minded.

"Actually, now that I think about it," Slughorn resumed after a moments of consideration, "why not jump right to the surprise." Finally, one or two faces had the expression of curiosity momentarily etched on them and the professor gave a slight smile before launching into an explanation. "Throughout the year I have given each and everyone of you many opportunities to engage with successful modern witches and warlocks. Whether they be Quidditch players, authors of popular books or former members of our Club, I am sure that you have all benefitted from their presence."

Halting in his explanation for a few seconds, he bent over to retrieve three objects from a nearby chair. After placing a stagnant Fanged Frisbee in front of McLaggen, he proceeded to locate a model of a Golden Snitch on top of one of Zabini's books and kept a ball representing the solar system for himself.

"Melinda, make your way over to Cormac, please," he directed the mentioned witch, before turning his attention to the only other female in the room. "And, Hermione, if you could, please take a seat next to Blaise."

Hermione glanced warily over at the black Italian warlock and shook her head as he almost automatically lifted his head in the air, as though he were superior to him. Then again, that's exactly what he believed. At a second look from Professor Slughorn, Hermione sighed and managed to move over a few seats until she was sitting next to the arrogant git.

"Good. Now, Harry, please come sit next to me," he motioned to the black-haired boy who had previously laughed at him earlier in the meeting. And as soon as Harry Potter had sat down next to the epicurean man, he ended his brief narration with, "And on the count of three, I want you to touch the nearest object to you."

The chocolate brown eyes of Hermione Granger widened in realization: these three objects were port-keys! But, before she was even able to concoct some sort of rationalization for this, Slughorn had exclaimed, "Three!" and she quickly had to reach out her hand to touch the Golden Snitch just as Zabini did.

Even after a few years of using the transportation that port-keys offered, Hermione still was not used to the part where she found herself unceremoniously pitching towards the impending ground. And this occurrence was no different.

After painfully rising from her fall, Hermione peered over to where Blaise was standing. And, from the looks of it, he had been standing there for a good minute or two. "Seriously," he started in his normal, haughty tone, "can you Mudbloods do anything right?"

Gritting her teeth, the young witch ignored the characteristic barb of all chauvinistic Slytherins. "Well, if you're so smart, Zabini–" she shot the warlock a withering glare "–where exactly are we?"

At this, the two sixth-year Hogwarts students took the time to take in their surroundings. They were currently standing in the middle of a large expanse of grass and other small, mostly green vegetation. Nearby, there was a small beaten path that must have once been well-traveled. In the distance, the two could somewhat make out a few short buildings.

Zabini did not respond and Hermione knew this was due to the fact that if he had, the only truthful words he could have spoken would have been, "I don't know."

"Right, then," Hermione finally said as she passed by Zabini to step onto the dirty path. "I advocate that we take this passage to that locality of edification over there."

The Slytherin gave her an odd look. "Drop the fancy lexicon, Granger," he told her. "I have no doubt that it will begin to annoy the hell out of me and I highly doubt that you want to see an annoyed Slytherin."

"Why? They aren't all that dangerous nor are they even remotely threatening," she said with a reminiscent tone, recalling the multiple times a certain Malfoy heir always became unnerved, only to be put in his place by one of the three Gryffindors. "However, there's no need to advertently piss anyone off, so I will try to keep my words to a brainless jargon of which you can comprehend." She then offered him a saccharine smile.

"Troia," was all Zabini muttered in return, and soon the pair set off towards the town.

Exactly seventeen minutes elapsed from the beginning of Hermione and Zabini's little 'stroll' and now they found themselves in front of a small, dirty house that was painted an arresting shade of bright aqua. The warlock hung back as the witch opted to go up to the aqua rectangle and knock lightly on what appeared to be the door.

A small boy with curly hair, who appeared to be around seven or eight, was the one who answered Hermione's knocking and he gave her a curious look. When he didn't speak, Hermione decided that if she wanted to get any information, she would probably have to start any conversation. "Pardon my intrusion, but where exactly are we?"

The boy merely gave her a smile accompanied by a short giggle. "Lo siento, Señorita," he apologized shortly after his laughter had ended. "No puedo hablar inglés todavía."

Even from the distance that Blaise Zabini currently was from the house, he could make out that the boy was speaking in a foreign language. He couldn't discern which language it was, however, since he couldn't make out very many words. All he knew was that it wasn't English or Italian. And for that reason, he let out a string of curses.

Hermione shook her head, clearly showing that she had heard Zabini's expletives and had not appreciated them. "No problemo," she replied, and in the distance she could tell that Zabini's stream of swearing ended up abruptly. "Le pregunté, ¿en qué país estamos?"

His smile widening at the fact that this strange lady knew his language and so therefore he could help her, he immediately replied with, "Costa Rica."

A similar grin appeared on Hermione's face and she motioned for the Slytherin to come to her, which he reluctantly did after a quick glare from the Gryffindor. "I think that you will be happy, Zabini," she told him, her grin back in place. "We're in the beautiful Central American country, Costa Rica."

No expression of happiness, enjoyment or surprise came upon him and so he merely stared at her with a steely look. "And how is that, pray tell, supposed to make me happy?"

Hermione gave him a fake amazed expression, as though she would have expected him to be smart enough to understand just what this country offered him. "Among Costa Rica's many agricultural crops, the coffee bean is one of their principal crops. And you know what that means ..."

Slytherins never smiled, but a cognizant smirk slowly crept onto his face as he said one word: "Coffee."

And it was at that point that Hermione assumed that if a certain strong-smelling beverage was always within reach of Blaise Zabini, her travels in this foreign country with him might not be all that arduous or vexatious as she had originally thought.

But then again, you know what they say about assuming.

–end of prologue–

+ Vocabulary in this Chapter +

Italian
troia: slut, bitch

Spanish
No puedo hablar inglés todavía: "I can't speak English yet"
Le pregunté, ¿en qué país estamos: "I asked you (formal), in what country we are?"

Author's Notes: Don't worry; this is just the prologue and the rest of the chapters will be a longer length. I simply wanted to give everyone a taste of this story to see if it is worth taking the time to write. So, if you could, please review (even if to say: "Good, continue" or "Bad, shoot yourself").

Hope you enjoyed it and if I find out that you did, I will continue.

-- violetjewelz