Blaise Zabini had a good relationship with his mother. Admirably good, considering the mother issues those around him had (aside from Draco, whom other faults aside, had an uncommonly devoted family). Other than her choices of paramour and protean attitude, she was a good presence in his life.
Most of the time.
See, Malina Zabini never wanted to become a mother. However, her plan with husband number three, whom Blaise was told by various aunts over the years was her true love, wanted an heir. The initial plan had been to let a distant cousin raise him while she continued to traipse the globe with her lover, but then his father went and did the unfortunate thing of dying, so she kept him, as a souvenir of her soulmate.
In both looks and attitude, Malina Zabini had not aged at all: glossy raven-black tresses, a deeply melodious voice, and ethnically ambiguous features that made one want to stare and parse her out. She was a momento frozen in a time between two wizarding wars where she neither had nor could afford to depend on anyone except herself. On better days, she carried herself as though she were his older sister, or an old flame of sorts (he didn't want to dwell on this at all), with the sole reason for life being to ruffle his feathers.
"I can smell the liquor on you," she sniffed. "You're too young to have been driven to drink. Who is it? A woman? A one-legged bowtruckle? An aged centaur?"
He almost, almost preferred the mariticide.
"I have a few new brews I've developed. One drop should do it." She cocked a painted fingernail at him.
Mippy, the house-elf, looked at him with bulbous eyes. "Mippy is telling her to stop. She was having pains from trying the latest one."
"Mother," he greeted. "I would prefer to leave criminal plans for another conversation."
"Oh, pish posh. The more we speak of it, the more they do not know when we are not joking."
"Are you joking?"
She fluttered her eyes at him. "Set your bags down, boy. We have a bigger problem."
He handed his satchel to Mippy, smoothing down his robes from the rushed travel. "That would be…"
"My hand towels. They were monogrammed, but now they're blank, so there must be thievery afoot. But Mippy insists I had transfigured them in a drunken state." Malina sniffed. "I do not drink. I sip. I guzzle, on occasion, when a man's jewels are involved."
The stench of alcohol thickened every inch of the estate.
While his mother tottered about, updating him on the utter state of the topiary garden, he went about to clean. Mippy was their only elf and couldn't both watch his mother from violating her parole and clean. Part of him was disgusted to be reduced to such housekeeping when he came here to seek respite, but the other part was subsumed in the mundane work.
It kept him from thinking about the why of his sudden visit. Last time he did this, two days of milling about with his mother had cured the distaste in his mouth from a failed business expansion, so he expected the same now. Less time, in fact, given he was suffering a failed…what? Acquaintance?
Problem. A decidedly Granger-shaped problem.
Growling, he tugged harder on the tapestries. A plume of dust ricocheted over him and Mippy.
Mippy flinched. "Mippy is sorry. Mippy should clean more. Mippy is...Mippy is..." self-deprecation dissolved into loud sniffles, followed by a bang as she rammed her head into the nearest pillar.
Blaise watched her do it again, detached irritation morphing into mild horror when a bruise bulged on her left ear.
"Stop. I'll take care of it."
Mippy, the sneaky elf, looked remorseful for all of two seconds before sauntering away to keep his mother from drinking through all the bottles he brought. As he tore down the old tapestries and wrung them clean, he laughed quietly to himself. Granger would've been impressed at the handling.
He promptly dropped the tapestry and stared at his dirty hands. Clean. He needed to clean them.
He left to wash the dishes. With magic, of course—he wasn't going to lower himself entirely to the level of a peasant—and then aired out the East Wing so he could sleep without feeling like he was in the attic of a decrepit bar.
The noise of loud tinkering awoke him the next day. Malina, in her endless boredom, taken taken to pottery. Or sculpting. Some activity that required taking a knife to stone and tapping away wildly.
Malina stared pointedly at his entrance. She was sober today, so far, her silky hair pulled into a up-do and immaculately dressed in a set of deep blue robes. "Mippy thinks she is under orders to prevent me from the potions lab."
"She is."
"I do create things other than poison." She wedged a knife into one side of a large block of stone.
Blaise stepped over a broken statute of Grimwald the Gorey. "I thought you didn't enjoy your Potions Mastery."
"I did, but the teacher was a bore." Malina took a cudgel, swinging it into the back of the knife. A crack spiraled up the column. "Graduated top of my class." She paused. "Fifth best," she amended.
Blaise kicked aside Grimwald's hand. It was an old statue that served a better purpose as dust, really. Aside from his mother occupying the middle of the drawing room for crimes against inanimate objects, a set of beautiful exigies skirted the windows. They were made out of stone, clearly, but imbued with magic to make them a translucent yellow, almost crystal-like.
Malina's tapping stopped at his look of surprise. "A poison doesn't work without thorough knowledge of what heals."
"You can destroy without knowing how it's built." He gestured to poor Grimwald.
"Hm, yes, I suppose."
Deciding that she'd done enough work today, Malina patted his cheek and abandoned him to leave for better prospects, which Blaise later discovered involved shears and their aviary.
"Missus is good at clipping," said Mippy.
Blaise watched his mother chase a bright yellow canary named Buford and pin him down. The arrival of an owl—another one of Theo's—stole his attention.
Curled in the owl's claws was another demanding letter. Draco's bachelor party was to be held the next month in an exclusive wizarding club in France, and Blaise was NOT invited, why?
The owl hooted at him. Blaise didn't know the name of this one.
"No letter today," he told it, shaking his head.
The owl, like Theo's first one, refused to budge. Blaise tried giving it a scrap of empty parchment but it refused.
He was forced to seize this one too.
"Is that one of ours?" Malina slowly scissored her sheers in the owl's direction.
Blaise shooed it to a top rung. "No, it's Theo's."
"Theo? I like him. Will he be joining us?" Malina's terms of house arrest allowed one visitor per month, other than Blaise. His friends liked his mother as far as mothers went—Narcissa was too intimidating and Pansy's mother too prone to debilitating insults.
"No."
"And Draco? The pointy one."
Mention of his name sent a sharp prick through his chest. "No."
Malina pointed the tip of her shears at him. "Hah! You are not here for friends or work, are you?"
"Please put the blades down, mother."
He was ninety percent sure her newly-discovered laissez faire liking for chaos was a ruse to magnify her insanity defense, but far be it for him to decide legal arguments, because she was not insane at all. She was the most coherent person, really.
She swung the shears like a regency-era knight. Coherent, he affirmed, pursing his lips, when not hungry to shed blood.
He tugged it from her hands.
"It's nearly dinner time."
"Is it? Mippy! Set the table! With the monogrammed napkins!"
"We don't have them, missus—"
"You blithering elf. I am not drunk. I know when this—this—letter thief has tinkered with my property."
Five minutes later, Blaise placed a plain ecru napkin across his lap. His mother cooed at the table setting, unaware he'd quietly charmed large green letters onto her silverware and towelette before she sat down.
If possible, it made it the situation worse. She crooned through the appetizer and most of the entree over the lovely cutlery.
"Mippy!" Malina called again, pinching the butter knife's sharp end. "The desserts! And don't forget the biscuits!"
A plate of biscuits, similar in color and texture to the ones from Via Incantate, appeared next to him.
"Still your favorites, non?"
Very.
He fingered his knife and fork. The curry-soaked salmon in front of him was still untouched.
"There's a woman," he began.
Yes, of course there is, go on you idiotic boy, said Malina's bemused expression.
"I don't want to like her."
She shrugged. "I didn't like two of my husbands, so I got rid of them."
"Yes, mother. But, I don't want to be confined," he looked around, turning up his nose at the decaying state of the manor, "so I don't want to poison her."
Malina looked put out the prospect, pushing bits of food around her plate. And then she rightly pointed out, wagging a fork at him, "You've already confined yourself to a small vineyard in the middle of an overheated village."
That was different. He didn't want to be put somewhere by Ministry idiots. He wanted the freedom to be unbothered. For people to come after him, so then he could ignore them, because it meant it was in his control. It wasn't enough to be superior without others knowing where they stood, or so went their ancestral wisdom.
At his lack of response, his mother continued. "What do you want me to do?"
Blaise picked up his knife. "Did you like any of your husbands? Other than father."
The mention of his father was a gamble. It would either make Malina withdraw or turn her into a morose entity with shades of the mother she could've been in a different life.
He sliced through the soft salmon, unwilling to see what choice she made before he'd at least eaten a bite.
"If I did, I married them. Marriage has this way of making you dislike someone."
Blaise glanced at her. She was tapping her fingers across her end of the table, watching him with narrowed eyes.
She was going to mother him. He squared his shoulders, awaiting her take on the matter.
"And so what of it? Such a quiet boy since I first held you. Yet you want to talk to this woman so badly you've come running home." Malina rolled her eyes to the ceiling, sighing softly. "If you're so confident she is unlikeable, then no harm in trying and being proven right, is there? If you're wrong, then, enjoy it while it lasts."
What an unbelievable prospect. He wasn't going to marry Granger, or touch her, or court her, or anything of the sort. He just needed to figure out where she fit in his life. She certainly wasn't on the small tier reserved for friends, but he knew enough intimate details about her that it would be odd to place her on the same footing as, say, the local chefs who procured their libations from his business. And normal people didn't fret nor fight this much over a mere pet (though Theo's ersatz-homosexual relationship with his owls would object).
Malina sniffed. "Liking someone is a choice. Don't be dragged around by it like a pitiful dog. When you've taken ahold of it, then seek me out." She raised a finger. "The letter B is too circular to look pleasant on monogrammed napkins, dear. Do not bring me a lady named Bertha."
"My name starts with a B."
"A reckless decision, I assure you. Gnaeus or Maurice would've been better..."
Blaise wondered if she killed any of her husbands out of fear she'd love them too much one day. An interesting idea, but his own worries were enough for the evening.
Sure enough, Pansy and Marcus both owled him, Pansy subtly probing as to his plans over the next few weeks and Marcus demanding another Quidditch match.
None seemed to be aware he was in town, and their owls were not nearly as well trained as Theo's, so both were easily sent back without a reply. Let them think he met a gruesome end in the Italian heat, or something.
On Monday and Tuesday, Blaise finished cleaning, squeezed a few quick floo-call with shareholders in Wales, and pondered the Granger-shaped problem when he could. He would need to return, soon, with signs of an early Harvest season this year. He did consider leaving Granger to finish and leave before he returned, but then the problem would still exist, and problems always festered into an ugly things with fewer resolutions as time wore on.
Blaise caught glimpses of himself in the towering mirrors they kept across the staircase landing. Tall, dark, and handsome went the saying. A sharp jaw and structured feature softened by plush lips.
He would be fine.
In a few years, should he want companionship or a soft body in his bed, he'd be able to acquire it. There was no need to avoid her any longer than necessary.
On Wednesday, Blaise took the train to the international portkey office, bought a one-way compass-shaped portkey, and from there landed in Tuscany. Despite the early evening glow, it was later than Granger ever stayed, so he resolved to speak to her the next morning and turned on the spot to apparate straight to his villa.
The wide mahogany door was already open.
The only sign that Granger was caught off guard was her wand pointed at his nose and a shower of little flower-shaped puffs over them. Bags dispersed across the parquet floor. A few puffs landed in her hair.
A buttery aroma teased his nose. "What—" he started.
Perilous recognition flashed on her face. "You."
"—are you doing here?"
"What am I doing?You left me here!" she shrilled. "You let me through your wards and then you left without a word!"
Her logic, admittedly, was airtight. He, however, was unprepared to see her at this hour, and it made him surly.
"And you've taken to occupying—"
"Finish that sentence and I will transfigure you into a bug."
Blaise stopped. She sounded confident, and he had the uneasy inkling she'd done exactly that before.
He looked past her. Other than the explosion of whatever she brought in, his house was fine. The only reasonable conclusion was that she'd taken to working late to speed up the process, which she confirmed when she said, noticing his evaluation of the premises, "I'll be done on Thursday."
Another fidget. She fiddled with her wand. The little white-yellow dollops vanished except for the ones in her hair.
"Popcorn."
He jolted.
She pointed to a shredded label on the table, next to the dessert plate that had become a temporary fixture in the foyer. "Since I consumed an inordinate amount of your snacks, I thought you might like to try new ones."
She thought of him.
Enough to buy him snacks.
"You're an arsehole," she said again, bobbing her head. Pieces of this popcorn disappeared further in her hair.
"Pause, Granger." He lifted his hand and gave himself enough time to think twice about it, but he didn't halt his hand.
He plucked the little bobbles out of her hair and tossed them aside.
Granger scratched her chin.
Sighing quietly, she summoned her bags and robes. Her expression went flat, but there was no mistaking the downturn of her lips.
"Good night, Zabini."
He left the wards open to her.
It would keep her away and without need for him, but Granger, it seemed, was determined to be both omnipresent and impenetrable. Like she was prodding at him to open up, explain, do anything, now that all boundaries had been crossed.
However, and he overlooked this key point, was that she was still working on his private quarters. And him, due the time difference, woke up one hour later hour, at the sound of her knocking at his bedroom door.
Rolling over quietly, he waited, just to see how polite she'd be if he refused.
On her third knock, she announced, "I know you're in there, and this is a courtesy knock. I have a DMLE warrant to enter as needed."
He contemplated smothering himself with his pillow. Or her. Equally attractive options, with extraordinarily different consequences.
He yanked the door open.
Granger's eyes lifted from where they met his chest to his face, and wordlessly she slipped around him to enter his bathroom. Little sparks from her spellwork reverbrated across the room.
Used to seeing shirtless pureblood men, was she?
He summoned his pillow and a set of clothes, slept for another hour on the loveseat in the sunroom, then spent the day safely tucked away in his office. This worked for most of the day, but no sooner had he taken a slow breath at the arrival of golden hour did the golden girl arrive at his office.
She approached his desk with a wad of parchments. "This is a survey of all the dark magic embedded on your property, the runes I was able to remove, and suggestions," she elongated her vowels here, which meant they were obligations, "for renovations, to be made within a year's time."
He pretended to scan over them. He knew, and she knew that he knew, that she was thorough and less likely to leave an error in her work than Rowena Ravenclaw herself, rogue footstools while dealing with Weasley for a partner aside.
"Is that all?"
"No. The portrait of Marco di Verità mentioned a possible warded off section under the second pergola, so I will be double-checking that area." A dimple appeared on her cheek from the force of her bite. "That changes my anticipated departure time to Friday afternoon."
That was two days from now.
"You spoke to my portraits?" He couldn't imagine any of them giving her the time of day, other than the drooling Sir Alastair Thornwood next to one of the parlors.
She ignored him. "Lastly, an errant owl took residence in your parlor. I sent a letter to the local emporium and left a notice of a missing animal, but they say it's not theirs."
"It's Theo's."
"You…commandeered Nott's owl."
Was that a crime? He didn't remember. There were too many of those laws and legislations passing for him to keep up.
When she didn't leave, he looked up. She was staring somewhere at his desk, maybe higher if he wasn't mistaken—his brow furrowed, his arms? Did he have something on them? She must have known he never took the Dark Mark from the post-war trials, and this shirt was a thick wool blend, a mistake he'd made while being kicked out of his room at an ungodly hour by Granger, leaving him to walk around with sleeves rolled to his elbows.
"What? Does that warrant Auror Potter flying in?"
She bit her cheek harder. Half her face flushed.
Without dignifying him with a response, she left.
Odd witch.
Her strange behavior—strange for her, that is—did not make her less likable. Instead, Blaise had a great many questions, starting with what fucking dragon did she ride in Gringotts, and ending with who thought popcorn looked edible enough to put in one's mouth willingly?
Granger didn't need him to follow her out. Once he was sure he heard her apparate he stalked over to the portrait of the potioneer.
Marco di Verità's face was the epitome of innocence.
"Granger already covered that section."
Di Verità raised an eyebrow. "Oh, my. My mistake."
"What are you playing at? Did Draco put you up to this?"
Marco di Verità looked to the side, out of the frame. Blaise had wanted to sell off some of the portraits when he arrived, but they brought a good dose of protection magic, and, when they weren't chattering about, rare historical insights. Di Verità had provided beneficial input on the fermentation process more than once, owing to his potioneering vocation.
"Answer me. I can easily sell you off to the museum or leave you to collect dust in the storage."
Di Verità's painted visage scowled. "The poor girl was wandering the halls like a haunted ghoul. I took pity on her." He sniffed. "After that tiffle with Mister Malfoy, I rather thought you would be appreciative for a chance to win her heart."
"Win her hea—does being made of pigment make you daft?"
Di Verità blinked at him. Blaise summoned a tapestry over his protesting mewls.
Soon, it became clear that Di Verità wasn't the only problem. A random portrait of an old ancestor on his father's side, amidst frothing insults at the girl, hinted at similar sorrow. She took glee in it, of course, but Blaise settled onto the top stair, wand twirling after he'd silenced him all for the evening, wondering if Granger was truly so easy to upset.
He left her alone and to her devices. What more could she have possibly asked for? She had worked extra hours while he was gone just to leave this place sooner. Clearly, she had no desire to stay.
Or was it his ill manners the day after Draco's visit, ridiculing her job he'd once implied she was too good for?
He sighed quietly. Di Verità might be right, but only because letting Granger be like this would leave him distracted. And still at odds with Draco, and possibly Theo, and they were not the type to leave him alone. Draco was sure to do something soon, which would ruffle him further.
As evening dawned, Blaise decided his mother had spoken with a modicum of logic. He needed proof that Granger rising in his esteem was a fluke, and that for all purposes, she was and would remain equivocally average and forever touched by the mundane.
He showered and pulled on his newest suit. A rich navy with a subtle sheen, its embedded fitting charm made it conform easily to his frame. He adjusted the cuffs, the crisp white of his shirt peeking out just the right amount, and fastened the single button of the jacket, feeling it cinch in at his midsection.
He had a general idea of where Granger was staying. It wasn't a muggle inn, thank Salazar, but a battered one near the edge of wizarding Tuscany, the height of the Ministry's affordability.
He entered the lobby, took stock of the soup-colored chairs and faint scent of stale cigarette smoke, and attempted to converse with the receptionist without wrinkling his nose. He needn't have put in effort, because the receptionist looked as happy to be here as he did.
"Name?" the receptionist asked.
"Zabini. For Granger."
The receptionist nodded and levitated a folded note up the stairs. Maybe Granger wasn't as recognizable around these parts, or had enough visitors that this was no strange occurrence.
The idea of men visiting her in these parts churned his stomach with poison.
A note floated back down. The receptionist unfolded it and frowned.
"She's unavailable."
"Did she say why?"
"No, signore."
"Tell her it's urgent."
The receptionist did so. Three minutes later, another note returned.
Clearly, she was here, and unwilling to see him.
Blaise clenched his jaw.
"Perhaps, signore," the receptionist started, looking less bored at the debacle, "if you came back with flowers…"
The man clamped his mouth shut at the dark glare that followed.
Blaise seized the parchment and scribbled a I need to speak with you, ending with his signature flourish, and resisted the urge to tap his foot as he waited for his presence to be acknowledged.
He would not beg, for Merlin's sake—
Granger appeared at the bottom of the bannister, hair soaking wet, wearing a flowy full-sleeved dress that fell to her knees, hands hanging loosely at her sides but twitching with the threat of a hex.
"What?"
"You needn't have run out of the bathroom."
"What could possibly have not waited until tomorrow?" she half-shouted.
My sanity, his mind quipped.
Then he imagined her in his villa, alone and unwilling to destroy his portraits to bits while they scowled at her, worried about him and buying him popcorn.
He swallowed thickly.
"I owe you an apology."
Granger relaxed.
By a fraction.
Though her hands stopped twitching, her face and nose were so scrunched he thought he would need to pinch her cheeks to smooth her wrinkles over.
"Okay," she said blandly. Water droplets plopped onto the floor. The area around her neck and shoulders were becoming soaked. She made a vague gesture for him to continue.
His nostrils flared. He came here, preparing for a busy start to the upcoming season, and she thought he was so beneath her, making him dither around like a damned…
Damnit.
Damnit, he'd never done this before. He didn't do things like this. Only she would understand a different approach to an apology where it was backed with five points and preemptively planned defenses to possible counterpoints.
"Dinner."
He winced at his own delivery.
"Are you available for dinner tonight?" he tried again.
A series of small coughs was a jarring reminder they had company. Both turned to the terribly amused receptionist.
"Signorita Granger, I told him that he should have brought flowers."
Granger's right eye twitched.
She stalked past him and outside, into the warm air. He took it as a signal to follow and that not all hope was lost.
She assessed him head to toe, picking him apart at every angle. He was being objectified, and not in the pleasurable way—maybe to assess how many joints were breakable and how much effort it would take.
"Why," Granger started slowly, and the sun was nearly gone under the horizon, only its tip poking out to leave the world aglow with a striking orange and pink haze, turning her drying hair into a symphony of colors, "should I accept this invitation, Zabini?"
"Do I need to pull out a scroll and drolly read to you a list of my crimes ?"
"So bloody dramatic," she said, but she was starting to smile.
He swept his tongue around his mouth and began.
"It's not you I should be angry at."
She cocked her head. "No."
"But I am."
"I can't help you with that."
"You aren't curious why?"
"I've experienced a lot of things, and adulthood has taught me that if I wanted to answer the very question of why, I would never get anything done. Why do I have magic? Why was the greatest threat to a half-blood dark wizard a baby? Why can't I be everything to—" she stopped and took a grounding breath. "I'm tired and I don't have time. Not anymore."
He wondered if Weasley had something to do with that. Perhaps, as much as he was beat himself with the question of why for the past week, she was confronting her own whys.
He fought against his nature and every ounce of self-preservation to reply honestly.
He didn't want to.
He despised it.
But he had so many questions.
He wanted to know if truly, the only person he could be mad at was himself, for the ruinous state she put him in.
He held out his arm. "Twenty questions. To get to know you."
He wanted to eat at La Serenissima Enchanté and check if an opera was open afterwards. His mother frequently took him to those before he started at Hogwarts, and he was fond of the latest set of singers.
But Granger was sidetracked by a bookstore three minutes into their stroll down the alley. Prepared to deride her for being predictable, he was forewarned by Granger's glare and her handing him two books, one by Roger Porter and another by Magnus Yukolt. She exchanged familiar pleasantries with the bookshop owner, treaded outside, and pivoted to the games shop two doors down.
Blaise tilted his head to the side. He hadn't frequented this shop before as they offered only general Quidditch equipment, mostly trading in board games and trinkets. Granger disappeared between two doddering shelves containing needless variations of wizarding chess and card games.
A minute later, her head popped out, presumably seeking the owner.
"He's in the back," said Blaise, adjusting his cuffs.
Granger's incisor caught her lip. "Could you grab something from the top shelf? It's charmed against levitating spells."
Blaise squeezed into the narrow space. Granger pointed to a chess set. Hand-carved and made with goblin-wrought silver.
"Exploiting goblin labor?" he harrumphed, mock contrite.
She huffed. "Is that the first question?"
Shaking his head, he craned his neck and grasped the box in question. Granger tried to maneuver around him in the narrow aisle, jostling his shoulder.
"Stop moving."
He heard a small mumble under her breath. Like this, she was—smaller than her personality made her out to be, and he was surprised to find it bearable.
"Do you play?" He lowered his arms, handing her the box. "Question one."
"It's for Harry's birthday." Almost fondly, she dragged her fingers over the sides of the box. "I've never been good."
A scoff.
"What?"
"That sounded painful for you to admit."
She nudged him on her way to the front. "Why does everything think I think I'm good at everything? Studying, sure," she handed a few galleons to the returned shopkeeper, "but I can't tolerate flying—don't look at me like that—and my knitting is terrible, and I can cook only fried rice or tiramisu."
"Those are two very different food groups."
She pursed her lips together, stuffing the box into a small beaded bag. It disappeared entirely. An extension charm? Those, he knew for a fact were illegal, because he'd tried to use one to store a dozen bottles of Sangiovese on a visit to his mother, and two Aurors found him twenty minutes later.
They turned to stroll down the main alley, enjoying the settled darkness of the night sky. Enchanted lanterns hung on ropes zigzagging above their heads. Tuscany's wizarding village was between two rolling hills, charmed to indefinitely maintain rustic stone buildings and vine-covered archways. The streets smelled of blooming night jasmine and fresh herbs, mingling with the distant sound of a lute being played by a street musician.
Because it was a weekday night, the crowd was sparse, they could maintain a purposeful, consistent distance between them.
"What do you cook?" she asked.
"Beef wellington. A seafood bisque or risotto if I'm in a rush."
He waited for the impressed gasp, but she was distracted, speeding up her pace ahead.
"Did you have a place in mind?" she asked, looking over her shoulder. "This is my favorite."
He followed her line of sight, only for one eyebrow to arch at the tall and narrow entryway of La Serenissima Enchanté. "It's expensive."
"Zabini…do you think muggles don't know what fine dining is?"
Yes, but unless he'd developed a fancy for being slapped, he wouldn't admit that.
Come to think of it, her dress wasn't of cheap provenance either, nor the muggle work clothing he'd seen her in. If he had to guess, they were all made of versatile cotton or some combination of cotton and silk.
Suitably chastised, he joined her at the entrance, where the waitress hardly blinked an eye when Zabini warned her quietly that this was to be confidential.
"Of course, Mister Zabini." The waitress escorted them to a private booth next to a window that filtered in enchanted lights.
When not chewing on biscuits, Granger managed just fine with the table setting and the ambiance.
"Have you spent most weekends here?" he asked after they ordered their first course.
"The Ministry pays for portkeys, so I've gone home often enough." She crossed her arms over the table and stared outside. He wondered where home was for her. "Less often after the Falcons' match, but I've enjoyed exploring the area. I took a day trip to Venice a few weeks ago with a work colleague but the museums were overrated."
"The Library of Grimoires isn't far from here. They have a preserved set of pages from the original Codex Arcanum."
Granger hummed. "I haven't been yet. I didn't want to go alone."
He tried to see what she was looking at, but her eyes were out of focus with the look of someone watching out a memory play out in front of them.
"You don't like being alone?"
"Unlike you?" Her head remained turned away, yet her eyes began to subtly followed his movements.
He shifted in his seat. "I prefer it." I thought you would, too.
Her fidgeting started again. "Ah."
The celestial risotto and glazed dragon tenderloin broke her from her nostalgic reverie. A few blessed minutes of quiet, periodically pierced by satisfactory hums, allowed Blaise to evaluate the situation more thoroughly.
She remained likeable and average, barring her hair, eyes, mouth, and nose. Her neck, too, possibly. Her loose sleeves covered most of her arms. She made no motion to roll them up, even when the billowy fabric grazed over a piece of her tenderloin as she reached for a glass of water.
Blaise left his silverware at the edge of his plate and held up a hand. "Hold on, Granger."
"Why do you announce it like that? A serious question." Granger's tone was teasing. "Not that it's—"
He scooted forward, grasping her wrist with one hand and rolling her sleeve up to her elbow with the other. Granger's mouth closed, swallowing. What she thought of his habit, he'd never know. He moved for her other arm, careful to avoid touching her scar. It wasn't glamored but he carried on.
"Would you prefer I not announce it?"
She let out a slow exhale, peering at her scar. "No. Do announce."
She resumed slicing her steak, silent, and the entrees finished that way. Blaise mentally tallied his questions. Four for him, five for her. He could count her ask to be her errand boy, but that, he rationalized, was returning the favor of gifting him books.
For dessert, she ravaged a starlight tiramisu while he opted for a light panna cotta.
"The dragon incident. Breaking out of Gringotts. That wasn't a made-up tale?"
Granger raised both eyebrows at him. "Why would that be made-up?"
Whispers of it in their dorm during seventh year had sounded so outrageous that it was immediately dismissed as another supercilious tale about Potter's conquests. He chuckled at the image of Granger, breaking out of the most secure bank in the world on a dragon. Granger, threatening to turn people into bugs and probably having done it numerous times before.
"Why were you in Gringotts?"
Her eyes unfocused momentarily, returning to another memory. "Hm, most of it is confidential, but we needed to break into Bellatrix's vault."
Under the dim lantern light, her scar blinked at him.
"My turn. Other than Malfoy and Nott, do you keep in touch with anyone else from Hogwarts?"
His spoon froze midair. A dollop of melting cream threatened to go overboard, and more hastily than he preferred, he stuck the spoon in his mouth.
Granger's amused face resembled a Cheshire cat. She, of course, only had a few bites of the tiramisu left.
"Are there passes in this game?" he asked, scooping up another soupçon of cream.
"You could lie, but it's based on an honor code."
Oh. Then he should have been playing the game quite differently.
He released a small sigh. "Most of the Slytherin Quidditch team, except Warrington and Montague. A few Ravenclaws from a NEWT study group for business purposes."
"No one from the Slug Club?"
Both shuddered at that.
Granger finished the last of her tiramisu. She spent an inordinate amount of time licking the spoon clean, her tongue swiping around both sides.
"Do they visit you often?" Granger's attempt at subtlety was searing. What was she playing at?
"Often enough." He finished the last of the panna cotta and gestured for the bill.
Granger had left before Blaise kicked Draco out of the wards and couldn't possibly be privy to what happened, unless she and Theo had escalated their professional work relationship into a whirlwind friendship. A bitter taste crept into his mouth at the thought.
Ah. He tapped his spoon against the small dessert plate.
Those damned portraits.
He wasn't a violently temperamental sort, but he was going to turn all of them into fertilizer. Thoughts of splintering each canvas, though, was interrupted by Granger's comical attempt at paying. She smiled sweetly at the waitress and began pulling out her beady bag. He pulled out his wand and tried to summon it.
She side-eyed him. Of course, she'd made her bag illegally unsummonable too.
Desperate, he knocked her feet with his. And none too gently, for she scowled at him.
"Oh, um, I'll come back," said the mousy waitress.
"Are you twelve?" she bit out when the woman was gone.
"Are you out of your mind?"
"I can afford it—"
"I'm not a philistine."
"I was going to split."
He steepled his hands and lifted his forefingers to his mouth.
"Granger."
"Zabini."
"There are some things you do not do, least of all in Italy. This is one of them." He explained this like a parent did to a particularly slow child.
She regarded his stern glare.
"One one condition," she conceded.
She wasn't going to make this easy for him, was she? He rubbed his forehead, beckoning her to proceed.
"You have to try popcorn."
On the rare occasions Blaise Zabini had entered the muggle world, it was related to unavoidable transport-related reasons, other than the time Theo asked him to accompany him to fetch a delicate object for work that could not be floo'd nor portkeyed across borders, which forced them to walk a kilometer through a muggle farm. Of course, Blaise had sent Theo the cleaning bill for forcing his shoes to wade through mulch.
Tonight, he stood in a muggle grocery store, watching Granger crouch to decide what form of torture was appropriate for the evening.
"Granger. Is this necessary?"
"That counts as a question, and yes. I cannot believe there is an entire flavor of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans called buttered popcorn and you lot don't have popcorn."
"Us," he said tiredly, sidestepping when a large man attempted to shuffle by. "Might I remind you that you're a witch?"
Granger's glare was sharp. It was strange to hold his tongue to not speak of magic or magical things. Everything was magical, and it was the reason why muggles were scorned. They were bereft of life's most basic gift.
Muggles around him were shuffling about, carrying all sorts of knick knacks in her arms or little carts with small wheels. The aisles hummed with harsh lighting but they all had the same hollowed-out expression, nary a thought inside their heads. Some did a small double-take at his looming and well-groomed appearance, he imagined. He hoped they enjoy it, for they would never see the sight again.
On second thought, it was rather late in the evening, so he dismissed their empty looks as ones of exhaustion. It was better than Knockturn Alley, at any rate.
Granger, meanwhile, was weighing two options, both boxes with minute color differences.
"I thought it was the name for a buttery flavor, not that it was something itself. Like pumpkin spice."
Granger grinned wryly, lifting her box of choice to cradle it against her bosom. "Ron said the same thing when I took him."
Her mouth did a funny little twitch around Weasley's name, like she said it out of reflex before realizing the weight of it.
Near the exit, a stodgy man greeted them. The coins Granger pulled out resembled galleons, if a little duller, but there were also slips of paper decorated with faces. She handed a wad to the man, and he opened some contraption, pulled out two slips and a few coins, and handed it back to her.
Blaise should've ignored her little conversational stumble, really. Still no shits given about Weasley. But it would shed light on some of Granger's behavior and thought processes, and that would help him determine where he stood on his Granger-shaped problem.
While he mulled over how and when to ask, Granger tore into the box, lifting a flat, folded brown paper bag. How that contained the fluffy bits she'd propelled all over his floor, he had no idea.
"Normally, we'd need a microwave, but I don't think there's a service station for miles." Granger ducked into a dim alleyway about a block down, holding his arm to side-along him.
They materialized a few paces from her inn.
Her legs wobbled. The apparition took a good amount of energy, and she'd apparated them to the muggle area too. Blaise walked her to a nearby bench, sitting her down and plucking the brown paper thing from her hands.
"What do I do with this?"
"Don't. You'll burn it."
No, he wouldn't. When he refused to return it, Granger glowered and explained that it contained corn seeds that with enough heat could explode.
Admirably ferocious, these muggle snacks were.
He burned the first bag.
And the second.
He pulled out a third bag from the box. Granger jammed her heel into his ankle and while he was busy biting back a bellow, she grabbed it from his hands.
"I feel better now," she announced. Her lips began to form the incantation for Incendio.
He clamped a hand over her mouth. "You're one spell away from fainting."
She made endearing muffled noises, and he swore he could feel the touch of her lips if he pressed harder, but she batted him away.
"I'll do it," he insisted.
He did, indeed, burn the third bag, so Granger grabbed the box and ran for the inn. He caught her, his legs far longer than hers, and swung her back towards the bench, attempting to wrestling the goods from her vice grip. Pop Secret Popcorn, the bright yellow letters taunted.
"Wait, Zabini. Pause," she said.
He did.
She knocked her knee into his upper thigh. He collapsed on the bench, a wand pointed at his side. Her knee rested against the bench, in the gap created by his sprawled legs.
Granger looked down at him, smug.
Two things.
One—he was more of a stubborn bastard than he thought, if he wanted to try popcorn that he knew he would hate. That, or Granger made one want to do the exact opposite of what she declared out of sheer spite.
Second, he was mildly aroused.
She jostled the open box as if to mock him, held against her side. "You can have this if you answer a question. Why did you fight with Malfoy? Is that why you're pissed at me?"
His thoughts were doused with a cold bucket of water. The easy banter from before shuttered his face into something more cold. Dangerous.
He breathed slowly through his nose. He was sure, now, that Granger was not unlikeable like he'd hoped, but horribly likable, wildly so, and it wasn't enough for her to change the world. He was going to be changed with it, wasn't he?
"Why did you and Weasley break up?" he bit out.
She dropped her wand and stepped back.
"Pass."
Blaise leaned forward and cupped his face. "Also pass."
A surge of wind in the late night's was like a bated breath, waiting. The chasm between them may have shrunken, but he had more paces to go.
She pointed at herself. "Eight." At him. "Seven."
He had three questions left.
She handed him five of the little secretive popcorn bags (he suspected they were an elaborate ploy to undermine his self-esteem), thanked him in a polite farewell, and tottered into the inn.
He could do it.
Marcus wouldn't hesitate to send a dark, but not too dark, artifact for Blaise to toss into a random bin in his room. He also had enough pull at the travel office as Tuscany's primary commuter to England to meddle with her portkey. Delay it to the weekend, or next week. The Ministry cared little for her right now; what was a week, or even two?
It would be wrong, obviously. Granger might not have the same home as before, or be eager to see the Weasleys, but she was not him.
Pansy's owl found him again. Her letter was not threatening enough for him to spend another large sum to visit her, plus there were things to see to this week.
He also made sure to drag himself out of bed early. Should Granger show up announced, again, he might've actually pitched himself out the window.
Merlin. Infected with bloody dramatics from that moronic blonde.
Blaise made himself an extra strong shot of espresso and set to work on the popcorn. The first bag burnt shriveled into a crisp and the second was aflame for nearly thirty seconds.
The third was almost right. The problem was actually heating it with direct contact. When he cast his incendio from a distance and at a lower intensity, but for a longer time, none of them burned. It tasted like ash, so he resolved for fourth try.
Granger arrived exactly on time and he pretended to be on his way to the office from the kitchens when she stepped through and caught sight of a bowl of popcorn in the foyer.
She tossed a few pieces into her mouth.
"Not bad."
"Easier done without your shrilling." He hid a small smile in his cup.
Tomorrow. Blaise would be rid of her tomorrow. He didn't have all of the answers, but being in her company today was less catastrophic than yesterday.
He was at ease, even.
At this juncture, these were his finds: Granger was a problem, but solvable. She was tolerable company. He wouldn't seek it in the future, but should the Ministry stick its nose in his business, she was a desirable contact. A relationship of mutual benefit. He could offer similar bounty: a look into the Wizengamot, monetary support if and when she switched to the department she wanted to work in, or—
"Zabini."
His eyes popped open, fingers rubbing circles into his temples.
"Apologies. The door was open." Granger's hands were in her pockets, so if they were fidgeting, he wouldn't know. "If you're busy with work…"
He was.
"...then no problem, but if you have a free evening, I'd like to visit the Library of Grimoires. I probably won't have a reason to visit Tuscany again, and another long project might interrupt, so…"
She was babbling.
"...and the acquaintances I made here are busy for this week, and wouldn't appreciate the Codex' history…"
He straightened in his chair. "I should have a free hour."
She nodded and opened her mouth. At the last second she decided there was nothing else to say after her prattling and left his office, door clicking shut behind her.
Strange witch.
Actually busy as he was, there was no fanciful dinner. He wrapped up his matters, moved around the low-priority items on his agenda for the next day, and submitted a mail order for new artwork. After a brief shower and another fine choice of robes, he departed for wizarding Tuscany.
She met him in the inn's lobby with the tiny bead purse he suspected was full of food, and they ignored the receptionist's smirk as he apparated them both to a dirt road that led to a single building.
Said building was magnificent. To muggles, it would appear to be a dilapidated shack, but to wizards it took on the face of an imposing, gothic structure with towering spires and colossal, enchanted doors.
Granger made the most high-pitched delighted squeak humanly possible. Her legs vibrated from the force she used to keep them in a strictly even pace as they hiked to its entrance.
The aging employees of the museum were in for a long evening.
And enjoy, they did. When one guide realized they weren't random bimbling tourists—honestly, she should've known from the way he dressed and Granger spoke, alone—she called for the Director, a wiry fellow with a short stubble beard.
Blaise was instantly demoted from company for the evening to excess baggage. At the end of the alchemical equipment exhibit, Granger handed him her bag so she could use both hands to talk, taking a break only long enough to inform him that he could pull out one of the snacks she packed.
He trailed behind, switching hands every so often to carry the misleadingly heavy bag, drifting in and out to hear the conversation ahead. The Director walked Granger around the various rooms, pointing out the how, where, and when of each artifact. Her questions came in rapid succession. At the main exhibit, Granger's hands moved as fast as her mouth, gesturing at the Codex' pages. Why wasn't the rest of the Codex found? Did he hear about the popular theory that a vengeful Goblin during the Goblin War took it…bigotry, no doubt...and what about the Goblin War's impact on Sicilian folklore…
Blaise took a seat at the edge of an enchanted fountain. He stuck his hand into the bag and pulled out a canteen of already popped popcorn and a vat of lobster bisque from La Serenissima Enchanté, he guessed from the shape of the packaging.
The corners of his eyes wrinkled as he ate. He left the popcorn untouched.
"Thank you for coming with me," she said at the end.
"I see you've returned to the realm of the living," he remarked dryly. He wasn't bitter, though. Far from. It was an opportunity to observe and pick her apart without needing to speak.
The resulting flush at his words accompanied a combative recapture of her bag. Only the museum's closing hour stopped her, or they would've stayed all night. The Director, too, was sad to send them off, waving pitifully and dabbing at his eyes as they treaded down the dirt path. Granger shot an equally regretful smile or two at the old man over her shoulder.
"No questions today?" she asked.
"You've exhausted your questions after accosting the poor man."
Granger rolled her eyes. "We got along so well. There's a lot more interest he could get in the Library with a few changes. He invited me to give a talk on arthimanthic development during the Goblin Wars, if I had time."
"That's good. When?"
She'd have to return. Stay a day or two, maybe more. If it was after the harvest, he could move around a few things. If before, he could break away for a bit, handing off the land to one of those annoying apprentices that kept writing to him.
"To be honest, I don't think I will."
Blaise's hand slowed on its tread up her arm, where he was securing her for a side-along apparition to the inn.
"There's too many projects left at the DMLE," she was saying. "And so many people are quitting, so I might be the only DMLE curse-breaker until all of the high-risk properties are cleared."
He thought of Marcus talking about Longbottom. What he or anyone else would say or do about Granger going through some lesser house, crouching under tables and bending over desks to protect them from the remnants of their own crimes.
He ground his teeth. "Why?"
She raised a slender brow. "Question eight?"
He nodded once.
"I don't need the money. But Harry needs my support in the DMLE. Head Auror Robards is making some decisions we disagree with, and Harry's appointment would reform the DMLE. Now with…Ron…gone, it'll be double the work."
That was the worst fucking excuse his ears had the misfortune of hearing. His magic flared.
"Zabini?"
Too blinded by the whirlwind of dislodged emotions, he'd apparated them to his villa.
Granger took a step backwards.
He tried to breathe slowly through his nose.
"Granger. You ran after those two idiots for the entirety of your school career, and you want to sit out on your ambitions so Potter can reach the top?"
"Don't call them idiots," she retorted, acid creeping into her tone. "Harry is my brother. Harry's ambitions are mine."
"And are yours his?"
Her reply was hoarse and delayed enough to know he'd hit a pressure point. "You don't know anything."
He did know. He was an only child like her and Draco was the closest thing to a brother he had. Ninety parts an utter pain and nine parts a ditz, but one part friend.
"Answer me, Granger. I've seen plenty. You're so easy to read, shouldn't you be smart enough to understand yourself?"
Granger's fingers curled into fists. Despite the dim moonlight and sparse lanterns on his property, he could see her knuckles growing pink, then white.
"Nine, and that's rich of you when you're content running a small business from the middle of Tuscany." Her voice increased an octave. "Your portraits had plenty to say about your choices to wallow in self-pity!"
He sneered. "It's not nice to snoop."
"It's not nice to abandon someone in your own home! You left and I was alone!"
Her shrill yelling might have come to a stop, but the undercurrent of panic echoed in the night.
She hated being alone. She was upset he left her alone.
Her mother left her, and what were the papers saying about Weasley? That he left the DMLE to help his brother? Was that it?
The realization felt like hot wax dripping into his gut. Beyond titles, and even the unaffected presentation she took pride in, she was a twice-made orphan in the wizarding world. First from being cut off from the muggle world she knew, and second from being motherless, likely fatherless, and partnerless.
Unlike him, she didn't want to be alone. Never had.
Idiot. How hadn't he grasped it sooner?
He flexed his hands at his sides.
"Ten. If you don't want me to touch you, leave."
Wide-eyed, she whispered, "that's not a question."
The second that passed could be measured in the eternity of the quiet, unspoken questions.
She didn't leave. If anything, her stance stiffened, not out of fear, but a brutal show of doubling down. She was going to stay. Dismiss me, she was challenging him. Make me leave.
In three swift steps he had her enclosed, her body pressed firmly against his. A small yelp dissolved into his suit.
Her hair was thicker and softer than anticipated. Faint notes of fruity shampoo hit his nose, and then her earthy perfume. The heat of her skin burned him through the dozen layers between them. Her quickening breaths pushed air out of his own lungs, blood pounding between his ears and his hands pursuing the divots in her back.
Her fidgeting returned.
"Granger. Stop," he ordered, voice hoarse.
She stopped.
His fingers found their way to the nape of her neck, where he stroked. There was a split second where doubt tore through his stomach until he heard it.
A small, breathy sigh.
Then he felt it—her fingers sliding up the expanse of his chest and curling into his shirt. Her head angled, permission given, and he responded by pulling her closer, nose digging into hair above her ear. His hands moved almost of their own accord, sliding up from the small of her back to burrow in thick tangles.
"Lovely," he murmured. So lovely. He feared she was quickly becoming one of the loveliest creatures he'd ever met.
Fuck.
His hands fell away in increments, forlorn to go. But necessary.
He had to leave.
When they parted, Granger's face was unreadable. She had evidences of his touch in her hair, her cheeks, her wrinkled dress.
He covered his mouth with the back of his hand and strode past her.
The break of dawn found Blaise patting soil around the base of newly planted vines, his fingers moving with the practiced ease. With a flick of his wand, he coaxed a small breeze to circulate through the vines, warding off pests.
A breathy noise startled him.
It was only a nymph.
The water nymphs preferred to work throughout the night and early morning, when the world was the most quiet and most still, so it was a special sight for someone as morning-averse as Blaise to see their shimmering forms blending through the vines and perform their wandless magic to protect the vineyard from blight.
When the nymphs departed, he made his way to the irrigation system to perform a series of maintenance spells. The rest of the morning was spent pruning and training the older vines, guiding their growth to maximize sunlight exposure and airflow.
It was good work. Hard work, but as close he would ever be to his father.
Granger was so quiet in toeing from the gate to the front entry he would've missed her were it not for a breeze rustling her bag.
She could've apparated straight to the portico, but maybe that was too forward, even for her.
She gave him a small smile, continued on her way, and he returned to yanking irritable caterwauling weeds from the soil, blinking blearily. If he grabbed them hard enough, his skin would finally feel something other than coarse hair, roughened skin.
A minute passed before he heard a weary voice speak.
"I'm surprised you can't do this with a wand or don't have someone doing this for you."
His movements wouldn't abate for her. He wouldn't let her.
"The season started early." Blaise squinted to narrow his frame of sight. Hermione Granger would only, could only ever, linger at the edges. "The roots are delicate and some of them like to stick to the vines. A wand would remove the healthy parts too."
He changed his stance and tugged a final time. The weed turned out to be a young mandrake. Wincing, Blaise stuffed it back into the ground. Its muffled wailing petered after he pressed soil over its head.
"Can I try?"
When he finally looked at her, she was swiping her hands clean on her trousers. Her bags and robes had been left at the portico.
"I have two questions left," she explained.
Blaise wordlessly motioned her closer.
She chose a moderately thick weed, but he knew from its serrated leaves that it belied a screecher of a plant.
She tugged with both hands. Some of the soil fell away, but otherwise the weed bounced back into place.
He folded his arms, quirking an eyebrow.
Huffing and rounding out her cheeks, she shoved her hair back into a hasty bun and rolled her shoulders. She widened her stance and tried again.
The weed lifted two centimeters.
Sweat beaded on her forehead.
"You can't be that strong," she accused, letting go.
His other eyebrow joined the first at his hairline.
Hair fell over her eyes. "Are you going to help or not?"
"You chose the most stubborn one," he drawled.
"Tart," Granger said to the innocent plant.
"Pause."
Her hands stilled in their tugging. One wand movement later, her hair had lifted into a neat twist.
It was not a French twist. He'd checked.
He re-pocketed his wand and stepped behind her, winding each arm around to her front. He placed his hands a careful distance above hers.
She was a lovely ochre. He was darker, moonlight-kissed his mother would say.
"Granger," he said, mouth hovering over her neck, "you're taking liberties in deciding what counts as a question."
A subtle shiver straightened her spine. He leaned forward, his shoulder pressing into her back, and it would be so easy to hold her here, to trap her waist in place.
He couldn't.
He could feel something loosen below the earth.
"It counts," she panted. "I'm learning more about you."
His minute loss of grip caused them to stumble. Her head snapped back into his jaw, sending them both crumpling to the ground.
The force expelled the air out of him so quickly his vision went spotty. He was acutely aware of his wand poking into his left buttocks. He heard Granger wheezing beside him.
The weed stayed bent for a few moments, and then when they could fully appreciate it, it shrunk back into its meter-high state in a stubborn show of pride.
Granger's cackle cut through the air.
He hardly had enough air in him to breathe, let alone decide whether the situation was laughable.
"We're covered in dirt." She laughed again.
A thin wheeze parted his lips in response.
Granger held out her hand. It was painful to look at her. The sun was hidden behind her head, causing an ominous shadow to fall over half her face until she adjusted angle just so, and then her face was golden and blinding.
He took it. She pulled him to his feet.
His hand slipped from hers too soon. She left for the portico.
"Granger," he called, voice thin. "The portrait was jesting. There isn't any problem with the storages."
Frowning, she summoned her bag, sifting through it for her records.
"You checked them thoroughly," he assured her. "You would know."
Granger looked uncertain. "A quick check wouldn't hurt."
It would. It would hurt a fucking a lot, because he would have to decide whether to wait here and see her leave, or sit inside, watch her work, and then leave.
Shaking his head, he led her to the nearest pergola, where a tall gift bag of unmistakable shape sat.
"Oh," she shook her head. A smidgen of dirt clung to her right temple. "I couldn't."
"Take the day off."
"The Ministry—"
"Wouldn't know."
Her fingers narrowly avoided brushing his as she took the bag from him.
"I suppose I can visit the Stelle Cadenti observatory."
Her smile was small, but playful. Like they were sharing an amusing joke except he was unaware of the punchline. Watching her retrieve her belongings was not unlike the out of body experience during the last day of the war; standing idly at the edges as some of his classmates fought for their doomed cause and the rest were locked in a dungeon. He missed all the action and it didn't bother him the slightest. People orbited around him, never towards him, and he preferred it that way. Or was it the simple matter of waiting to find something else to orbit all this time?
He pressed his thumb over her hair, above her right ear, and flicked away the caking bits of soil.
She scanned his face and seemed to find what she was looking for. He saw resolution set her shoulders before she said anything.
"Thank you."
He exited the pergola.
"Zabini?"
"Hm?"
"I think I would've been certain sooner, if I met you like this."
The last Blaise saw or heard of Hermione Granger was her delicate humming, the way she managed to make a clumsy sorting through her bag whilst shaking off dirt an artful dance. She strolled to his gate, and without sparing a last look behind her, went home to where she belonged.
At the end, there was no evidence Hermione Granger was ever touched by him.
Blaise chuckled in the quiet.