Just Another Casanova

Chapter 1

All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.

~Galileo (Galilei)

"And you actually sat down?"

"Shut up, Harry. The whole thing was so weird. I can't figure out for the life of me who was helping who."

Harry laughed, and despite how angry she wanted to be at him, Hermione laughed too. They only got together one night a week: Tuesday. And no matter how hectic their work or celebrity got, they always showed up.

"So what did you talk about the whole time?" He was casually stripping his napkin and rolling it into balls (which dearly annoyed Hermione, but she'd never mention it).

"That's the thing. Once I sat down he started telling me all about Italy. He didn't mention one more word about the war," Hermione replied.

"He's just there to push your buttons, you know that don't you?" Harry's rough hand raked through his hair, revealing a tired look in his eyes Hermione hadn't seen him without in so many years. His top button was undone and the stubble on his chin proved it'd certainly been a busy few days.

Hermione shook her head in an unsure disagreement. "I don't know, Harry. I really don't. He just...for that one moment he seemed just like the rest of them."

The Boy-Who-Lived leaned forward. "Don't you mean just like the rest of us?" When she didn't answer, he continued, "When are you going to realize Hermione that you can't even forget it all. You hide behind your patients, telling yourself you're the sane one, you're the one that's moved on, but that's not true. Your patients, such as Ginny, express their grief, even after all these years, by crying, by denial, by wearing the perfume their husband bought them as though he wasn't gone, as though he was right outside the door. You're no different then them Hermione, you just show it differently...by not showing it at all."

"Maybe you should set up an office in my building," she commented quietly, her forefinger skating circles on the rim of her wine glass.

"I can't help people like you do, but I am determined to help my friend." Hermione brought her head up to look at him, his famous grin creeping across his face. "You're so stubborn you can't even see you need it."

"How do you do it, Harry?" She gave a small chuckle and shifted in her chair. "Just like that"--she snapped her fingers, having removed her hand from her glass--"you make me feel so much better."

"It's a gift I have," he answered honestly. "I got it from Ron, he could always make you laugh even when you were mad at him...."

Both their smiles faded and Hermione cleared her throat. "Face it, Harry, no one can just forget a war, just forget their loved ones. I've been trying so hard to help people move on. Maybe we can't. Maybe we just need to wallow for awhile."

A large hand gently grasped hers and Hermione met bright green eyes. "Don't say that 'Mione. It's been five years; you're right, people need to move on. And who better to help them than you?" The lantern above them flickered, illuminated the boy's sad smile.

Closing her eyes, she squeezed his hand. "You're right, Harry. It's time to live, for everyone. Because if we don't live, we might as well be with our loved ones."

"For Ron," Harry replied, releasing her hand.

She nodded. "For Ron." She laid some coins on the table and stood, tugging her skirt down and throwing her bag over her shoulder--she hated purses. Harry stood, tossing some coins of his own on the table, and gently wrapped her arm up in his, walking her to the door. Outside, they broke apart, both intending to go their own ways.

"How do you know?"

Hermione smiled knowingly. "I've seen so many come in and out of my office. They can tell you their parents made them, or that they were bored, or that they just wanted an hour of entertainment every week, but the truth is, they're all there for a reason, and it's not the one they're giving you. Zabini is no exception. Who are we to conclude that he's not just as hurt as everyone else?"

"Hermione, he's Zabini," he replied reasonably, taking a small step towards her.

"And you're The Boy-Who-Lived," she said softly. "But despite the front you put up, you still hurt too, Harry."

A ghost of a smile played on his lips. Hermione was just about to turn and leave when his rich voice stopped her. "You help so many, 'Mione; but sometimes I wonder who'll help you."

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

"Twice in one week! Please tell me you're kidding, Lanette," Hermione pleaded her secretary.

"Sorry, Ma'am, but no. He scheduled an appointment twice a week, Tuesday and Friday. I can't decline a paying costumer." Lanette's pale fingernail pointed to the ceiling and Hermione nodded knowingly, she needn't be reminded. Yes, the ceiling leaked sometimes, yes the carpet had more shags than Casanova had in one lifetime, and yes, the janitor who never cleaned was happily paid in doughnuts, seeing as how they were flat broke.

"Is he my only appointment today, did you say?" she begrudgingly asked, anxiously awaiting the answer she somehow anticipated.

"No, I'm afraid not. It appears there's another new patient."

"Another?" Lanette withdrew at the brunette's high-pitched screech.

"I guess five years of loneliness will make anyone seek an answer?"

"Unfortunately they couldn't of all come crawling for help when we needed to pay the bills last week," she mumbled. Taking one last glance at the pale, quite brainy looking--but stupid--secretary, she headed for her office, coffee in one hand, the daily prophet tucked between her elbow and her side.

She headed straight for her desk, kicking the door closed behind her ungracefully with her heel. Glancing at the clock, she cursed--a nasty habit she picked up from a certain freckled boy--and set her coffee and newspaper on her desk. Hermione Granger was never late, however, knowing her patients, she wasn't too worried; they were never on time. Until Blaise Zabini.

He gently coughed, capturing her attention. A chuckle escaped his thin lips as she jumped a little, her hand clutching her chest near her heart.

"What--what are you--?"

"I believe we had an eight o'clock appointment." He checked his watch. "And it's now five past eight. It's not like you to be late, Granger."

Straightening her blouse she took a deep breath, gathered her clipboard and pen from her desk and started for the chair. "Normally, I have my patients refer to me by my first name. However," she cut him off, "you're an exception. How about we stick with 'doctor'?"

He leaned forward, his tan complexion commented nicely by his white and blue-striped shirt. "Unless you're offering me free medication, Granger, how about we just stick with last names, like always." It wasn't a suggestion. "You won't be needing that," he said, pointing to her clipboard and pen.

"And why not?"

"I won't be telling you anything interesting today." He leaned back again.

She let out a frustrated sigh, but hesitantly replaced the clipboard on the desk before seating herself carefully in her chair. "Will you ever be telling me anything interesting?" she asked curiously.

There it was, that annoying smirk. "When you're ready," he responded simply.

She huffed. "Let me remind you that I am the therapist, you are the patient. You are aware you're paying me, correct?"

"And there is no better way to spend my money, Granger." Sitting up again, he reached his long arm across the table and brushed her flushed cheek with his thumb. "I love seeing you at a loss for words."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but funnily enough, she had absolutely nothing to say. The clock ticked in its corner, reminding her that there was a time limit to how much of this ridicule she had to endure.

He dropped his hand and fell back onto the sofa gracefully. "So where were we?" he questioned rhetorically. "Oh yes, that was the summer I met Isabelle...."

Hermione sighed heavily, not caring that she was slouching a little in her chair. I should've become an Auror.