Just Another Casanova

Chapter 3

To all those who doubted you, prove them wrong. To all who walked on you, walk right past them. And to all who loved you, love them.

Seven and a half years earlier....

Sure, Hermione had been anxious at first. She knew being Head Girl meant sharing a dorm room, duties, and probably more than you wanted to with a perfect stranger. But she'd never suspected it'd be a Slytherin, let alone the one she feared the most.

The train ride had been too long, and even now as she looked around at her comfortable common room, adorned with neutral colors, she felt the year would be the longest yet. Black leather furniture sat on tan carpet, dark wooden desks, tables, and a fireplace accented the coffee colored wall brilliantly. It was actually a relief from the screaming reds and yellows of her former common room, but Hermione had never felt so alone.

She sat on the plush leather, lost in her thoughts. It wasn't a normal fear. He wasn't intimidating or bitter or sarcastic like all Slytherins were. In fact, it was what he lacked that scared her the most; the fact that he wasn't like other Sytherins. She'd never really talked to him, but she'd seen him from afar. He was popular and charming and good with the girls--weren't all Slytherins? But she'd never suspected...Head Boy?

She feared him because she didn't know what to do with him. A normal Slytherin she could handle; ignore them until they don't ignore you, throw some pitiless comebacks at them, and walk away. But she knew nothing about him. Would he be a normal human being or no better than the rest? Childishly, she crossed her fingers under her thighs as the door swung open.

"Granger," he nodded in acknowledgement. After a moment, he quirked his eyebrow and stepped nearer, his eyes squinting. "Testing the furniture?"

She rolled her eyes and stood, sticking her crossed fingers behind her back. "Waiting for you, actually."

"Hmm," he pondered, stepping closer yet. "I'm not sure if I should be flattered or afraid."

She smirked. He'll be a piece of cake, she thought. Quickly, she changed modes and let a small smile ease onto her face. "I don't believe we've ever actually met each other." She extended her hand towards his. "Hermione Granger."

The boy stared at it for a while and Hermione feared the worst: Would he be just like the rest? A small piece of midnight black hair dangled in front of his eyes, his expression unreadable (damn Slytherins). A small sigh of relief escaped when his large, tan hand captured hers.

"Blaise Zabini."

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"Hermione?"

Hermione shook herself of her reverie and looked apologetically at her best friend. "Sorry, Harry."

They were enjoying their weekly dinner, this time Harry had cooked and they were spending a quiet evening in the confines of his flat. Harry's flat showed his modesty. All that money and it was simply simple: one bedroom, a small kitchen table, a muggle radio, and a magical clock. Hidden in a small side-street of London, it kept the reporters away, which was a small step to serenity in Harry's life.

Picking up her wine glass she took a small sip of the cabernet, the taste bitter on her tongue; wine was an acquired taste and she had yet to get used to it. But the easier her smile got, the warmer her face became, and the simpler things seemed, the more she put up with it.

"What's bothering you?" he asked sincerely. Harry pushed his empty place aside and turned his attention on his friend, his big eyes reflecting the candle in the middle of the table.

"What else?"

"What did you expect from him, 'Mione? You know Blaise Zabini; you lived with him for months! Did you honestly expect him to break down and confess his innermost desires to be good to you?"

She sighed and leaned forward, resting her chin gently on the table. "That's the thing, Harry. I really did. I still do. I just wish he'd do it soon, I'm not a patient person."

"That I know," he responded with a kind, understanding smile.

"I'm not expecting him to transform and become this great guy. It's just, he has this air about him, something he's always possessed and...it frustrates me that I can't figure him out."

He grinned and leaned back. "So, that's what it is. You're angry you don't know everything. Hermione Know-It-All Granger doesn't understand something."

"No, that's not it at all--"

"Isn't it?"

She sat up again, rubbing a tired cheek with the inside of her palm. Heaving a deep sigh she begrudgingly nodded her head. "I'm so good with people, Harry. Why can't I figure him out? He's hiding something behind all his women and his fantastic tales of the Italian countryside. But for the life of me I have no idea what it is. And yes, it bothers me okay? You can wipe that stupid smirk off your face, you look like Malfoy."

Harry's face fell immediately. "Don't joke about the dead, 'Mione."

"Sorry. I just don't know what I'm going to do."

Harry stood, extended his hand, which she took, and walked them over to the couch, which they fell into simultaneously. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her to him, resting his chin on the top of her head.

"Don't do anything. Listen to him, make some comments, but don't push him. Something tells me he'll come around in time. After all, you have a way with people."

She brought her head up and smiled brightly at him. "Thank you, Harry."

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"You're insufferable, you know that?" she screeched, tossing herself heavily onto the couch. She tossed a loose piece of hair to the side with a huff of air and crossed her arms over her chest.

"So you keep reminding me." Her counterpart sat beside her, close enough to irritate her, but far enough she couldn't reach out and smack him.

"I just don't see why you have to be so...uhg! There's not even a word for what you are!"

Blaise grinned. "Can I ask you something, Hermione?" he asked after an awkward moment of silence.

She jumped slightly, turning to look at him incredulously. "What?"

"You know, a question? People ask those sometimes when they want to find out information."

She rolled her eyes and unintentionally scooted closer to him while she shifted her body so she was facing him. "You said my name."

"Well, you do have one for a reason. After all--"

"Would you stop being cute--"?

"So you admit I'm cute--"

"See, insufferable!" She leaned back again and no matter how hard she tried, her body had given into a small fit of giggles moments later. Hermione covered her mouth with her hand, a habit she always did when she laughed, and tried to regain control of herself.

Blaise reached over and pulled her hand from her mouth. Furrowing his eyebrows slightly he asked, "Why do you do that?"

She looked back and forth from his face to her hand, his holding onto it by the wrist. She shrugged. "I don't know. Just a habit I guess."

His gaze remained on her for far too long and she shifted uncomfortably under it. "You know the war's coming," he remarked, his eyes unfaltering, his hand still holding her wrist.

Nodding, her stomach churned anxiously. She was too afraid to speak. She'd never seen the Slytherin like this.

"Just one night," he whispered. "One night more."

"Until what?" she asked curiously.

He shook his head, releasing her captive wrist at last. Leaning forward, he rested his hand on her cheek. "Just let me, Hermione, before I leave."

Too dumbstruck to resist, she let Blaise's lips meet hers. And that was the last time she saw Blaise Zabini until he waltzed into her office seven years later.