Hermione was getting tired of standing. She almost wished the guard would come and take her back to her cell so she could sit down. Almost.
When the door opened again, it was not the guard coming back for her, it was Blaise Zabini, looking tall, expensive, and dark as ever.
"Two visitors in one day," she said. "Aren't I just popular."
"Glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humor, Miss Granger," Zabini said, settling into the chair recently vacated by Mad-Eye Moody. "You're going to need it."
"Is that so?" she asked. "And why would that be, Mr. Zabini?"
"I have a hearing scheduled for you at the end of next week."
Hermione groaned and rubbed her forehead again. Yep, it was no longer just a possibility, but a certainty. She was going to have one bugger of a headache. "It won't do one damned bit of good, Zabini," she said. "Do you know how many hearings I went to?"
"Before the Wizengamot," he said, ignoring her question.
She looked up and stared at him. "What?"
"The Wizengamot," he repeated patiently. "Really, Miss Granger. I know you are a muggleborn, but still—?"
"I know what the Wizengamot is, you prat," she snapped. "But they've already heard my case. How did you get them to listen to it again?"
He smiled at her enigmatically. "I have ways, Miss Granger."
"I doesn't matter," she said. "If Scrimgeour is running it again like last time, It will make no difference. They'll send me right back in here, twice as convinced as before that I'm guilty."
"But Scrimgeour isn't running it this time, Miss Granger," Zabini said. "Scrimgeour is out of the country on other, more important business. You will be heard by the Chief Warlock himself, and this time, I will be there."
"Fat lot of good that will do."
He sighed and sat back in the chair. "Miss Granger, I know how very intelligent you are. I know how well read you are. I know that you have published six books of varying success in the last eight years and co-wrote countless others. I know all of this makes you believe that you are qualified to conduct your own defense, and if this were just a simple matter of misuse of magic or a spell gone awry, then you would be right. However, this is a murder case, a very highly publicized murder case, and so I would advise you to . . . well, take my advice."
"And what would that be?" she asked.
"Shut up."
She blinked at him. "Excuse me?"
"I said 'shut up'," he repeated. "It's really very simple. You are a celebrated war hero, people look up to you, they admire you, they respect you, but whenever you open that pretty little mouth of yours, it gets you into trouble. You make people feel stupid or foolish, and though Christ knows, they often are, they don't like it when you rub their noses in it."
She felt like smacking him. That she did not do this was more a testament to how heavy the chains around her wrists were than to her self control. "Oh yeah, Zabini, and you're such a good ol' boy. You make everyone feel right at home with your Armani robes and your stuck-up Italian accent. It's not my fault if most people have less intelligence than a squashed flobberworm."
"But if they are in a position of authority, it is your fault if you make them feel like that. If they have power over you, and you make them feel stupid, you are handing them the axe with which they will chop off your head."
She grumbled something unintelligible under her breath.
"What was that?" he demanded.
"None of your damned business, Zabini," she said. "Fine, I'll—I'll let you talk to them then. I won't say a word."
"Swear it."
"What?"
He smiled. "I want you to promise me that you will not say anything at the hearing unless I say it is alright."
She hesitated, then gave up and said, "I promise I won't say anything unless you say I can."
"Even if you are provoked beyond all reason," he added with a knowing glint in his black eyes.
"But what if—?"
"Even if you are provoked," he repeated sternly.
"Fine, yes, even if I am provoked," she said monotonously. "God, you can be such a fucking wanker sometimes."
He laughed. "Likewise, Granger."
She sighed and leaned on her hands on the table, then looked up at him through the tangled curtain of her hair. "You're going to get me out of here, aren't you Zabini?"
His expression softened a little. "I'm going to do my very best, Miss Granger."
"What are my chances, do you think?"
He hesitated.
"Say on a scale of one to ten."
"Maybe five," he said reluctantly.
"That high, huh?"
He smiled grimly and stood up. "Like I said, Miss Granger; it's a good thing you've still got a sense of humor. You're going to need it."
"Don't be such a pessimist, Zabini. Look on the bright side. If I lose, you still get paid, don't you?"
"Yeah," he said. "But I'm a good lawyer, Miss Granger. I really want to win."
She smiled at him kindly. "Then you're half-way there, aren't you?"
He stared at her thoughtfully for a few seconds, then said, "You know, it's usually me handing out encouragement and false-hope, not my clients."
"But I'm not your client, Zabini. Harry Potter is, remember?"
He frowned as he was leaving, but when the guard came to take her back to her cell, Hermione was smiling. Zabini really did have a very nice ass.