Just Another Casanova

Chapter 5

You can dance-every dance with the guy
Who gives you the eye, let him hold you tight
You can smile-every smile for the man
Who held your hand 'neath the pale moon light
But don't forget who's takin' you home
And in whose arms you're gonna be
So darlin' save the last dance for me

~Michael Bublé (Save the Last Dance for Me)

Hermione's mind was reeling as she stepped up onto the sidewalk, side-stepping the deep puddle that'd made a home along the side of the street. Her tall, brown boots clicked mercilessly on the dark, wet cement and she moved fast, her frustrations showing as her whole body cantered down the street into the dark night.

Restlessly, she tugged a piece of damp flyaway hair, searching the names of the buildings she passed. I can't believe I'm doing this, she thought, her steps never slowing. Her breaths were calculated, a white wisp of air disappearing towards the stars in the surprisingly cold August night.

Giving a silent pep talk to herself, she was so distracted she nearly passed by her destination. Halting abruptly she turned towards the light, now flowing around her. Through the glass she spotted his black head in the distance, his dark blue shirt and black pants neatly pressed. He slowly sipped a white wine, the bottle placed neatly on the table next to a rich-colored red rose.

Charming, she thought to herself, gaining the courage to place her hand on the handle, but not quite enough to open the door. Gritting her teeth she started to turn, changing her mind halfway through, resulting in an awkward circle that left her arm twisted, her hand still clasped to the long, cylinder doorknob.

She groaned knowingly--after all, she was already here--and stepped into the cozy warmth of gently playing jazz and a bitter smell of olive oil. She nodded with a small smile to the hostess and headed for the table in the corner, weaving her way around blurry-eyed couples and tables with one body and one empty, untouched chair.

Blaise stood to greet her, giving her an awkward peck on the cheek. They sat simultaneously in the red, plush chairs and Hermione crossed her ankles beneath her chair, picking up her menu.

"I'm glad you came," he voiced, his menu still propped casually in front of his face. And, despite his best attempt, Hermione could hear a knowing tone hidden behind his words.

"I really didn't feel like spending a night alone with Crookshanks and leftover pasta." She pulled her menu down and waited until she met his green eyes. "Besides, I never pass up free food."

He smirked. "No, I don't suppose you would." They both pulled their menus back up and sat in a comfortable silence until the waiter came and took their orders, taking their shields with him.

Hermione let out a breath, playing with her fingers in her lap. "Why did you...."?

"Invite you to dinner?" he supplied the question for her. He leaned forward a bit, picking the rose up off the table and holding it out to her. Begrudgingly she took it and placed it beside her chair on the floor without a second glance at it.

"I invited you here for the same reason I kissed you." He didn't look the least bit affected by her actions. "Because I wanted to."

"But why would you want to?" Hermione figured they'd be waiting a while for their meal and they might as well get all this awkwardness over with now.

"Dance with me."

Surprised, she habitually responded with a harsh, "no." Then she added, "Stop avoiding questions, Zabini. I don't want to dance with you, not until you can be honest with me."

"But I haven't lied to you yet," he happily pointed out. Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but stopped. He was right.

"Don't be a smartarse." Blaise's eyes widened slightly at her harsh language and he leaned back into his chair again.

"This is my favorite song," he said simply, extending his hand across the table to her. "Dance with me."

Hermione snorted. However, when Blaise didn't drop his offering hand, she sat straighter in her chair, her face transforming to a mask of disbelief.

Blaise smirked--again. "You can dance, can't you, Granger?"

She narrowed his eyes and placed her hand confidently in his, standing with him. "The question you should be asking, Zabini, is whether or not you can keep up."

The restaurant didn't have a dance floor. In fact, as Blaise gently rested a hand on her hip and took her hand in his other, swaying them easily to the opening melody of 'Getting in the Mood,' they were the only one's dancing. The timeless song flowed throughout the restaurant, but fell on deaf ears--with the exception of the dancing couple.

Hermione was slightly surprised at the Slytherin's grace and knowledge of the two-step. However, by the time the chorus kicked in, instruments blaring (for this song has no words), Blaise stepped it up. Hermione watched the red spirals come alive below her as she spun in circles, being tossed from one of his hands to the other in a swing style. Before either party knew it, though, the song ended with it's famous minor and the only people who sighed in relief were those who weren't even listening.

They let go of each other and settled back into their seats, Hermione laying the white, cloth napkin across her lap. Bending down, she grabbed up her rose--which she'd almost squished when she had scooted in her chair--and set it on the table beside her plate. A small smile flickered on Blaise's lips; it was a smile that wouldn't have even existed to a normal observer.

Bowing her head, she hid her slightly warming cheeks. "Thank you," she said softly.

"For what?" Blaise reached across the table and lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.

Hermione shook her head as though it wasn't important, but Blaise persisted. "It's just...nobody's made me feel...special...in a long time. I just wanted to thank you for that."

Removing his hand, he nodded, smiling. "Prego."

Hermione didn't know any Italian, but she smiled back anyway. Their meal arrived and they ate in a silence, one or two small conversations sprinkled throughout about work and friends. Even when their plates were taken away with their napkins folded and saucy on top of the table, they remained in silence, glancing awkwardly at each other from time to time.

"You asked me why I came to England," Blaise said suddenly, shaking both persons from their reveries.

"Are you actually going to give an answer or just irk me more?"

Her arms were crossed, but Blaise laughed. "I can tell you don't appreciate my blackmail?"

She shook her head and narrowed her eyes in a silent answer.

"You didn't come here tonight just for an answer to that question, Granger, and you know it."

She uncrossed her arms and leaned forward so their faces were inches apart in the middle of the table and their voices dropped to a whisper. "Why do you pretend to know me so well?"

"Why do you pretend I'm not right?" He smiled when she didn't respond. "You're a curious person, I know that about you. I know you quite well after living with you for half a year. I know more than you think."

Her eyes flashed with a challenging light and Blaise quirked his eyebrow.

"Favorite color."

"Blue."

"Favorite food."

"Lobster Bisque." His eyes twinkled back.

"Book."

"Wuthering Heights...and Pride and Prejudice." He smirked. "It's a tie."

She gave a slight huff. "Painting?"

"You don't have one, you prefer Rodin--he was a sculptor."

Another small huff. "Quote." The lines of her mouth curved upward. Ha, I'd bet it on Ron's life he doesn't know--

"Long is the night that never finds the day. MacBeth. It's about finding hope even in the most seemingly hopeless situations. About finding good even when you're surrounded by bad. About finding something to laugh about no matter how much you want to cry."

Their faces hadn't moved a millimeter, but Hermione would have pulled back if she had had the courage. "How do you--"?

"I just do."

"Huh." He smiled at her.

"I'd bet anything you don't know me that well." He finally pulled his face away, grabbed up his glass and took the last remaining sip.

This time is was her turn to raise an eyebrow. "I'm a shrink, Zabini; it's my job to know people. I may not know your favorite book, but I know why you came back to England, with or without you telling me."