Truth Is

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"Truth Is"

Chapter 6

     (Three Days Later: Bolivia)

       Hermione smiled painfully as she watched the tall, lithe, beautiful woman make her way toward her. Cecania Knight-Braun was one of the most beautiful women Hermione had ever met; her stiff posture, perfect hair, petite frame, and lack of interesting expression spoke volumes for her German royal-like training. Ian's eldest sister had spent so much time in Germany, after her family moved to England to run the hospital, that her accent was of one who hadn't learned English at the very moments that she was learning German. Hermione hugged her warmly as she wrapped her thin arms around Hermione in such way that most would label cold but Hermione realized that it was as close to warm as Cecania could get.

       The thirty-year-old smiled, stepping back from Hermione to look her over. "My little brother making you happy, no?"

       "Yes," Hermione grinned, not wanting the aristocratic woman to know that she hadn't had contact with her brother in days, "he makes me very happy. What brings you to Bolivia, Cecania?"

       "I'm sure that you are aware of Germany's neutral stance?" the politically savvy brunette began.

       "Of course," Hermione replied as she nodded a greeting to Carrick Blair as he exited the hotel.

       "Well," Cecania continued, while she and Hermione made their way to a sitting area, "my husband, Hans, is now the Assistant to our Minister of Magic and has been assigned to tour the area and assess where Germany shall stand."

       "Hans is in politics now? Not very surprising," Hermione retorted, thinking of the handsome and intelligent man that she had met many times.

       Cecania smiled proudly, her smile was polite yet it lacked the appearance of her perfectly white teeth. "You are here on assignment, no? Mother talks of you all the time, she -- she says you are in the papers a lot, no?"

       "Well," Hermione began humbly, "I probably am in the papers quite a lot. It seems, Cecania, that I've become part of England's Ministry of Magic."

       "Well, if you weren't before then you should be," she retorted, "Ian says you are very intelligent woman."

       "Ian says a lot about me," Hermione whispered, her voice almost in a tremble. She couldn't stop thinking that Ian's high opinion of her was less than deserved.

       "Mother thinks she should visit you two often," Cecania continued as if Hermione had said nothing, "but father believes that you will make a wonderful wife to the Knight Heir."

       "Wife?" Hermione gasped, Ian and she had spoke nothing of settling down. Marriage was a situation that she had spoken of with one other man and the prospects of that working out was well into the negative.

       "Of course," Cecania giggled, in such a serious way that only she could pull off, "you will have a wonderful life. And I dare say I need a sister in this male infested family."

       "Sounds lovely," Hermione mumbled, "but don't German Heirs usually have to marry a fellow Purebred German, like Hans for example?"

       "Liebling," Cecania chuckled, her German slipping from her lips before she could hurry to correct herself, "darling -- I mean -- today we are most important family in German society, it does not matter who my brother marries so long as he does!"

       "Oh," Hermione gasped, completely surprised at the proud German's reply, "how very . . . liberal."

       "Well," Cecania announced, as she rose from her chair with a soft sigh, "I must meet Hans at the orphanage. We will have lunch together soon, no?"

       "Of course," Hermione answered politely, kissing the tall woman on both her cheeks before she picked up her hat and gloves.

       "Auf Wiedersehen, Hermione," Cecania replied politely as she turned to walk away.

       "Good bye, Cecania," Hermione replied with a heavy sigh, who was she fooling, for once in her life she was unprepared.

~*~

       "Who in the hell gave you the right to look so -- so well rested this early in the morning?" Blaise growled as Draco entered his room with a cheerful mood.

       "The same god that gave me the good sense to use the dark hours for slumber," Draco retorted in an innocent voice, as he sat comfortably on Blaise's couch.

       "Could you not speak if you must sound so damn chipper?" Blaise frowned, throwing the Owl post onto his desk.

       "Zabini, why are so you exhausted this fine morning?" Draco asked as he tried to figure out a way to get a drink without Accioing the cup.

       "Didn't I ask you not to speak, Draco?" Blaise groaned, massaging his temple with his fore fingers. "But if you must know, I don't seem to be able to sleep when the world is destroying itself."

       "You aren't here to save the world, Potter," Draco replied sarcastically, "you are here to use your fine politicking to save these people's livelihood."

       "Wouldn't that worry you, Draco?" Blaise asked, briefly looking up at his friend before opening a letter.

       "To be entrusted with the fate of an entire people? It wouldn't worry a Malfoy but they didn't give one the job so it's not the same," Draco answered arrogantly as he finally got up to retrieve the glass of Pumpkin Juice that he'd been wanting.

       "Shut-up, Draco," Blaise replied simply, his friends arrogance nagging at his lack of rest.

       "However," Draco began, as he indulged in the drink he had enjoyed since early childhood, "since they gave you the job you must be qualified. Don't fret, Zabini, or you'll be gray-haired as your dear old Papa!"

       "Are you really asking me to hit you this early in the morning?" Blaise growled, as he sat at the desk that he had been previously leaning on.

       "No, not exactly." Draco shrugged as he finished his pumpkin juice.

       Blaise glared at him for a moment before asking, "Where's Granger?"

       "Actually," Draco began with a long, dramatic sigh, while he sat his feet up on the coffee table, "I don't know. Last I saw of her she was conversing with a very beautiful German woman. Legs, lots of legs, thick chestnut hair, shockingly thin, flawless skin, and apparently good breeding."

       Blaise's eyebrows furrowed as he did a quick mental search, all the while wondering how did Draco notice that with only a brief sighting. "Isn't her fiance German?"

       "The entire Knight clan is German," Draco answered automatically but ended with a grin. "Why do you care, Blaise? Scared that one of them is going to rush her back to Germany to protect her from the Insane Italian?"

       "Sod off, Draco," Blaise sighed as he began to read a letter from his mother.

       Draco chuckled softly, almost to himself, whispering aloud, "The trouble with some people is that they work too hard and then wonder why they can't relax every now and then."

       "At least some of us work, Draco," Blaise snapped as he finished the entirety of his mother's page and a half correspondence.

       "Don't sound so jealous, Blaise," Draco grinned, leaning on the side of the desk that Blaise occupied, "it isn't the least bit attractive."

       Blaise groaned loudly, mornings like these were when he wished he had no friends. "Don't you need to write Ginerva?"

       "Not at the moment, no."

       "Don't you want to go bother Granger?" Blaise pleaded.

       "No," Draco replied simply, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth , "not at the moment."

       "Don't you want to explore the beauty of the Bolivian women?" Blaise tried again.

       "Ginerva wouldn't appreciate that suggestion much," Draco whispered, the smirk more obvious.

       "True," Blaise sighed, a vision of the pretty redhead angry appeared before him. "You aren't going anywhere today are you?"

       "No," Draco grinned, as he slid into the chair in front of the desk, "I'm not."

~*~

       Blaise returned to his room with a sigh, it was twilight out and his room was filled with such colors that he could have sworn, if he did not know any better, that his niece and nephews had taken paint to his walls. He sighed as the afternoons activities came back to haunt his body, at twenty-eight his body ached more than his father's, who was quickly approaching sixty. Blaise threw his robe on the bed, thinking that one should never say that Landlocked Bolivia did not have perfect tanning weather, and unbuttoned the first three buttons on his shirt. He finally looked up at the desk, that was sitting across the room, and was accosted with two big brown eyes when he quickly lit the candles in the room with his wand.

       "What are you doing here?" he asked the woman who had missed all of the Media frenzies that evening.

       Hermione shrugged, her voice low, hinting, momentarily, at defeat. "I couldn't think of anywhere else to go."

       "So you decided to come to me?" Blaise asked, almost irritably, as he pulled off his shoes.

       Hermione sighed loudly before turning her back to him. "It wasn't a conscious decision, Blaise."

       Blaise watched her stoic body before moving himself to sit on the desk next to her chair. "But it was a decision that was made . . . so what's wrong, Hermione? Something must be wrong for you to be sitting in my room."

       She sent him a half-smile, accompanied by a soft sigh. "Why am I here? Blaise, I couldn't tell you. This morning I had a run-in with Ian's sister and I haven't been quite right since."

       "Worried you don't love the old-man?" Blaise asked, chuckling at his choice of words.

       "It's not that I don't love Ian," Hermione answered quickly, still not connecting her gaze with the Italian next to her, "I do, I know I do, but I . . . don't know if I love him enough to marry him."

       Blaise raised an eyebrow. "And you came to discuss that with me?"

       "No," she sighed, her voice becoming increasingly despondent, "I just thought -- I don't know."

       "Maybe you thought I'd understand?" he questioned softly, as blue met brown and something akin to understanding flew between them.

       "Do you?" Hermione asked, more unsure of anything than she had ever been.

       "I do," the Italian whispered, crossing his arms his chest while leaning back on the desk, "the funny thing is, Hermione, that I know that I have yet to learn to love Victoria. However, I can tolerate her, and her numerous calls upon my integrity and my bank account, enough to marry her."

       "Why would you want to marry someone if all you can do is tolerate them?" she questioned, watching the change of countenance take place on Blaise's striking features.

       "I've only been in love once, Hermione," he began looking at her for a reaction, he received none, "and at this moment marrying the person I love is zero chance. So, Miss Granger, tolerance will do."

       Hermione frowned, biting her lip before asking, "Do you not have faith in forgiveness?"

       "What?" Blaise retorted, unsure of her question.

       "Don't you believe in forgiveness, Blaise?" she repeated.

       "Not everyone deserves forgiveness, Hermione," he replied as he stood and made his way over to the mini-bar, "and you of all people know that."

       "When everyone else has forgiven you," Hermione stated, her voice more lucid than it had been since that morning, "what is stopping you from forgiving yourself?"

       "Everyone hasn't forgiven me, Hermione," Blaise replied directing a glare her way, sighing loudly before he gulped down his glass of Brandy. "Why are we talking about forgiveness? I thought we were discussing your fear about marrying Ian Knight?"

       "We were," she answered as she rose and made her way over to him, their bodies so close that she could she the gentle fall and rise of his chest, "but apparently we both have some unresolved fears and I've decided that there needs to be some confrontation around here."

       "I don't do confrontation very well," he replied simply, pouring himself another drink.

       Hermione snorted. "Well, I already knew that."

       Blaise glared at her before taking a small sip of his poison. "Hermione, I think you should go."

       "Sure," she answered confused, she feared she had insulted him, while looking over at the clock that was pointing to eight-thirty.

       "Honestly, Hermione, I want you to stay," he spoke softly, running his knuckles over her cheek, "so you should go."

       "Yea," Hermione whispered looking up into his dark blue eyes before she walked toward the door. Before she opened it she turned to him and asked, "You know what you asked me the other night, about regret?"

       "I remember," Blaise replied, as he tried to keep his eyes from memorizing the tint of the fading candlelight on her cheek.

       "Sometimes regrets can help you change things," she whispered, as she turned the doorknob, "goodnight, Blaise."

       He nodded respectively. "Goodnight."

~*~

       Blaise sighed loudly as he dropped the quill on a crowded piece of parchment and ignored the ink puddles that smeared the perfected cursive that crowded the parchment. He ran his fingers over invisible perspiration on his forehead and shook his head at the mess he was dealing with. Things were progressing at a snails pace and no one wanted to listen to reason, so day by day the stench that filled the air became worse. Which left Blaise, and the ICW, wondering when would the muggles become suspicious because the smell of rotting flesh and hungry stomachs was so strong no one could mask it. Biting his lip he decided that it was time for supper and made his way over to the door just as his secretary was making her way in.

       Lavender smiled apologetically. "Sorry, Zabini, I was just running in to warn you."

       Blaise raised an eyebrow and asked tiredly, "Warn me of what?"

       

       "You have a visitor," Lavender replied, squinting her eyes, as a short brunette ran up to her and grabbed two scrolls out of her hand.

       "Who?" Blaise asked, as he fingered the intricate detail on the frame of the door.

       "Miss Carrington," Lavender whispered quickly, as a familiar voice presented itself and she made her way away from the Minister.

       "Oh, Blaise!" Victoria called as she made her way down the hall in an outfit that could only be labeled as "American Debutante". She wore tapered robes over a Salmon pink suit that fit her every curve with matching heels, handbag, and hat. It was a get-up that Blaise had learned to deal with since he became involved with her but it wasn't his favorite choice of clothing for women.

       "Victoria," he sighed, smiling politely as she kissed his cheeks with such fervor it almost exhausted him, "what are you doing here?"

       "Did you really think that I'd let you trample around this paradise alone?" she asked as she pushed passed him and entered his room.

       "Honestly," Blaise began as helped her out of her robes, he could see the little drops of perspiration dotting her forehead, "I thought you would, I know how you hate to sweat."

       "Father told me that it was my duty to be by your side," Victoria replied with a sickeningly sweet smile as she pulled off her pumps, "true Politician wives never leave their husbands alone for long."

       "We aren't married yet," he remarked blandly, as she wrapped her arms around his narrow, defined, waist.

       "Mmhh," Victoria moaned, as she nuzzled her nose into the gentle dip between his neck and collarbone, "but we will be soon."

       "Victoria," Blaise groaned, as he less than gently pushed her off of him, "it is too hot for all this touching."

       Victoria growled, irritably, placing her manicured hands on her slender hips as Blaise walked away from her, fanning himself. "What is going on, Blaise?"

       "Nothing, Victoria," Blaise asked as he opened the window and magically paper weighted the parchment to prevent it from flying out the window.

       "It's happening isn't it?" she asked as she stormed her way over to him and pulled his arm so that he would face her.

       "Look, Victoria --" he began but was interrupted by a loud groan from the second party.

       "Oh, gods, please don't start a sentence with look, it's always bad news," Victoria groaned as her eyes narrowed and Blaise rolled his eyes at her dramatics.

       "Look, Victoria," Blaise began again, more deliberate in his tone, "I've been working nonstop and I haven't any time for petty romance."

       "Petty romance?" she questioned loudly, genuine hurt showing itself in her words. "Is that how you see us?"

       He sighed inwardly, running his fingers through his hair. "Victoria, apparently I don't have the answer you seek, so why --"

       Victoria quickly interrupted him, her voice becoming more shrill as her temper went through the roof. "The truth is always the right answer! Damn it, Blaise, just tell me the truth!"

       "Bloody hell," Blaise mumbled as he grabbed both of her arms and spoke evenly, "calm down, Victoria. There is nothing else to be said, you've had a long apparition and I've had a long few weeks so why don't we both go to bed. It would be good for both of us."

       Victoria's anger peaked at a fit of tears and she collapsed, dramatically, into Blaise's arms. "It's over isn't it? This sordid game has finally ended."

       "Nothing is ending, Victoria," Blaise whispered as he gently scooped her up in his arms and gently laid her on his bed. She lay with her blond hair framing her head around the pillow and her blue eyes staring up at Blaise innocently and he couldn't help but think how much like an angel that she looked.

       "You are tired of pretending aren't you?" she asked as she looked up at the Italian. When he failed to reply she spoke again, "I can see it in your eyes now, I used to be able to ignore it but tonight you are failing to play your part. How long have we been playing, Blaise? Three years, four, or what? I can't remember when you first decided your political career was more important than that Granger woman. I just didn't think it would be over so soon."

       "Go to sleep, Victoria," he answered softly, as he blew out all of the candles and made his way over to a plush chair, "you are rambling ridiculously."