Just Another Casanova

Prologue

Men are not prisoners of fate, but only prisoners of their own minds.

~Franklin D. Roosevelt

Hermione Granger didn't have to say she understood when she didn't, because truth was, she always did. Every patient, every story of a lost one, she could relate to. I suppose that's what made the job perfect for her: every day she got paid to live in the past.

Closing the door behind her and settling into her stiff leather chair, she gently tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear. A deep sigh escaped her lips as she slid open the top drawer of her dark cherry desk, placing her wand gently and safely inside. Shifting yesterday's coffee mug to the edge, she kicked her briefcase under her desk and out of sight while pulling a fresh newspaper out from under her arm. Studiously, she unfolded the Daily Prophet. The headlines were always boring anymore. Not that she was complaining, she'd seen her fair share of eye-catching headlines.

Headlines that left somebody widowed, somebody parentless, somebody alone. Headlines that broke a heart, shed a tear, or arrested an innocent man. She'd seen headlines that resulted in a funeral and others that resulted in fast weddings. There were headlines that haunted her sleep, one's she wished she could forget, and headlines that sent her soul searching about what she should do on her last day of life. Yes, Hermione Granger had seen her share of headlines. Boring was good.

Hermione took a quick glance at the prophet before tossing it in the bin beside her desk. Slouching a bit in her chair--she only did so when no one was around--she rested her chin between her forefinger and thumb, her thoughts taking over, leaving only the ticking of clock on the wall to echo in the room.

Tomorrow...tomorrow's headline would be worth reading. After all, tomorrow was the fifth anniversary of the fall of the Dark Lord. Poor Harry, Hermione thought sitting up and clasping a frail hand around a warm Styrofoam cylinder, bringing the miracle liquid to her lips.

Her office was what an average person would call cozy and a rich person would call quaint, with their chin protruding a bit more than usual. Trust me, Hermione knew this. After the war, everyone needed a therapy of some kind (she only supplied one kind). Her office had been called everything under the sun and so had Hermione herself: everything from a miracle worker to a quack.

A small, carefully placed clock ticked graciously in the corner, close enough for Hermione to see, far enough so as not to remind her patients they were on the clock. The room was a gentle red, a dark wooden desk and a black leather sitting area accenting the color. A Persian rug was tucked cozily between Hermione's famous high-backed chair and the couch her patients found refuge on. A small coffee table lie in between, perfect to set two drinks on, yet big enough to put Hermione at a distance. A distance from what she'd never quite figured out. She told herself it kept her at a cautious distance from the sometimes overly weepy and emotional ones, but truth be told, as I always will tell it, it was to keep her as far away from the past as possible. Just because Hermione was the help didn't mean she didn't need help.

She finished off her coffee and glanced down at her schedule for today--color-coded in typical Hermione fashion. Ginny was first thing this morning. She massaged the forever-increasing creases in her forehead. As much as Hermione sympathized with Ginny, she just wished the girl would let go. Yes, Ron was dead. Yes, Neville, too, was dead. But hell, everyone was dead--whether six feet below or in the soul.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blaise Zabini made his way casually down the hallway, skirting out of the way of loose papers and looser people. The building was honestly a mess. The secretary had cried when he'd said his name and shakily signed him in. The "janitor"--he was sure he was just a homeless guy who had walked in one day and decided to push around a trash can--had come within an inch of Blaise's face and sniffed it like a dog. Not to mention the painting near the elevator was stuck in the year 1929 and kept cracking jokes about Peter Pasteur (who had stepped down as Prime Minister in 1931).

He stopped at a mirror poised near the office and turned to look at himself. His skin had slightly browned from his time in Italy. He'd lived there with his cousin while the English wizarding world cleaned itself up. He didn't need to be around while the press labeled him a rescued soul. Hell, he hadn't even fought in the bloody war. Who's to say he wouldn't have chosen the path of a Death Eater if he had? The reporters just needed something to write about, Lord knows money makes an easy target.

He raked a slender hand through his thick black hair. Someone had actually called him Potter this morning on the streets. Sickening. Whole damn world is Potter crazy.

He was early, but he didn't mind. He'd wait. Sighing, Blaise leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms in front of him, pretending he was bored. His true intent, however, had been to hear whatever he could of the conversation unfolding inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Ginny, you can't live in the past forever. Ron's gone. Bill is gone. Neville is gone. I know you loved him, Ginny, but do you think he'd want to see you like this?"

"Don't give me your shrink crap, Hermione."

"It's what you're paying me for," Hermione whispered, knowing fully that if the young woman were to hear her she'd reach the point of no return. The woman restlessly shuffled a pad of doodling--she didn't need to take notes on Ginny, she had her memorized--and crossed her legs as best as her knee-length navy skirt would allow.

The fiery redhead was pacing the space between the couch and the coffee table, ranting the same as always. Her hair was tousled badly and she was still wearing the same perfume Neville had given her on their anniversary as though the bottle hadn't run out and she hadn't scrounged London to find the same bottle so she could pretend, pretend no time had passed.

"You said you had a date tonight?" About time.

"Yea, with Colin."

Smiling the way mother's do when their kids pee in the toilet for the first time, she extended her arms slightly, and said, "See, this is good. Even if it doesn't work out I think it's exactly what you need. It's time to let go, Ginny."

"How can you say that when you haven't?" Ginny Weasley spun to face her shrink, her face etched with too many painful memories.

Hermione's ears sidestepped the comment and she continued in her same calm, monotone, emotionless voice, "It's been five years, Ginny. They wouldn't want you to stop living. A part of us died with every single body they buried; nameless faces, strangers, and loved ones alike. But think of all that we have left, all that we haven't lost. That's what has to keep you going: The knowledge that every day could have been worse. That's what wakes me up every morning...truthfully."

"I suppose you're right, 'Mione." The woman bent to gather up an old leather satchel and started for the door. Before she turned the knob however, she turned back around. "I'll let you know how it goes on Thursday?"

"Thursday it is, as always, Ginny."

"Just a little advice from a mental," Ginny said quietly. "Maybe you should take your own advice."

Hermione's brown eyes didn't even falter, though her heart flipped a little in her chest. Before she knew it though, her mask slid back into place and by the time the door clicked closed, she was at her desk to look at her chart.

A new patient? She thought in disbelief as she ran her finger down her chart. Better late than never. Everyone sought help eventually.

Settling herself back in her chair, she sighed. Hermione was looking at her paper when the door opened, something was muffled, and the door closed again. She felt the presence of somebody long before the leather sofa released a breath with his or her weight.

Getting back to business, Hermione flipped her chart so she could fill out information about her new patient. She plastered a mask of helpfulness on her face before she pulled her head up to face cool green eyes. Her smile fading, her heart thumping, she did a once over. There was no doubting it: Blaise Zabini.

Blaise could see her face pale slightly and smirked. It wasn't often that a woman didn't batter her eyelashes and smile shyly at him. Therapy might be fun after all.

"Zabini?"

"Good to see you too, Granger. Nice office you have here. Quaint." She snorted. Figures. "Could use a few pictures of your beau though, eh?"

She sat up a bit straighter and smoothed her skirt over her knees, crossing her legs at her ankles. "What are you doing here?"

Flashing thirty-two sparkling white teeth, he settled into the leather and placed his right ankle precariously on his left knee. "I'm your new patient."

Narrowing her eyes in slight frustration--and silently cursing herself for her rotten luck--she rephrased her question. "Why are you here?"

"I thought you of all people would admit my choice to seek help was wise," he said, raising the trademark Slytherin eyebrow.

"Patients I treat actually need it. They've fought in a war, they've lost people, they've suffered." By now her foot was doing it's annoying tapping thing, the toe of her navy heels hitting the rug every half second. He smirked again, which drove her eyelids nearer.

"I'll ask you again, what are you doing here?" Hermione couldn't believe it. All these years sipping wine in Italy while there was a war going on and he dares to show his face again.

"Let bygones be bygones, eh? It's been seven years, Granger."

"Two of which cost dozens of lives, Zabini, the other five spent trying to move on."

He pulled back a recently extended hand and leaned back again, resting his arms up on the top of the couch. "Oh, war changed you. I thought you sought to find good in everyone."

"I will not sit here and listen to your pitiless complaints on how hard basking in inheritance is when I deal with people who have lost loved ones five days a week."

"And what about the other two days?" The smirk fell from his face and he leaned forward again. "Do you spend those crying over the ones you lost, trying to take the advice you give to your patients?"

By now her face was flushed with frustration. "Shut up." How dare he! "You don't know anything about my life or the life of my patients. You bask in Italy for seven damned years, pretending as though there aren't people dying every day, and then you dare to show up here and pretend you're as injured as everyone else?" By the time she finished Hermione was standing, livid that he actually thought he could just waltz into a world he knows nothing about.

"Watching someone being placed in the ground isn't the only way to lose someone, Granger," Zabini bit, his childish, playboy attitude gone. "Now sit your damn arse down in that chair and ask me how I feel about it."

Surprisingly, Hermione sat.