When it was a choice, loneliness was rather becoming on him.

The year following the war brokered little forgiveness and repeated counsel to make purpose out of life, so Blaise Zabini had retreated to the home of his father he never knew, languishing in an old Italian villa to revive the family business, if only to show that he, too, had some sort of ancestral legacy to put to use.

So when it was thus that when the Ministry sent notice that a DMLE agent be allowed to scour his grounds and soil his vineyards that Blaise, at first, ignored them. They were too insignificant to be worth addressing when they came now; years ago they had hardly given him a second glance, the case against him dismissed on technical grounds and lack of probable cause.

A second letter came. A third. And then a squadron of Aurors arrived at his gate, and suddenly their insignificance had all the makings of a nasty headache on a Tuesday afternoon.

He raised a crisp eyebrow and said nothing.

The Aurors, most of them likely bullish ex-Griffyndors, merely blinked.

"Mr. Zabini. We sent you three notices," said a tall woman in blue and black robes.

"I know."

And I don't care, was the unspoken implication.

They plowed forward anyway, probably used to the callous violence of other bad wizards. That, or they were too dull to recognize a threat when they saw it.

A short but stocky Auror held up a slip of parchment. "A deal is a deal. We take you in today for obstruction of the law, or you agree to a specialized DMLE agent, pursuant to the terms of Mrs. Zabini's parole."

He sighed.

Fuck that, were it not for his mother getting a little too poison-happy in her eighth marriage. She was stuck in their primary house in England, hence his preference for living out his days in isolated bliss—periodically interrupted by dodgy former classmates—on a sprawling vineyard in Tuscany.

"I didn't know I had choice in the matter."

"You do," the tall woman said earnestly.

He scowled and shut the gate. Then he opened it, "Send the agent," he barked, and closed it again.

Two days later, Hermione Granger arrived to disrupt his peace. The wards vibrated, eager to greet the guest, rare as they were.

He didn't recognize her at first.

A messy plait flopped over one shoulder. Frumpy school-clothes were swapped out for a dashing, albeit oversized, set of DMLE-brand deep blue robes, but her expression was not nearly as impressed as they should have been at the goblin-built stucco walls and terracotta roof tiles. He imagined she'd never seen such luxury in her life, or anything close to it, for her to recognize riches when she saw it, living as she did among a hovel of Weasleys.

"The record says I am to start with the pergolas, which hide access to the storages," she started without preamble. She hardly looked at him, too preoccupied with squinting plain brown eyes at the papers in her right hand whilst a suitcase dangled from her left one.

Storages. A quaint way for his mother to describe hidden dungeons, messy parlors, and networks of dark artifacts she had collected during her time gallivanting through various' patrons homes (and beds).

He waited for her to ask where—or what—a pergola was. It was moot. Her gaze flickered up to his face, did none of the double-takes or blushing women—and some men—tended to do at his immaculate sartorial choices, and brushed past him.

Rude.

Uncouth.

Dirty.

"Pergolas are towards the east," he said flatly. Eastward placement allowed for the families of old to dwindle their hours outside under the midday sun. Now, there was to enjoy them but him.

She stalked ahead. Had memorized the floor plans, probably. "I know. My grandmother had a villa like this in France."

He didn't ask nor care but that gave him pause. The idea of mudbloods enjoying an evening out on a veranda looking upon the Swiss Alps, or something, was laughable.

Staring at the back of her head, he took a step to follow.

Stopped. Muggle-born, he corrected.

She was the brightest witch of her age, with the power to go anywhere and do as she pleased.

Arrogant he may be, but he knew power when he saw it.

And the Zabinis had none of it anymore.


At first, he hovered.

He busied himself with the set of classics he'd bought last month, lounging on warm benches or wing-backed seats as she worked methodically.

He'd expected her to be clumsy. From what he remembered, her intelligence was the blunt sort due to an affected nature that required her hand shooting up in every class, a desire to please and be praised. Attributable to her blood, no doubt, but then he saw the likes of the Creeveys and Ernie MacMillan with nary half a brain between them, and decided it was just a Granger-shaped punishment from the fates for their class.

She took up residence at a traveler's inn about a kilometer out. Every morning, at precisely nine am, as he emerged from a groggy haze through copious amounts of espresso, she and her frizzy hair arrived at the gate. Depending on the level of heat-induced frizz, she either apparated or walked. Regardless, she was always swamped head to toe in oversized navy robes, buttoned assiduously up to her collar.

He would stroll down the portico, dread the few paces to the gate, and let her in through the wards in a procedure he did in the reverse at the end of each day.

She would beeline immediately to the location on the day's agenda, sift through objects, scan the walls and rooms for any dark curses (and there were quite a few) to dismantle them. They exchanged little words, sometimes the portraits filling the silence with mockery or insults she would hardly blink at. Midday, she would leave, to obtain food he imagined, and return an hour later for the rest of the afternoon. At the end of the day, she would set everything back in its proper place as though she was never there in the first place.

Besides the faint fragrance of her cedarwood and berry perfume, he would've thought she was an apparition. However, the prospect of hallucinating Granger's presence was markedly worse than the strange reality his undisturbed, carefully curated life of over two years had become.

She was very, very careful. More careful than anyone had been with him or his possessions in a long time.

He expected questions. She asked none. Content to do her work silently and efficiently, her only words were mumbled counter-spells and the occasional question as to where something was. Once or twice he was sure he heard a growling noise preceding a small huff and eventual success on whatever terrible bad curse she'd found embedded in his ancestors' possessions. Otherwise, she was content to ignore him too. Either she was used to the obvious disdain or just too focused to care. The faster she worked, the faster she could leave, which was of benefit to them both.

Never had a finer alliance between a unsightly pint of a woman and an exceedingly vain man existed, one would think.

Hermione Granger's name lingered in the papers often enough. Though not omnipresent as Potter nor his cult of redheads, her achievements were plenty. He maintained an unwilling but adequate knowledge of the ongoings in England, sometimes through Goyle, Draco, or the others, but watching her work, he wondered if she enjoyed it. Enjoyed being alone, left in the homes of Death Eaters or Death Eater adjacents, while her colleagues enjoyed front-page glory of catching delinquent wizards.

He shook his head and resumed his book. There were finer things to occupy oneself with during the pre-Harvest veraison season than the inner workings of Granger's mind.

"Porter's dismissed most of her theories."

Blaise's attention flickered to where Granger poked at a snuffbox. Fortunately for her, it was an ordinary snuffbox that his mother had an emotional attachment with due to its Japanese provenance (Malina Zabini fashioned herself an amateur orientalist between husband four and five).

He slid his tongue over his teeth. People such as her were hardly worth a word, no?

"Hm?"

Granger eyed the tome in his hands. "Lost Latin and Finding Magic. The author's Rosetta Lang, right? She had a good grasp of non-Western magical theories in the eighteenth century, but Roger Porter was her contemporary who actually traveled to the subcontinent region and studied the use of Marathi in incantations."

A portrait of his great-Aunt Calista perched on the south wall's shelf snorted. "Not only a mudblood, but a harpy? Blaise, do be a dear and make sure she doesn't get her conniving fingers on my earrings."

Granger's eyes flickered to the portrait, then back at the snuffbox. Another poke. Sighing quietly, she turned her attention to his mother's jewelry collection. It would take at least three days to rifle through those.

He didn't ask nor care. Shutting his book, he gave her a single nod and left her to her devices.

"My jewelry! My good sapphires!" wailed great-Aunt Calista.

Blaise aimed a silencing charm at her. It wouldn't do for distractions to delay Graner.

If she gave him a slight, grateful nod, he ignored it. He'd forgotten in her company, quiet as she was, that she could be tolerated; conversation, however, he did not do.


For the next week, he only saw her at the beginning and end of the day. Once she squirreled off to whatever was next on her list, he kept to the villa until the wards tugged at him to let her leave. Other than those ten minutes, the day was still his, while she was scurrying about underground, getting her hands grimy.

But after the underground network had been thoroughly swept, she started on the villa. When she was in the kitchen, he took to keeping to his office or drawing room, only exiting for food after left for her lunch hour. When she turned focus to his drawing room, he sat in his office, outside, or spent his day wandering among endless rows of thick grapes and magically-enchanted irrigation systems. On occasion, he had business meetings to attend to, but most of his work allowed him to stay on his grounds. The grapes were beginning to change color and softening, the vines and leaves emitting a slightly herbaceous aroma for southern Tuscany to enjoy.

Alone. Quiet. His—friends, he supposed—were beginning to worry, as they did if too many days went by without any indication he was alive. He should show his face at Daphne's next luncheon or Theo's ill-advised quidditch nights, he decided, or they would begin popping up on his veranda like a set of mandrakes.

Two days before he was set to acquire a portkey to Suffolk, during the third week of Granger's intrusion, she failed to appear. It was a Thursday, and there was no explanation for her lack of show. Nine am became ten, and as eleven approached, a twinge of…concern, if only for this matter of a DMLE assessment to be over soon, twisted in his chest. What if she had been ambushed at the inn? What if the Aurors were to arrive and hustle him back to England for the crime of disappearing their beloved Hermione Granger?

He received a letter before her usual lunch hour, apologizing and that she was taking the day off due to unforeseen circumstances.

Too good to explain to him what happened, was she?

The next morning, she was in front of his home two minutes after nine. Her hair was in shambles, free from the usual plait she kept. Wrinkled robes and eyes drooping at their corners finished her ensemble.

"Apologies," she said. A second apology from Granger in less than twenty-four hours. A younger Blaise would have indulged in glee.

But—for what?

What had he done for her to be so polite and careful?

He bit the inside of his cheek. She brushed past him, intent on them resuming their usual routine. After she disappeared around a corner towards the sun room, he let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

At ten, after his two cups of black coffee innervated his limbs and as he penned a letter to Marcus assuring his attendance at a Quidditch scrimmage at the Nott manor tomorrow, a shriek followed by a thunderous bang echoed throughout the villa.

The floor vibrated with the force of a rebounded spell. Ink spilled across his fingers. Two drops dripped to the parchment and left little popping blotches before he registered a second shout.

He sprinted towards the sunroom, his long legs allowing for a rapid-fire pace. He entered within mere seconds.

Granger was knocked against the rattan loveseat. Thick blood spurted from her right shoulder.

A few meters away lay a footstool at its life's end, splintered into no less than four pieces. A footstool, if he remembers correctly, given to his great-grandfather as a gift by a friend who thought it amusing to have furniture that induced paralysis. It made for great evening entertainment at the cost of whoever decided to lift their feet over it.

Good riddance.

He swallowed, crouching near Granger. She blinked slowly.

"Granger? Can you hear me?" He lifted a hand to her neck. Her pulse was fine, but he would have to floo-call the local wizarding hospital, or if her condition was truly worse than it appeared, the Aurors themselves.

Potter would have his head. They would find reason to finally send his mother to Azkaban, his peace and quiet here would come to an end and—

The blood didn't stop.

Cursing, Blaise summoned a hand towel and a Blood-replenishing potion. As the sound of whizzing echoed through the halls, he lifted a wand to her cut and muttered Vulnera Sanentur. He was not near the top of their class, but he was a deft hand at healing wandwork, having had ample opportunity to practice on his idiotic dorm mates.

Steam lifted from her wound as it began to shut, as though cauterized. He braced himself for screaming.

She made a small grunt but otherwise squirmed silently, tenderly touching the wound when it was over. Her eyes were glassy with tears and stray hairs stuck to her forehead, drenched in sweat. He tipped the potion into her mouth and color slowly returned to her evenly warm skin.

Hand slipped under her elbow, he lifted her to the loveseat and tugged her into its plush pillows.

He assessed her, considering. Then pivoted.

"W-where are you going?"

"Flooing the hospital."

"I-I'm fine." She coughed.

She was insufferable.

"I'd rather you not die on my property."

"I would rather not concern anyone," she countered, and he almost heard some bite in that statement. She breathed hard but looked at him with imploring eyes.

Maybe this was an elaborate ploy to trap him into an Azkaban sentence.

"The Golden Girl, dying in my sunroom," he sneered.

Somehow, through the haze of post-healing pain and the potion's drowsy effects, she managed to level a look that made him feel…small.

How ridiculous. Blaise Zabini, made to feel small?

"We're all dying, really," she muttered. Her eyes half-rolled skyward. Above the sunroom's sprawling glass roof tiles, the sun battered them with warmth and light.

He hated to ask, really, but before her philosophical musings could reached a climax, he nudged her foot with his.

"Granger," he started, infusing as much irritation as possible in his tone, lest she confuse his inquiry for concern, "You alright?"

Technically, he was concerned. Just not about her health or general well-being. He was a man of pragmatism. Whether she was bleeding and sweating and looking exhausted beyond belief and grotesquely self-deprecation was no significance to him beyond what it meant for him and the small range of things he cared about.

"I—" she coughed weakly. "It's not my first injury in a pureblood home." She rolled her bottom lip between her bottom teeth. A bead of blood swelled over the petal-pink flesh, and her tongue darted out to swipe over it.

He stared.

"It's my fault, really." She was still talking, and he had an inkling she thought she was speaking to herself. Her skin descended into shades of white even Malfoys would envy. "Got careless. Didn't notice what was in front of me. I thought I was observant but..."

Rubbing his forehead and swearing, Blaise departed to retrieve water and food from the kitchens. For the first time, he regretted letting his house-elf leave to serve his mother. He might have gotten away with staying away altogether if an elf could've taken care of this Ministry business.

"Drink," he told Granger when he returned. He set a plate of biscuits, a tall glass of water, and a various assortment of replenishing potions on the table. "Don't let this be the last pureblood home, then."

She didn't dignify his jab with an answer.

She had been so easily ruffled in school—so quick to please meant easy to rile, but now…she was unassailable. Like something else had already broken her.

When she left early, he let out another breath of relief.


"Fucking Longbottom's been breaking stuff at my father's manor all week," said Marcus.

Their Quidditch game had quickly devolved into a scrappy free-for-all. Theo had knocked Draco out cold. Goyle was trying to gouge Theo's eyes out with his thumbs. Daphne had sent two bludgers flying at Blaise's head and departed after her owl delivered a letter. Something about Astoria, he guessed, which would send Draco into a rage after he regained consciousness. The blonde had gone and gotten himself betrothed two months prior and had no qualms about publicly showing how much, exactly, he was devoted to the woman. Disgusting on some levels, but at least love made him more tolerable.

Blaise turned his eyes from where Goyle was pummeling Theo into the sand. Theo's Manor, after Nott Senior's imprisonment, was empty but for debacle and debauchery. Tonight's debauchery meant erecting a Quidditch pitch in the back, which was tame compared to Marcus erecting a phallic statute last month to dance around in a facsimile of some pagan ritual.

"You too?"

Marcus scowled. "Don't they deliver The Daily Prophet in Italy? Ministry cretins are crawling through to steal whatever they can find."

Blaise snorted.

Marcus mistook Blaise's surprise at him knowing the word cretin for surprise at the news. "They haven't gotten you yet?"

"They have," he said, debating whether to divulge whether it was Granger who'd been assigned to him. But then Marcus said something crude about Longbottom and arses, and promptly decided against it.

Thought of Granger made him wonder if Granger was okay. And wondering if Granger was okay distracted him from from dodging a blow from Goyle, because he was apparently done with wrangling Theo, so Blaise returned to Tuscany with a snitch-sized welt on his forehead and thoughts of Granger.

Only because if she was dead, it would mean trouble. And trouble meant Blaise wouldn't be left alone.

When Granger arrived the next morning, he'd been waiting outside, cradling a cup of coffee, watching her apparate in front of the gates. If he thought it impossible for Granger to look worse, he was proven wrong. No plait again, and the injured shoulder dropped lower than the other. Hastily wrapped bandages peeked out from under her robes.

For fuck's sake. "Did you take any potions over the weekend?"

She did that lip-biting thing again. A long moment passed between them.

"Didn't have time," she said finally.

It was a miracle she and those dunderheads lived through the war if this was what she was like. Without a word, he headed inside, her diverting towards the cursed sunroom where there was still a broken footstool. He returned to find her crouched amidst its shards like some sort of gremlin scouring for money.

The morning light hit her head and scattered a warm beige-ish glow over her haphazard tendrils.

Not a gremlin. No. Merlin, her hair needed to be touched.

Be plaited. Reigned in, he corrected.

Without stepping over the bannister, he tossed her a potion. It had a cushioning charm in case she didn't catch it but she managed to swipe at it, like plucking it out of thin air.

She must have been brutal in combat.

"That's the last one. Don't waste it." He'd have to order more or go to the apothecary himself if his head didn't stop hurting.

Granger's eyes went momentarily out of focus, hovering at his forehead. Then she looked at the replenishing potion.

"Thanks."

He departed with no further fanfare.

After finishing some work, he excused himself for an early lunch and took the route past the sunroom to ensure she had actually taken the potion. The vial was empty and left on the table, and color had returned to her neck and cheeks. In the afternoon, he made a second trip to the kitchens for a spontaneous afternoon snack, again catching a glimpse of her. Now, she was sequestered in the corner of the sunroom, wand aiming high, hair cackling with magic.

An hour before the time of her usual departure, he heard a small knock. He looked up at the intrusion, eyes boring holes into the door to his office.

"It's open."

At his permission, Granger entered and left it open behind her. Smart.

What should've been a completely unwarranted deviation from their routine didn't irk him as it should have. Only because it gave him an opportunity to ensure she was in no position to implicate him for death, substantial bodily injury, or anything else the DMLE was prosecuting for these days.

"Apologies," she started. "The sunroom is done. I couldn't recover the footstool."

He tried to look like he was busy with paperwork. Unfortunately, he had finished most of it, and was forced to scribble nonsensical sentences on leftover parchment.

"Forget about the footstool," he said after a minute to maintain the air of apathy, though he was most curious as to why she felt this warranted a conversation. "It needed to be disposed of anyway."

"It was my fault. I'll compensate you."

He lifted his head. His scribbles were turning into doodles, now. "That's fine. You don't have to." He didn't think she could afford it on her salary, anyway.

Contorting her small mouth into a frown, she nodded. Her attention fell to his hands, and he hoped she couldn't read upside down from a few paces away.

She lingered near his desk.

There was a book by one Roger Porter on one side. Next to it was a plate of biscuits.

She fidgeted. He expected a commentary to burst forth on the Porter book, or other unasked for information about the linguistic history of spells, but to his surprise she was still peering at the biscuits.

His brows furrowed. He didn't think Granger was capable of choosing anything over a book.

"...Would you like one?"

A flush rose up her neck and jaw. "Are they the same ones as yesterday? They were quite good."

He set his quill down and nudged the plate of biscuits further.

Slender fingers grasped two pieces, placing one between her lips and pocketing the other. She bid him goodbye with a mouth half-full.

The next day, Granger arrived fifteen minutes early, interrupting his meticulously-timed coffee morning routine to avoid precisely this, and handed him a small bag. He held it with a single pinky, staring blankly at her, his soul still in the process of rousing for the day.

"Replenishing potions. There's also an anti-inflammatory paste that isn't on the market yet but some of the Aurors have been testing out."

Somewhere in the distance, a portrait screeched. Blaise made a mental note to silence it after Granger disappeared to the second floor.

"Pardon?"

She gestured to his forehead, where he knew the bruise was a reddish monstrosity. Her own shoulder looked to be in better shape.

At least she was back to normal. She left to do her job and Blaise opened the bag to see its contents as described.

What an odd witch.

There was a blue-green vial he didn't recognize. What had she said, an anti-inflammatory paste? He'd heard of no such thing, and it could be a surreptitious attempt to poison him.

Then he thought about her chewing on her lip while staring covetously at his biscuits and, unbidden, a small smile began to curve his mouth.

He left her a plate of biscuits on the console table next to the entryway.


Somehow, their routine shifted again.

Blaise didn't hover, nor avoid her entirely. And Granger was just as blunt and tight-lipped, no more likely to befriend him than before—the feeling's mutual, he thought—but their morning and afternoon pleasantries were mildly less tiresome.

"How's the bruise?" she asked the next day.

"Fine," he answered. "Your shoulder?"

"Fine." She swept past him, slipping a biscuit between her lips. He'd replenished the plate that morning before opening his wards for apparition. "So unfortunately, I've robbed you of the opportunity to haul my dead body out of your sunroom."

Her macabre attempt at humor sent his eyebrows into his hairline.

The next day, she kindly pointed out his bruise's transformation into a purple-blue diorama.

"Strange that my shoulder's healed faster than your forehead," was her sole bit of wit this morning.

"Goyle's punches are outrageous."

She hummed, plucking today's choice of sugar, chocolate biscotti, from the plate. "Did the paste help?"

"Somewhat," he admitted, unwilling to give her the full satisfaction. It had helped immensely. In fact, he might feel less guilty about encouraging Goyle to go after Draco and Theo again if it meant they could heal quicker.

And etcetera, etcetera.

Small pleasantries bloomed into smaller conversations. Never more than three or four sentences at a time, but sometimes there was ghastly humor; at others, about Roger Porter. Questions about his other reads, or casual comments about his vineyard. Nothing substantial, but nothing that disturbed him. She seemed to sense when he was at his limit, and as usual would leave, mouth and hands full of sweets, to do her work.

Work that she was, after her accident, was even more careful and meticulous doing, if possible. She seemed doubly intent on not causing any more issues. He'd seldom felt his villa shimmer with such pleasant magic before. It almost sent him down a line of thought that involved when the Ministry would deign to promote her, given she clearly had skills for far better things than rummaging in old ancestral estates.

Only for his own sake, of course. So she wasn't intruding on him. Interrupting his peace and lonesomeness.

But she looked tired. She grew exhausted as the days passed. He experimented with different snacks; some sweeter chocolates, some savory licorice, but the biscuits were clearly her favorite. While she wasted time removing curses from a home that would never play host to people like her again, the papers spoke of Potter's escapades catching dark wizards in Belgium and his diplomatic exploits. On track to become the youngest Head Auror in a century, journalists wrote with fervor. Weasley was a close second, with news detailing his involvement in busting a vampire-led illegal human blood trade. A whole two lines was devoted to Granger's work in curse-breaking, instead focusing most of the substance on her and Weasley's romantic history.

Blaise scoffed and chucked the papers into his fireplace.

"You don't have a house-elf," she said one morning, more a statement than a question.

"It took you this long to notice."

Her mouth twitched, like she was holding back amusement, and crossed her arms. "The servant quarters don't look like they haven't been used in some time."

"Because they haven't." At her quizzical tilt of the head, he added, "My elf joined my mother in England."

"Willingly?"

"How would she otherwise?"

"I see." A curious gleam flickered in her eyes. Faint memories of some shite organization she'd started at Hogwarts came to mind. She was one of those sorts, wasn't she? Voice for the weak and all that?

The Zabinis weren't cruel bastards. More the manipulative type, and Blaise didn't particularly enjoy, unlike Lucius Malfoy, ordering helpless elves to iron their ears if they made a mistake. It rather made them worse in their duties, which defeated the point of owning one. That didn't mean he agreed with rubbish opinions on their being free agents, or what have you.

Regardless, his confession seemed to buoy her. She was humming every time he crossed the halls and it made him wonder, not for the first time, if she was truly enjoying her job.

These thoughts and more carried him through the week, alongside usual business, Marcus' plea to attend the Falcons match, and Theo sending a list of ideas for Draco's bachelor party if the blonde ever got around to scheduling a wedding date.

The Friday before the match was a particularly severe day weather-wise. Blaise took his paperwork to the smallest pergola, cast a cooling bubble charm around him, and lounged for most of the afternoon. He was so caught up in replying to several customer complaints over the quality of their Valpolicella that he didn't notice the pull from the wards until Granger was already outside, waving to him.

He set his quill into the inkpot, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he sauntered to the gate.

Granger's arms were bare, for once. The DMLE robe had been shed and stuffed into her bursting bag, revealing a respectably fitted short-sleeved blouse.

No sooner was he beginning to appreciate the minimal blessings of mugglewear did he notice a streak of dark red on her left arm. A second wound from work?

No, this one was scabbed over. Old. It reeked of dark magic.

He recognized a m, d, and b.

A slur he'd never thought twice about using his entire life slashed into her arm. A mudblood labeled a mudblood.

Permanently.

Blood raced out of his head so fast it left him dizzy.

Granger noticed him looking. Of course she did, because she was in the DMLE, horribly competent, and polite, and fucking underappreciated for all that she had did and done.

She attempted to hastily covering it with her other hand. Obviously it was too late, and midway she abandoned course, letting her arms hang and her skin bare, almost challenging in the way she lifted her chin. As though she was daring him to speak of it.

He unlocked the wards and she whisked away in magic of her own making.


Although Blaise missed playing Quidditch, the heady atmosphere of half-drunkards he could do without. At least at Hogwarts, however ridiculous of a school it was, didn't allow liquor and the crowds were sensible. Here, it was odious and reckless. Men heckling men. Women swatting off perverts. Servile wizards fawning over Ministry officials here to chase social standing. Idiots competing for who could be the loudest.

In addition to the usual group, Pucey and Warrington also joined them. While Blaise was on good terms with Pucey, whose family owned a large restaurateur business that often frequented the Zabini vineyard, Warrington was repulsive. He made Goyle look like a pygmy puff. At least the average pureblood attempted a face of propriety and gentlemen manners, however trite those could be, but Warrington fully embraced debauchery, ensuring everyone in a two meter radius was aware of the state of his cock every ten minutes.

Draco hexed the man before the second quarter of the match had begun. Before the half-time break, Pansy, the Greengrass sisters, and Lisa Turpin left to take a prolonged break to the restrooms, which Blaise suspected would last the rest of the game. He stared pitifully at the flailing Falcon's female keeper, ignoring Warrington's grouching about women in Quidditch.

"Marcus," Draco drawled, "next time you invite that buffoon, I will dismember you myself."

Marcus looked down at his drink. "Kinky."

Huffing, Draco grabbed Blaise by the arm and swung him around into the next aisle, wading through the rowdy crowd as the halftime break gave rise to hungry match goers stampeding down to the concession stands.

A flash of golden hair caught his eye. He slowed to a tread despite Draco still holding onto him, as a familiar group of ginger blood-traitors—Weasleys, he corrected—and their two adoptees, plus Loony Lovegood, came into view. Lovegood waived, not one to make distinction between friend and foe, but they were otherwise ignored.

Except Granger, who lagged behind the group. She startled when she met Blaise's eyes before tilting her head in a minute nod of acknowledgement.

Blaise returned the greeting in an equal manner.

Draco, blessedly, was ignorant to the entire exchange, too busy scoffing and insulting Potter like a rogue overgrown troll. In return, Potter grimaced.

When the whistle for the third quarter was called, they all went their merry way. Blaise, however, let his gaze linger on Granger, who was absently scratching her arm. He'd noticed there was a glamor over her scar today. Yesterday had been entirely a fluke, then. It was a mark no one was supposed to see.

Least of all him.

After Draco's ire whittled down, they returned to the box. Someone—probably Goyle—had given Warrington a black eye.

"Where are the ladies?" asked Pucey.

"Thankfully, not here," said Theo. Everyone glared at him.

Draco plopped into his seat. "Guess who we saw? Pothead and wonderboy."

Blaise thought they were too old to be slinging boyhood insults, but the box thought him hilariously funny, or had too many social and financial investments in the Malfoy family to do anything but laugh.

"Granger with them?" asked Theo.

Blaise and Draco both looked at him at that.

"Why, you want to try mudblood pussy?"

In tandem, Theo and Blaise both sent a silencing jinx at Warrington. He spluttered but no noise came out, even as he stood and flailed his limbs.

Theo met Blaise's gaze, wide-eyed. Pucey wrestled Warrington out of the box and hauled him down a level below.

For his part, Draco looked unamused.

Blaise tucked away his wand, like it would avoid any more attention. Theo kept his out, knee bouncing and eyes scanning to ensure no passersby had heard the exchange.

Theo worked at the Ministry as an Unspeakable. Of all of them, he had the most regular interaction with other segments of society, socially inept as he was. His asking after Granger was normal if he crossed paths with her even occasionally.

What excuse did Blaise, have, on the other hand, other than being fed up with Warrington—

"What the fuck," said Marcus.

Blaise said nothing. The match restarted and the men watched in silence, other than Daphne returning to fetch a sweater she'd forgotten and inform them, with a glare, that they were going to retreat early to a local bar. He felt the weight of Draco's unsettled gaze more than once, but he kept his hands and wand carefully restrained for the rest of the night.

When had he last lost control like that? When had he last cared, ever? Blaise Zabini didn't care. He chose to be alone and cared little other than the few things he chose to care about.

Theo cornered him afterwards when the rest were too pissed (everyone but Draco) or too enamored with Astoria (Draco) to notice Blaise's lack of indulgence in drink.

"His insinuation didn't insult you, Nott?" was Blaise's flimsy excuse. As though that was the problem.

Theo, on the other hand, didn't accept Blaise's purported defense of his honor. "Merlin's sake, Blaise. Fuck off. Granger and a couple other muggleborns have helped me on two projects." He rubbed his right eye, the other eyelid glued shut as his words dissolved into semi-coherent mumbling. "If you weren't an apathetic arsehole half the time, you'd have noticed I don't use that word anymore."


On Monday, Granger was a few minutes late again. Still tired, looking thinner if possible, though she'd spent time wrestling her hair into a plait and smoothing out her robes, which eased his annoyance at having to wait for her. Maybe, like him, her weekend in England had turned sour.

She offered her apologies for the delay.

"Don't," he said before he knew his mouth had opened.

Her brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Don't what?"

His stomach churned. He kept his expression stony and tried not to let his eyes fall to her arm. She was back to full coverage today, despite the heat.

"Forget it."

Though his tacit dismissal didn't allay her, she was soon distracted by the bowl of truffles he'd left out today.

It appeared that was going to be the entirety of their conversation this morning.

Except, his mouth decided to run off again.

"How long are you going to work at the DMLE?"

Granger paused mid-bite.

Rolling his eyes, he approached her. "Swallow," he instructed.

She averted her eyes and began to cough. Belatedly, he realized how that could be misconstrued.

When she was done coughing—and swallowing—she peered up at him, openly curious. Her eyes were not huge and doe-like like Daphne's nor pinched at the corners like Pansy's. They were average, if not for the all-consuming gleam that occasionally took ahold of them.

"Nott said you worked with him," he explained.

"Oh, yes." Her hands twitched at her sides. "He's good at what he does."

A poor attempt at diversion. He smiled wryly.

"And you?"

"What about me?"

"He was promoted last year."

It took her a moment to recognize his roundabout inquiry. Theo was good at what he did and was promoted, so why not Granger?

She tugged at her collar.

"This isn't what I want to do forever. Just in the meantime."

For?

He had control of his mouth again, so he didn't ask.

But clearly, she had aspirations beyond the mundane tasks the DMLE put her up to. Given the way she bounced when he told her about his elf, she wanted to do something…more. More noble. More in service of others. If given the chance, Blaise suspected she could change the world. Would, because Granger was not the sort to let herself be pushed. She would push. A curse rebounded and sliced off a chunk of her shoulder and still she demanded to be heard.

So why wasn't she pushing now? What was this 'meantime'? Unless he sorely mischaracterized her, which he doubted, it didn't explain why she was so quiet or restrained from her natural tendency for chattiness.

Later that week, the second time she missed a day, he found an explanation for it.

The Daily Prophet, page two, boasted a short feature piece written by Romilda Vane. The sordid details were obviously exaggerated, but the truth of the matter was that Granger and Weasley had broken up.

He suspected they had split the first day she was gone, or maybe that's when things began to fall apart. It certainly explained why she had been distracted and uncharacteristically lost a spar against a footstool. Her forlorn philosophical musings. Her distance from Weasley and Potter during the match, hovering at the back of the group listlessly.

Perhaps she expected him to say something of the matter, or even mock her for it the next morning. Her shoulders were tense and both hands clutched at her bag. But her expression would never crumple and yield to the small type of man she probably thought he was.

Luckily for her, Blaise didn't give a shit about Weasley.

He made some inane comment about a book he had come to learn she loved. She bit back with a sniping comment on his literary tastes and moved to steal the entire plate of biscuits for today. Literally stealing—she picked up the plate, towering precariously high, to take with her.

"I'm starting your office later," she said, after he conceded the up and coming historian Magnus Yukolt wasn't a complete dolt of an author and was worth sparing a second try (emphasis on try). "If you want time to move any private stuff around."

He lifted a brow. "Is it protocol to give bad guys an opportunity to get away?"

She blinked at him. "I don't think you're a bad man."

She replied too quickly for it to be anything but raw honesty. It was the last response he expected.

He took a step forward until his shoes nearly met hers. She stayed rooted to the spot, both hands gripping the fine porcelain.

He was an entire head taller than her. Her neck would hurt from peering up at him this way.

"What sort of man am I, then?"

"I'm not too certain."

She lifted a biscuit to her mouth. Let moisture from her lips soften it enough to break off an end. Chewed and swallowed. Licked her lips to catch the crumbs.

On a slow inhale he became drenched in what he had only caught faint notes of. Cedarwood and sweet berry. His breath hitched.

She stalked away, cradling the plate because apparently she owned half his dessert stock now.

As promised, she crept into his office after lunch. She paused momentarily, noticing him in his seat, posture perfect, and busy—definitely not doodling—with filling out financial reports.

It had been a few weeks since he saw her work up close, and he was glad to see the news of her breakup had little effect on her ethic. Vane's terrible words about Weasley's untimely departure from Auror to Jokester and Granger's broken heart, undoubtedly to be mended soon by the next hot bachelor rung in his mind, and he tried to imagine Granger in a state of tears.

Granger was the type to cry privately, he decided.

"Granger," he started.

Granger slowed her examination of his collection of collectible cigars. Her shoulders inched higher, though her mouth was in the middle of an incantation.

He waited until she finished casting the spell.

"How did you get that scar?"

Tension melted from her face.

"Which one?"

He couldn't tell if it was her sense of 'humor' rearing its head again or honest to Merlin slippage on the state of how many wounds she carried.

He steepled his fingers over his desk. "The one on your arm."

Her hand hovered over where he knew letters were scabbing over.

Would she answer him? Why should she? He was nothing to her.

He didn't care because it was only conversation. Never mind that without an answer he would be distracted, and that would disturb his peace.

He waited.

She nibbled on her lip and cast another spell.

"My first injury in a pureblood home," she confessed.

He had more questions. He'd never had so many in his life. He had to busy himself with actual work to keep himself from speaking.

The silence lasted for all of twelve minutes.

"Who?"

"Bellatrix."

Another six minutes.

"Why?"

He nearly slapped himself. They both fucking knew why.

Granger's head snapped up, hands deep into a trunk. "Is this a game of twenty questions?"

"A game of what?"

"Twenty questions. It used to be a radio trivia quiz, but now muggles use it to take turns answering questions about each other until they hit twenty."

"How is that a game?"

"Well. I guess it's an icebreaker. To get to know people."

He scoffed. He had finished the last of his replies—this time, his mother sent some requests to send her wine from their latest batch, and Draco wanted to visit him—and passive aggressive responses to consumer complaints, so he had no reason to dawdle unless he wanted to doodle.

Which he found that he did, so he drew vines into the margins of a quality assurance report.

"That's—"

"An awful prospect to people like you, but," Granger grunted at the weight of whatever she found in the trunk. Blaise tried to remember if there was a ghoul or an erumpent horn in there, "some people do like to talk."

"Like you?"

"I do, when I want to." Granger pulled out a magnificent erumpent horn. "This is worse than the dragon spike," she commented off-handedly, and for Merlin's sake, now he wanted to know about this dragon.

"That's a tautology."

"But you know what I mean."

"Do I, Granger?"

She peered at him through thick lashes. "Don't you?"

The horn demanded her attention for the rest of the day, something about it exploding if she didn't handle it, so he was left to bide his time outside. Restless, he went inside to pile up another plate with biscuits, found he was out of them, growled, and went to run some overdue errands.

He was late on his return, finding her waiting at the gate.

It'd be easier to let her have access to the wards.

And extremely risky, private, and personal.

He banished the idea as soon as he thought of it, shifting the satchel of items from one shoulder to the other.

Granger looked bemused.

"What?"

"Strange to see you doing normal things."

He frowned. "Otherworldly we may seem to you, but we do, you know, eat."

"By we, you mean..." whatever insult she was about to fling trailed off as something occurred to her. "Oh! You cook?"

He rummaged through the satchel, simultaneously unlocking the wards. When he found what he was looking for, he held it out to her.

A gloriously red tint swept across her nose and cheeks at the box of biscuits.

"You can only find these in Via Incantata," he explained. It amused him to no end to imagine a harried Hermione Granger scouring shelves to find her new favorite indulgence. "There's a direct apparition point there."

The blush deepened. She looked at her feet.

Sighing, he took her hand and placed the box in it. It was too large for her small, rough palms.

"Eat, so you don't faint in my house."

She thanked him and apparated away.


Blaise started the week with a good day.

A better day than most in many ways. Firstly, Granger was working in his office again, robes abandoned over the chaise, contorting her slender body in all sorts of ways to reach all the dubious corners. Thorough, the witch was. Once again, there was something begrudgingly respectable to be said about the muggle vision for aesthetic.

Second, her hair was frizzier than usual. The weather was at a record high today so she'd opted let it lose, and unlike the previous exhaustion-induced lack of hair care, this was intentional. The curls bounced with life and it gave her a sort of mischievous look. Was her harried persona an attempt to show off her unaffected morals in being above it all, or a subtle distaste for the less busy? Either way, a cheeky Granger was better than a solemn one.

Third, and this happened every time he flickered his eyes up every so often only to meet her gaze, they exchanged a set of borderline frivolous questions that never disturbed him so much that he needed solace, away and alone.

"What exactly is it that you do?"

"I make wine."

"From your desk?"

"Are you being purposefully dense?"

"Yes, I am known for being dense."

Her deadpan delivery was blistering.

"Have you ever, in your life, considered a permanent de-frizzing?"

"Seeing the state of your hair, I hardly think that's an appropriate question."

Blaise scowled. His hair was fine. Maybe he wasn't as attractive at first glance as Draco, but Draco's expressions remained squarely in two realms: mealy-mouthed flattery or scornful disgust. Blaise knew his own apathy, when it gave way to the twitch of a hidden smile or mischievous amusement on the rare occasion, would garner more attention than Draco's suavity (call it the market thesis of supply and demand). Rumor was that even Ginny Weasley once scorned his vanity while admitting he was fit.

"Do you have a library?"

"You know my floor plan by heart," he accused.

"They don't reveal furniture. You have books scattered about but I haven't seen any bookshelves."

He pondered that assessment seriously. He wasn't a voracious reader, per se, as only some subjects held his attention long enough. And this villa had been abandoned for so long that when he finally took title to it, building a library was low on the priority list. Most of his books were shoved under his bed or piled high on side tables.

He might have to rethink that, considering.

Considering what, he wasn't sure yet.

"You've touched a dragon. The one at the Tri-Wizard tournament?"

"No, at Gringotts."

That explained zero issues and created approximately a dozen more.

Hermione Granger was like an amusing pet, he rationalized. Paradoxically both a creature of habit and chaos, certainly of an entirely different breed. Not in the different-from-other-women way, but as a rule of law. Potter and Weasley and all of the other Gryffindors didn't display half the neuroticism she did. They were either kind and dull, or smart but thick. She should have been sorted into Hufflepuff, he had determined when she began their morning routine on Tuesday with a rebuke over his use of water nymphs for the vineyard. But then she tore apart his counterargument that they provided the best elemental assistance with a not-terrible hypothesis on the benefits of magical pollinators, and he thought Ravenclaw had missed out on this one. Only in the sarcastic way, in that she was a hindrance and not a hidden gem.

"Do you eat anything but biscuits?"

He watched her throat bob. She licked the crumbs around her mouth.

"I get caught up in work sometimes," she said. Clearly. "I wasn't allowed to eat a lot of sweets as a child."

"How barbaric."

She rolled her eyes. "My parents were dentists. Teeth healers."

Wisely, he refrained from commenting on her buck teeth that suddenly shrunk fourth year. Blaise knew this from a long-winded rant, courtesy of Pansy, that her buckteeth insults had come moot.

Granger danced her fingertips across the mantle above the fireplace, stopping at a photo. "Is this your mother?"

When his expression turned cold, and he admitted a stiff "Yes," and nothing more, she left him alone for the rest of the day.

"For the record," she began on Wednesday, sweeping dust off the mantle, "One of my colleagues does the home visits. She says your mother is an intelligent woman."

It was hilarious to hear Granger compliment his pureblood mother who narrowly escaped the Dementor's Kiss and imprisonment, and that too by an insanity defense.

This wasn't good for him. He should leave. Shouldn't he be content to free himself from Granger's imposition?

"No smarter than your mother, I imagine," he remarked in lieu of a question.

When there was no riposte, no acerbic comeback, his quill-scratching came to a stop. She was quiet. He hadn't hit twenty questions yet, had he?

When he glanced up, Granger was turned away from him, facing the fireplace. Where he kept the sole picture of his mother in this villa, a grainy image of her twirling about at a gala with his father.

The angle Granger kept was odd, even as he saw her crouch and move around. She was purposefully keeping her face from his.

There were no sniffs or shaking shoulders.

But her breaths quickened. She was holding back. If he spun her around, would there be tears being blinked away?

Yes, he guessed. This time, it was him prodding too far. Thousands of people were killed during the war. Why would the loved ones of war heroes be spared?

It should've given him glee to have found a pressure point, something to wield over her head and bend to his will. To use to his advantage and send her away.

Granger moved to the right enough for Blaise to see the picture on the mantle in full. He had very few memories of his dad, both by way of records and anecdotes. This was the few credible ones. His father's face was blurred, but Blaise was told most of his facial structure and attitude was his.

"She's dead, isn't she?"

Granger flinched. Blaise studied the way her spine straightened as she reached for a sconce, brushing it with soft wordless magic.

"In a manner of speaking."

Blaise thought about the platitudes given over the years. That his father would be proud of him, that he was watching, that he loved him. All of them were pointless because who knew what the dead were thinking? Not even ghosts, grasping at life like they did.

"You make a good living memory of her, then."

Granger turned to peer at him over her good shoulder. She still preferred to move weight away from the injured one. "Thank you."

He inclined his head. You're welcome.

By Thursday, Blaise had doodled over most of his extra parchment. He resorted to flipping through a book whilst reading absolutely none of it. To which, he explained to himself, the heat truly was an abomination, and second, both the heat, and more than one look at Granger's figure in a fitted blouse and trouser ensemble, was causing problems.

It was the suffocation of company. Too many changing routines.

The morning crawled by. Blaise was relegated to chaise when Granger finally reached his desk, and at one point she sat in his chair, fruitlessly trying to pull hair away from her face as she shuffled through the drawer's contents.

"You draw?"

Blaise looked up from the book he was not reading. "You're at eight questions."

"The wine ones don't count." She bent over further. The blouse's neckline was useless in shielding Granger from his lascivious train of thought.

He stopped it immediately and diverted it into a proverbial void.

"Why not?"

"Because I already knew what you do. It's part of the job." She grabbed a fistful of her curls, huffed, and yanked them into a pile on her head that she then speared through with her wand. It made for an interesting look.

"Rifling through personal matters?"

She ignored that one and shuffled the papers, tapping them against his desk to even them out. "Your drawings aren't bad."

They're doodles, he almost scoffed.

But that would be admitting, what, defeat? If she wanted to think him a vagabond artist, he wouldn't correct her.

"Granger."

Her fiddling continued. There was a rune stuck underneath his desk, apparently, that took her half a minute to remove.

"Granger, pause."

She made no attempt at hiding her irritation. "There's a time and place for verbosity, Zabini."

Never in his life had he been called verbose. It just about dissuaded him from doing what he was about to do, but her fidgeting worsened.

He removed his wand from his pocket.

She looked at it, then him.

She made no move to unsheathe her own wand. She thought him no threat, or not enough of one. Which one is worse, he mused.

He flicked his wand upwards and then in a loop down.

Half her hair was pulled over her head, and the the other was pulled over her shoulder. His magic caught on her curls with more force than he expected, only having had experience doing this for his mother. Her resulting wince softened into surprise as she slid her hand over her head.

"Is this—a French twist?"

"Do I look like the sort to know the distinction?" Hairstyling would remain squarely in Draco's purview as far as the public knew.

She squinted. "You dress well enough."

Well enough. She thought Blaise Zabini dressed well enough.

Seeing as he resumed to his not reading of the book and more Granger watching, only because she was at his desk, Blaise figured he was developing a masochistic sense of humor. Expending his magic was well worth her fidgety tendency decreasing in half, he reasoned. And her neck looked soft when exposed like this. Her plait always hid one side. The absence of stray curls gave way to an unobstructed view of a hardened jaw, delicate nose, and high cheekbones.

He was taking liberties with her, he knew. Ones she was dangerously aware of, if the lack of any further questions on how or why he knew such a spell, or if he would teach her please, was any indication.

So in silence they luxuriated.

It was another good day, Blaise determined around golden hour, until Draco, as though thoughts of him had summoned the man himself, hit his wards.

Blaise glanced at the window, hissing sharply. Granger had at least an hour left in her work day. He wordlessly excused himself. With any luck, Draco's appearance would be a short one. Otherwise, Granger had enough sense to stay away.

Blaise collected him at the gate. The man was pacing restlessly. "If you recall, I didn't actually give you permission to visit."

Draco rolled his eyes at the warm welcome. "Already spent money for the portkey. It won't take me back until tomorrow."

Blaise debated just sending the man to the middle-class inn Granger was staying at, or even a bed and breakfast.

"Astoria must love those manners."

"Fuck off." The heat was burning Draco's alabaster flesh, transforming him into a overripe tomato. "Let me through. I have something to give you."

Blaise sighed and lifted the wards. That something was a wedding invite, and as surly as he was, he was unable to hold back a smile at the thick cardstock, Draco and Astoria's names etched in gold-lain cursive.

Not a full smile, but one appropriately chuffed for the occasion.

It was a rare thing to find someone to settle down with that one didn't want to poison, and even rarer in their circles. Astoria was civil, well-bred and well-mannered, and passively cruel when needed. She and Draco were a good match.

Blaise attempted to lead him into the drawing room but Draco headed for the cellar. The blonde popped his head out less than a minute later, greedy hands wrapped around an unopened Brunello di Montalcino.

He scowled at him. Celebrating an announcement of Draco's wedding date was not a Brunello occasion. It was too late to stop Draco, though, and so wine glasses in hand, they settled onto chairs near the kitchen, making small talk about Draco's family and his burgeoning real estate consulting firm.

That turned Draco's focus to Blaise's work and the villa. It was Draco's second time visiting, and the year since the first visit had witnessed many changes to the grounds, first and foremost being there was actually quality wine being produced and the villa was livable.

"Aren't you tired of holing yourself up here?" Draco asked as he took a long sip, humming in satisfaction. "Lots of opportunity back home with the economic boom. If you want to continue this business."

"Interesting choice to use 'home.'"

"It is, isn't it? Even your mother chose to carry out her house arrest there."

Blaise tipped his glass. There were no dregs, of course, flavor fully imparted and sediment carefully removed through magical filtration.

"It's quiet here, usually." He stared at Draco pointedly.

Draco, a master of bullshit himself, refused to accept his answer. "The brooding self-imposed outcast archetype only works when said outcast is not coming to England every chance he gets."

"If I didn't, Theo and Pansy would raze this place to the ground."

"Scared of a pair of knuckleheads?" Draco shook his head and uncrossed his legs, lowering his glass as he leaned towards him. "Personally, we think you're running from something."

Blaise hid his frown in his own prolonged sip. The idea was preposterous. He was content, he was building a legacy, dealing with his mother's continued desire for intemperance. There was nothing else to do. Even at their most powerful, Zabinis took a backseat. They didn't control from the shadows as Malfoys did; they preferred to avoid the game altogether, because they were too good to be meddling in the mundane affairs of idiots looking to worship another.

Draco, Theo, and the rest wouldn't understand. They were the children of failed conquerors, looking to a future of further—better—conquest. What did a man without a father strive for, except himself?

He wanted to be alone. That was enough.

Granger materialized in the hall.

Draco startled. It hadn't been so long that he wouldn't recognize Granger up close; and Granger was tough to not recognize in the first place.

Granger's own surprise at the visitor quickly smoothed over into attempted indifference, but she wasn't, like the rest of her friends, good at wearing masks. Only the desire to avoid further disarray sent Blaise standing, setting his glass aside.

Draco's icy eyes flickered between him and Granger. His expression of mild shock dissolved into a sneer.

"So this is what you've been busy with," he said to Blaise, voice reaching a nasally pitch.

"Hello, Malfoy," she said, voice strained as she spared the blond a quick glance. "Zabini, sorry to interrupt, but the wards?"

Malfoy watched Blaise round the chairs with rapture that rivaled that of Pansy's.

"Where's Weasley, Granger?"

Granger ignored him, opting to shift her bags around. Good girl.

"Needed a real pureblood to take care of you, did you?"

Granger's neutral expression dropped. Blaise noticed her hand creeping up to clasp her left forearm.

Bellatrix.

In Draco's home.

"Malfoy, I will lock these wards to kick you out if you don't shut up," he said coldly.

Other than the sound of glass clinking, silence followed them until they were outside.

Granger swiveled to face him. Her eyes were burning.

"You didn't need to do that."

Blaise put his hands in his pockets, feeling warm. And it wasn't from the heat.

Underneath her annoyance, he spotted a hint of gratitude in the curve of her brow.

He still hadn't silenced the portraits.

"Thank you," she amended after a moment. "He's not as nasty as before, but…"

She trailed off, shaking her head. Her hand was still gripping her forearm.

She hadn't heard half the things the man said about her in school. Or what Blaise himself had said. Blaise had thought himself above trifle bullying, but putting a mudblood in her place at the time hadn't seemed like a trifle matter. He'd sneered, scoffed, and mocked with the rest of them.

She was being generous. Far too generous. The strength she must expend to tolerate him and his ilk.

"Don't do that."

"What?"

"Don't be so polite. Let people earn that." He looked at his feet. Rich leather shoes, polished to a shine. Perfectly tailored trousers. And for what? "You don't need to be polite to earn your place."

Fire blazed behind her pupils. Magic cackled in her fingertips, between her collarbones, and every strand of her hair. His magic fell apart as easily as her hair-do.

"I know my place. I have never needed to earn it." She tilted up her chin, frizzy hair falling past her shoulders, haughty in all the best ways. "I prefer to be kind because my muggle parents raised me to be kind. Don't confuse it with deference."

And that, he realized, like a midwit, was why Hermione Granger was a Gryffindor, and a war heroine, and all of the titles the public bestowed her with.

He stayed for a few minutes, even after she was gone, staring at the spot she entered and left from day in and out for the past month and a half.

Draco was pretending to examine a portrait of the potioneer Marco di Verità near the foyer, but Blaise knew Draco had pried every bit of nosy gossip he could from the damned thing.

Marco twitched as Blaise's shadow cast over them. Draco turned his hawk-like gaze to him.

"Explain," the blond demanded when they resumed their seats.

Blaise tipped his glass backwards, let the familiar taste lull him into a false sense of security, and forced his best, condescending smirk.

"The DMLE sent her."

Setting his elbow on his knee, Draco cradled his chin in his hand, dangling the wine glass by its upper rim. "Tell me you're making her life hell."

Blaise rubbed his temples. "You're getting married. Don't you think you need to move on?"

"'Don't you think you need to move on?'" Draco mocked, sitting back. "My father's in prison. My mother—"

"I don't give a fuck how many parties your mother can't attend."

For a split-second, an ominous silence fell over the Zabini villa.

Then Draco's mouth twitched.

"At least my mother isn't a hussy."

"Your father was a sniveling coward."

"At least I have a father!"

"And your aunt chiseled into Granger like she was a paint canvas!"

Draco leapt to his feet, glass falling to the floor. Meticulously placed cushioning charms prevented a shatter, but in its place, their friendship might has well have.

The glass in Blaise's hand cracked, the echo of his voice reaching a pitch it never had before resounding in their ears.

"Alright," Draco said slowly. "Theo already lost his damn mind when he started working at the Ministry, so I'll give him a pass. But you tell me right now if you and fucking Granger have something going on."

What was more laughable than the insinuation was the idea Granger would ever, willingly, let any of them touch her. "Get out."

"You're fucking uninvited from my wedding."

"Get the fuck out."


That week, the second page of The Daily Prophet had churned out electrifying news about the Weasley-Granger debacle. According to the editors, it was akin to the split of North and South Korea, given how much time and third party commentary was devoted to the topic.

Life, he knew, tended to be simpler, where people fell apart for mundane reasons. Contrary to popular belief, three of his mother's husbands died from simple old age or disease. A pedantic distinction to make when she had, ah, killed five of them, but five criminal sentences was better than eight.

His own love life was mundane, too. He simply found no woman enough to tolerate, or any woman beautiful enough to entice him.

On Friday, he was happy to confirm that Granger was still average, besides her sentient hair and zealous eyes. Possibly also her nose and lips. She ate with her mouth full and spoke with her hands, and apparently had no problem shedding her robes in his house.

He kept quiet and spent most of the day outdoors, sleeves rolled to his elbows and hands covered in dirt for a quick quality check, just to occupy both his mind and limbs. When there was no more to be done, and there was an actual pile of work waiting for him at his desk, he cursed his good luck and slipped into his office silently.

Biting his tongue down was an effective but necessary measure. After two or three perfunctory attempts at conversation, Granger let him be.

Late in the afternoon, she addressed him again. "You've been taciturn today."

There had been a detente of sorts, sure, but it was not unusual for him to hardly exchange a sentence with her. After all, that had been their usual regime at one point.

Usual. What was usual was evolving far too quickly for his tastes.

It was her last day in his office. After the bathroom and his bedroom, she would be done. She would pack off to England for good, until the useless Ministry sent her elsewhere.

"I'm always taciturn. Apologies if I gave you the impression otherwise."

Granger's brows switched together. "Did Malfoy do something? Since yesterday you've—"

He didn't know what came over him. She'd finally slammed head-first into boundary, maybe.

"Tell me, whose house are you playing housemaid in next?"

Granger froze.

He regretted it the moment the words fell out of his mouth. He wished he could cram them back into his throat.

Her head lifted. He met dangerously glittering orbs and had the acute premonition that he was about to be punched or slapped, like Malfoy in third year. How poetically circular.

"Don't talk to me like that," she snapped.

It dislodged whatever had been stuck up his arse that day. He pinched the bridge of his nose, standing up and heading towards the door.

Granger was faster. She slid between him and the doorknob. The tips of her sensible shoes met his brogues.

"No, no, we're going to talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Fight, then. You didn't like me in school and I didn't care, except for that time you snorted at me during a Slug Club about my parents being dentists. But I've been professional since I got here and you've been nothing but conceited."

"I told you to not be polite," he retorted bitterly.

There was a liminal moment of which both watched each other, wary.

She huffed.

He struck first. Her shield charm flung his hex into his bookshelf, shearing two old dictionaries in half. She made a pained nose at the literary martyrdom but was waylaid by his bat-bogey hex. It missed her by half a centimeter.

She was moderately fast, but she moved the way she thought. Fighting didn't come to her instinctively. He could see her consider every move, and realized she had probably planned this confrontation for the better part of the afternoon.

He, on the other hand, dueled like he played Quidditch. Sneakily and careful, but unafraid to use brute force. When she deflected his impedimenta, he found himself hurling his entire body at her. Yelping, she ducked, but not before his leg hit hers. She collapsed onto the chaise. He tripped, stumbling into the fireplace and faceplanting into the rough, unforgiving bricks. His jaw protested in pain.

When he flopped over to face Granger, she had already made quick work of healing spells on herself while eyeing him with an expression of a kneazle that'd successfully tipped over a jug of cream.

"Your—" she stifled a laugh, waving a hand over her own face.

He groaned. He could feel the tender imprint of the expensive fireclay bricks left on his right cheek.

Her strangled, sweet laughter subsided into hiccups. Then there was complete silence, again.

It was suffocating.

She gathered her belongings, swiping stray curls fruitlessly behind her ears and stuffed her wand into her robes.

Blaise sat up but otherwise remained on the floor. It was an odd but not altogether horrible change of angle of both the office and world at large.

Granger meandered at the doorway. The workday had a few hours left, and he was miffed she opted to leave early, thereby tacking on more time to her stay here overall.

She wouldn't let him have the last word, as much as she'd already won the fight.

"Sometimes I think you're nice. And I think you know you're nice, too. Just," instead of raging ire, her voice was full of hollow irritation, like he wasn't worth the full extent of her, "Just leave me alone, if you're going to get this mad at yourself about it. Alright?"

She left the door open. He would've been content to be left alone with soft taps of her heels and sight of her bobbing head disappearing around the corner, but he needed to follow to let her out of the villa, which made things extraordinarily worse.

Blaise couldn't remember the feeling of embarrassment, and if this was it, he loathed it.

It was all well and swell to leave him to stew for the rest of the day. Thank Merlin it was the weekend, which gave him time to drink, fling himself at every task demanded of him, including Pansy's whining to set her up with a Portuguese cousin of his and shaking off Theo's owl after a letter demanded why the hell Draco had banned him henceforth from all social gatherings and the bachelor party. Maybe Theo needed to piss off and realize Draco wasn't the king of their social circle. Maybe Blaise didn't care at all, actually, about Draco's pointy-faced existence and old childhood memories on the Malfoy Manor lawns when the blond let the lonely boy join a gangly group of teenagers, or dark nights during sixth year when Blaise repaid the favor by sneaking him dinners from the kitchens and patiently listening to him cry over a doomed task.

Theo's owl, unfortunately, was no more prone to pissing off than Theo, too well-trained and eager to deliver a proper response to his master, forcing Blaise to banish it to his owelry for time being. That would teach Theo to leave his nose out of it.

Granger, on Monday morning, announced tersely that his private quarters were due for a screen.

Lovely. Just lovely. He'd forgotten about that small tidbit.

"A moment to collect my bearings," he replied coldly.

Other than a tapping foot, she was the image of the consummate professional. "Not possible. I am to start exactly at nine am."

"A moment, Granger," he repeated in a tone that brooked no argument. It worked on everyone except his mother and Pansy.

And Granger, apparently, because followed him up the stairs and crossed her arms as he gathered evidence of the weekend's libations from his bed and dresser.

Do be careful, he wanted to stay, everything in here costs more than your miserable salary can afford. But that would be the sort of behavior Draco endorsed, and anything that reminded him of Draco at the moment made him want to throw a bombarda at himself.

Two months. Two months was all that was needed to crumble his peaceful life into hell.

Fucking Granger.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her begin with his dresser.

He couldn't blame her.

It was his own fault. He did this.

He snapped his fingers. "I keyed the wards to you."

She opened her mouth but he didn't wait to hear her response as he summoned his personal items, left, and bought a portkey to take to his mother's.