Chapter II: Bathe Me.
The sky hung overhead like a pearly grey backdrop, cloudless and windswept. Hermione shivered under her cloak; she was still clad in her pyjamas, but nobody had to know that. Ginny had woken her up less than five minutes ago, and all she'd had time to do was throw on a warm cloak and dash down the stairs. She stood outside, a short ways away from a Thestral-drawn carriage. They'd been visible to her for a while now.
"Sure you don't want to come with us, Hermione?" Ron stared at her pleadingly, and Harry was mimicking the expression. She shook her head, trying to sound exasperated while smiling. "I already told you, Ron. Even if you are coming back two days before the Ball, I have to stay and help." It was endearing to know that they wanted her along for the journey, even if she couldn't go.
Both Harry and Ron were going on a brief trip to the Burrow for one half of their Christmas break, and they'd begged and beseeched her to accompany them. The only thing that kept her from agreeing was the fact that there were still kinks to work out for the Yule Ball, and the Great Hall was 'still unfit for a mule', as Malfoy put it.
"Ginny —" The redhead cut Harry off, blowing out a partially annoyed breath. "You know I'm staying. It's not every year that the Yule Ball is hosted outside."
"But you'll still be back for it," Ron argued. "Plus, Mum really wants you to come." Ginny hesitated. "I know, Ron … it's just I'd rather stay here for once," she said earnestly. "Tell Mum I love her." Ron smiled faintly. "Alright then. See you in a bit!" With a wave, he and Harry turned and hopped into an empty carriage.
The majority of the seventh-years had chosen to stay and attend; it was, after all, their last year at Hogwarts, and many seemed to want to graduate with a pocketful of memories. From what she'd heard, a number of the younger years were staying also.
"Say hi to your family for me!" she called after the carriages, and a hand flew out a window, giving her a thumbs-up. As the rolling stagecoaches progressed out of sight, she looked to Ginny and watched as she shuddered under her cloak. "Didn't get a chance to dress?" The girl shook her head in response. Hermione grinned. "Me neither. Come on," she said, "let's get a quick shower. Then we can go down to breakfast."
As they made their way up the moving stairwell, the two parted ways. Hermione's room was a floor above the Ginny's. She heard Ginny address the Fat Lady with "C'est stylus." Why Gryffindor's password happened to be French was beyond her, especially since the phrase translated into 'it is a pencil'. She felt a pang of sadness as Ginny disappeared into the portrait hole with a flick of flaming hair. Her schedule had been so hectic, what with juggling classes and planning the Ball, she'd had nary a chance to visit her old common room in ages.
Next time, she promised herself. The Gryffindor common room was where the people she'd spent the last seven years with congregated. In simply terms, it was where she felt the most at home. Having become a Head, she'd been given her own personal quarters that lay adjoined to a private common room. The room itself was adorned with red and silver and green and gold — a perfectly blended mix of Gryffindor and Slytherin. The door leading to Malfoy's accommodations was on the adjacent wall, directly across from hers.
The common room had a fireplace that was kept going all night long — she'd found out while performing an all-nighter, desperately trying to finish an enthralling Romance she'd found in the Muggle fiction section. Set off on two separate sides, facing each other, were two posh chairs. One was colored maroon with bright silver swirls, the other a deep shade of green with dazzling golden stars. Between them, though situated back a little, lay a dark cherry wood table, stamped with curling vines and blooming roses.
A whole wall was lined with bookshelves, the subjects of each volume equally as diverse as the next. She'd been pleasantly surprised — 'stunned' was more accurate — when Malfoy had expressed an interest in reading. It turned out he was a closet booklover, and he threatened to charm all of her undergarments to dance over the lake if she ever spoke of it.
Malfoy was always an odd one.
-
Blaise sat alone at breakfast, brooding over his third cup of rich, creamy coffee. It was Sunday, and his bizarre dream about Granger had been forcefully pushed into the darkest recesses of his mind. Now that Millicent was gone, he was mentally going through a list of people who could decently uphold their side of an intelligent conversation. So far, the only person that came close was Malfoy, and he'd had to discard the 'intelligent'.
His fingers thrummed rhythmically against the polished wood table. Though he vaguely hoped the professors had assigned an outrageous amount of homework that would keep him busy, he was praying that Vector kept the Arithmancy to a bare minimum. The subject was kicking his ass.
Damn Granger and her perfect marks.
"Zabini." Malfoy dropped into the vacant seat across from him, pale blonde fringe falling neatly into his eyes. "What's this about Snape in a leotard?"
He must have looked confused because Malfoy said, "You talk in your sleep."
Oh. That explained a few things. "Rumors," he replied, gazing impassively over the rim of his coffee cup. Malfoy gave him a strange look, and he shrugged. "Just heard them around. You never know, some of it could be true."
"Snape dusting his office in a frilly apron?"
A couple of fourth-year girls passed by and gasped. They exchanged looks and hurried on, muffled giggles trailing in their wake. Blaise smirked and hid it by pressing his cup against his lips. Pansy would no doubt find out soon.
"What are you doing today?"
He looked up, lowering his cup as he arched an eyebrow. "Why?"
"I felt like flying a bit," Malfoy said, slanting a look towards Crabbe and Goyle who were further down the table, stuffing muffins and cakes into their mouths with meaty fists, "and no broomstick could hold up those two bumbling fools."
It was true; more likely than not, the broom would break in half when they tried to kick off the ground. In addition to that, he hadn't flown in a while, his studies having kept him inside the castle for months. Blaise glanced at the enchanted ceiling. No sign of rain or cloud. It was cold, but the offer was tempting.
"… I'll grab my broom."
-
"Ginny, no!"
"It's simple, Hermione!"
The curly-haired witch stood stock still with her hands on her hips, eyeing the redhead like a petulant child as she circled high above on a broom. Okay, so maybe it wasn't so high … ten feet at most. But Hermione was averse to flying and heights in general, and broomsticks hated her.
The only reason a broom would allow her to mount it would be so it could juggle her up to the clouds and then swing her loose. Then, she would plummet down to the ground and smash every single bone in her miserable little body and probably knock her teeth loose too.
"We just had breakfast," she reasoned, "I'll get airsick and hurl."
Ginny decidedly ignored feeble excuse. "It's just a broom. Get on!"
"Easy for you to say," she huffed, "you're Gryffindor's best bloody Chaser."
"Come on, Hermione. You can even get on mine while I fly."
Who in their right mind would put TWO people on a broom? Oh, it would be a magnificent sight. Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger, acrobatics extraordinaire, tumbling onto Hogwarts's Quidditch Pitch from the heavens and snapping their necks. If they both died, then who would call for help?
"No."
Ginny stilled her broom in front of the witch and looked hurt. "You don't trust me enough, Hermione?"
Oh, bloody guilt trips. It was unfortunate that Ginny could emulate her mother so well.
"Ginny, you know I hate flying."
"But once you get the hang of it, you'll love it," she insisted. "Just try, Hermione. I promise I'll catch you if you fall."
Hermione looked uncertainly at her broom. She might as well … she'd been in the hospital wing enough to know it wasn't as daunting a place as most students proclaimed, and Pomfrey was nice enough when she wasn't shoving potion after potion down your sorry, aching throat.
Carefully, she mounted the school broom. Once she was straddling it securely, she glanced at Ginny. Notgonnafallnotgonnafallnotgonnafall …
"Kick off the ground."
Easy for you to say, she grimaced. Her knuckles were almost white with the force she was exerting by simply holding on. Hermione kicked off and hovered lopsidedly, wobbling in midair. She tightened her grip, which seemed to make the broom jiggle even more. It had to be rickety — or maybe she just wasn't made to fly.
"Er, just nudge it forward a little, Hermione." Ginny sounded slightly edgy. She had a reason to be. "Not too hard — Hermione!"
She zoomed forward, the broom bobbing under her. So she'd 'nudged it' a little too hard. Merlin's beard, she was going to die. Maybe the broom didn't like her mental comment about it being rickety. I'mgonnafallI'mgonnafallI'mgonnafallOHMYGOD! The front of her broom dug firmly into the grass, and she squeaked, flipping and rolling until she came to a stop flat on her back.
"Hermione! Are you alright? Oh, Hermione, I'm sorry." Ginny was running towards her, and she would've pushed herself up if her arms didn't feel like leaden weights. She'd be sore tomorrow in more places than one. I hate flying. I will never touch another broom as long as I live. Amen.
Laughter floated to her ears, and she heard a well-known voice drawl, "Pity, Granger. Last year at Hogwarts and you still can't fly properly." When the feeling finally came back to her limbs, she stood, brushing herself off and giving the broom she'd been on an irked look. "It's almost as shameful as your inability to read," she taunted, not bothering to hide her smile as Malfoy blanched. Got you by the balls, don't I? In truth, she didn't necessarily think that his love for books would've accumulated anything more than shock from his peers. Malfoy, however, seemed to have a different opinion on the matter.
"Whatever," he muttered, waving it off. "You finished here? We," he jerked his head to his left, "actually want to get some flying done." Curious, Hermione peered over his shoulder, which was a task in itself. Malfoy wasn't exactly the tallest person, but he was pretty damn tall compared to her petite frame. In the end, she settled for tilting her head to the side and looking beside his shoulder.
Zabini was strolling towards them, broomstick in hand. He seemed to be scowling at something or the other as he tossed his head, swinging disheveled curls out of his sharp blue eyes. Ginny blew out her breath in an annoyed fashion and rolled her eyes. "You're not the only one who wants to fly, Malfoy."
It was fortunate that they were on good terms overall, or Malfoy would've responded viciously.
Blaise glanced up and froze. Why in the bloody fuck was Granger out on the Quidditch Pitch? It was common knowledge that she couldn't fly a broom to save a kitten from a tree branch. Snatches of 'the dream' bombarded him, and he shook them away. Bloody fucking fuck.
"Zabini," she nodded. Fuck, damn it.
"Granger," he said tersely.
"Oh, so you know each other." Malfoy grinned. "Better idea, Granger. Why don't you and Weasel join us? All three of us can teach you how to not fall off your broom."
He was going to murder Malfoy. Granger seemed to be in the midst of assessing him, which wasn't helping his case. "I didn't know you flew," she commented. Blaise inclined his head. Why couldn't she just bloody leave? "I don't often."
"Pick up the pace and mount, Granger. Like I said, we'll teach you not to fall off." Malfoy was practically bouncing with glee, and his expression was enough to make any sane, logical person wary. Luckily for Blaise, Hermione Granger was, if nothing else, perfectly logical and sane — for the time being.
She picked up her broom in a manner that suggested it would bite if handled wrongly and kept it a certain distance away from her body. "Thanks, but no thanks, Malfoy. I'd rather eat slugs." With a saccharine smile, she beckoned to the Weasley girl and trod off.
"Damn." Malfoy sounded almost wistful. "I really wanted to see her fall off the broom again."
Thank the merciful gods. Granger was gone.
"Stop being a prat and let's fly," he said, mounting his broom and kicking off the ground in a fluid motion. Merlin, it felt good to be in the air and away from Granger.
-
"You know, Zabini doesn't look half-bad," Ginny remarked casually. Hermione thrust her broomstick into the broom cupboard with a strained air, not really listening. Never again will I attempt to fly.
"Yeah, I guess," she muttered, forcing herself not to slam the door. Hah! In your face, bloody broom. I'm still alive, and you're back in your ruddy little closet.
"Tall, dark and handsome," Ginny prodded knowingly, "just like in those Muggle fictions you read."
Where was she going with this? "I suppose," Hermione said offhandedly. Who were they talking about again? Ginny was looking at her oddly now. Before she could ask if there was something on her face, Ginny confided, "I think he fancies you."
"Pardon? Who fancies me?" The only person who'd ever shown any interest in her had been Ron, and their attempt at romance had ended two years prior. It had felt as if she was dating her brother, and that was simply awkward. Who were they talking about again?
"Forget it," Ginny huffed melodramatically, "it's not my fault if you don't notice a beautiful Slytherin who seems to get rather flustered when he sees you."
"I don't think Malfoy's interested in me, Gin. Trust me on this."
"Who said anything about Malfoy? He's a prick." Hermione shot her a look. "Okay," Ginny conceded, "he's a downright funny prick, but he's still a prick. Happy?"
"Ecstatic."
"Great. Anyway, I was referring to that Zabini. Is he Malfoy's best mate or something? I don't see them together in the halls."
Come to think of it, she didn't either. "Malfoy doesn't seem the type Zabini would put up with," she commented dryly. From what she'd observed, Zabini remained silent unless spoken to, and he seemed diligent in his work ethics. His personality clashed so fiercely with Malfoy's that she was amazed the two could stand the other.
"He has great eyes."
"Malfoy?"
"Zabini!"
"Oh. Right."
"Cripes, Hermione. If I didn't know better, I'd think you have a thing for Malfoy." Ginny looked momentarily worried. Then, she lowered her voice conspiratorially. "You don't, do you? Of course, if you do, I completely understand. You can disregard every nasty thing I've ever said about him, even if it was true —"
"Don't worry, Ginny. Malfoy is a prick."
The girl's eyes lit up. "Does that mean you're not in love with him?"
Hermione shook her head. "Gin, Malfoy's what people would call a metro sexual in my world." Ginny looked confused. "He values fashion more than sports and worries about how he looks, but he's not homosexual."
"So … Malfoy's straight, but he basically acts like he's gay?"
"Close enough." She left Ginny at the Fat Lady's portrait with, "I'm going to take a nap and have blissful dreams about never flying again." The redhead snorted.
She was, in fact, a little tired from her poor attempt at flying. It felt as if she'd pulled multiple things in her back, her limbs were throbbing with a dull ache and her fingers were virtually petrified from having gripped the broom so severely.
"'Emerald Earwigs,'" she muttered, grimacing at the strangeness of the password. Once in her room, she locked the door with a lackadaisical 'Colloportus' and fell facedown onto her bed. She had a while until Ginny came looking for her to drag her down to lunch.
What was that rubbish she was spouting about Zabini being tall, dark and handsome? Well, she supposed he was, but still. He was exactly the same height as Malfoy, yet the two couldn't be any more divergent. Zabini had the darkest hair she'd ever seen, always faintly tousled in a sophisticated sort of way, which fell markedly into his eyes. He was always jerking his head and tossing his bangs to the side or running a long-fingered, pianist hand through them. Did he play the piano? She'd have to ask him.
He had spectacular eyes. They were a fierce blue that seemed to fluctuate with his moods. Why she'd taken the time to notice his eye-color, she wasn't sure.
With a fitful sigh, she rolled onto her back and gasped, staring wide-eyed at her canopy. Why was Zabini — she flushed a bright red as her heart began to speed. Finding she couldn't get a word out, let alone move, she resigned herself to watching the slideshow of movement above her.
Why was she allowing herself to watch Zabini take a bath? It was wrong and immoral and … did he really look like that? She stared as he swam lengths in the Prefect's bathroom, his rather — healthy-looking — backside flashing every now and then in the soapy water.
Oh Merlin, what am I doing? She wanted to drown herself … preferably in the same tub as him — No, she scolded herself, you will not think of taking a nice, hot, steamy bath with Zabini. You will not wonder what it would be like for him to … bathe you …
She was losing the internal battle of wills, and she knew it.
Bloody hell, he's got an arse.
