Encounters

He shifted restlessly in his bed, vivid patterns dancing across the inside of his eyelids as he kept them shut tight.

**"Stop staring, you'll bore a hole in my skull," he drawled as he took a sip of Firewhiskey. Of all the people to run into in the Hog's Head after work...

"At least you don't have any brains that could leak out," she said dryly.

"Ha ha," he retorted in a bland voice. "Was I supposed to find that funny?"

"You apparently did, since you laughed," she said with a smug grin, lifting her glass of wine to her lips.

"I did not laugh!" he protested.

"'Ha ha' constitutes a laugh," she informed him.

He rolled his eyes. "I was being sarcastic."

"Really?" she feigned shock. "You need to work on it."

"Stick around," he replied. "You give me a lot of practice."

"Was that an invitation?"

"Maybe."

"In that case, let me get another drink. I'll probably need it."**

The light struggled to find a crack under his clenched eyelids, and shards of it were peering through. He knew he'd have to get up soon, because the pounding in his head would only be soothed by his dark, caffeinated mistress...

Blaise Zabini rolled over to find himself staring into Hermione Granger's wide hazel eyes.

Sonofabitch.

Even coffee wouldn't be able to cure this.

* * *

"SHIT!" Hermione shrieked, sitting up in a hurry.

"Weren't expecting me, were you?" Blaise said, noting the shock on her face.

"No, I was," she replied, much to his surprise. "It's just that you looked better when I was drunk."

"Well," he retorted, "This seemed like a better idea when I was drunk."

"Ah, every night, then," she said dryly.

"God, Granger, it's too early in the morning for verbal tennis with you," Blaise groaned.

She chuckled, and the sheet she had held up to her chest slipped just a little. Blaise's mouth went dry.

"Tennis is a spectator sport," she said.

Blaise cast a wild glance in the room, and she burst into peals of laughter.

"Checking to see if you picked up anyone else last night? How drunk were you?" she asked.

"Granger, it's testament to how drunk I was last night that I'm lying here with you this morning," Blaise growled.

Hermione raised her eyebrows up and down. "And I thought I was bad without my morning cup of coffee."

"I need a vat of it," he told her.

"That explains the nervousness and twitching and...stunted growth," Hermione said, looking him up and down.

"Stunted only if you're comparing me to your last boyfriend, Hagrid," Blaise shot back.

"You're a sick, sick man, Zabini," Hermione said, glaring at him.

"Out of retorts, are we?" he smirked.

"No, you are," she smirked right back. "I'm just out of patience."

"Tsk, tsk," he shook his head, feigning pity.

"Yes, because clicking your tongue is going to make everything better," Hermione mocked. "God, Zabini, you're a wizard, not a genie!"

"I," he said succinctly, "Am a sex God."

"You," she replied tartly, "Are a dead man unless you point me to the nearest Apparition Point."

He smiled devilishly at her and said, "I notice you evaded the fact that I'm a sex God."

"That was fiction," she replied, smiling at him sweetly.

"Such a sharp tongue, Granger," Blaise said suggestively. "I like that."

Hermione looked at him for a long moment and then said: "Ha!"

"Ha?" Blaise echoed, puzzled.

"You don't remember a thing from last night!" she crowed. "Admit it!"

"I most certainly remember!" Blaise said indignantly. "We were at the Hog's Head...you were annoying the hell out of me...we got plastered beyond belief..."

"And then?" Hermione said not-so-patiently.

Blaise looked about the room, as if at a loss for words, then said, "Well, we obviously came back here and...um..."

"Brilliant deduction." Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course, we're naked in bed together, our clothes are strewn everywhere, so it definitely signals sexual activity."

"A plus B equals C," Blaise said, mimicking her scholarly tone. "Must you reduce our passionate affair to an Arithmancy problem?"

"That's it." Hermione looked absolutely fed up. Looking around, she spotted her wand under a pair of silk boxers ("Really! Green, Zabini?"), grabbed it and said "Apparo Home!"

Without a fuss, she simply disappeared, and Blaise was left looking at the spot where she had been sitting. "Was it something I said?"

* * *

A sinewy body leaned against her desk, while a gravelly voice said softly: "A ministry official Apparating from a point other than a safe spot? Tsk, tsk, I'll have to write you up on that one, Granger."

"You do that, Zabini," Hermione said, not looking up from her paperwork.

"Ashamed to look your lover in the face?" he asked.

"No," she said nonchalantly. "It's just that I'd rather save morning sickness for when I'm pregnant."

"Is that your way of telling me I can expect the pitter-patter of little feet?" Blaise asked with a grin.

"No, that's my way of saying 'Get out of my office, you smarmy git,'" she replied, looking up and scowling.

"My devilish good looks distract you?" he asked, preening.

She walked over to the door and held it open for him. "No, but your hellish odour does."

"Tut, tut," he smirked, sailing out the door. "Methinks the lady doth bitch too much."

"Only in your presence," she said with a smile, and slammed the door in his face.

* * *

"So this is going to be a nightly occurrence, is it?" Blaise asked, as he sat opposite her in the Tavern.

"Bloody hell, Zabini, there's a reason I switched bars tonight!" Hermione said, setting down her Giant's Rum.

"And that would be the reason why I had to follow you here from the Ministry," he said, flagging a waitress and ordering his drink.

"Zabini, do you know why I like to come to bars?" Hermione asked.

"To get picked up by handsome strangers who are too wasted to tell what a hag you are otherwise?" he guessed.

"No, that's why you come to bars," she said patiently. "I come to get away from my dull, dead-end Ministry job and the dull, dead-end people I am forced to associate with there. Ergo: get out."

"Public place, Granger," he reminded her. "You can't throw me out."

"Fine!" she said in a resigned voice. "Stay. Once I'm drunk enough I can ignore you."

"Likewise," he replied."

* * *

"Well," Hermione said the next morning, then paused, uncertain of what to say.

Blaise arched an eyebrow. "Eloquent in the mornings, are we?"

Hermione snorted. "On the mornings that we wake up next to Slytherins, yes we are."

"So am I to presume I slept with all three of you, then?" Blaise bantered.

Hermione couldn't help retorting: "If memory serves me correctly, you're the one who started this conversation in the plural."

"I wish memory served me correctly," Blaise said. "I want to know which one of us is to blame for last night."

"Maybe nothing happened?" Hermione voiced hopefully.

It was probably the hopeful tone that stung him into replying acerbically: "Of course nothing happened! Your naked chest is pressed against my naked chest, but we can ignore that, and the stains on the sheets are sugar syrup!"

"Ah. I'm still pressed up against you, aren't I?" she said cautiously.

"If what I'm feeling is any indication, yes. Feel free to stay there." He smirked.

She looked as though she wanted to haul off and hit him, but refrained as she replied sweetly: "I will. I have no intention of moving and giving you a peep show."

"I believe I got considerably more than a peep show," he pointed out helpfully.

"And the point is that you remember none of it...AGAIN," she replied. "Let's keep it that way. Some things are blessings, you know."

"I hate to say this," Blaise chuckled, "But if you don't move soon, there may be a repeat performance. One you'll undoubtedly remember," he added smugly.

"Blaise..." Hermione breathed, her voice throaty and her eyes half-closed.

He blinked. "Yes?"

"Right now..." she purred, "I'm on top of you..."

A wolfish grin began. "Yeeees?"

"And I could ensure it that in a few seconds you'd probably have to store your balls in a jar by your bed," she snapped.

Blaise groaned. "Homicidal tease."

"Suicidal desperado," she shot back.

Silence.

Then Blaise said. "Well, even if this whole..er..position is rather cliche, at least we're original in the insult department."

Hermione gave him a raking glare and shrugged. "Eh. I've had better."

* * *

Scuffling ("Take that, nancy boy!"), swearing ("Hormonal hag!") and savage threats (" REMEMBER, BALLS IN A JAR!") ensued as Blaise and Hermione wrestled at record speed to snatch covers and pillows that could block essential body parts from prying eyes (and itching hands, in Blaise's not-so-restrained case).

Once Hermione was firmly ensconced in the linen sheet, she proclaimed: "Green sheets too, Zabini, really. How Slytherin."

"Must you relegate everything to House terms again? It's been a while since I've been a Slytherin," Blaise said mildly, too busy staring at the merest hint of her breasts peering above the sheet she held in a death grip.

"Once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin," she said in a maddeningly knowledgeable tone.

"Is that one of the literary gems you Gryffindors penned about our illustrious house?" Blaise inquired, shifting so the pillow didn't...well...chafe...so much. He should have listened to Draco and gone with the satin.

Hermione snorted. It was most unladylike, Blaise decided, and, irritatingly, rather endearing. Good Lord, he vowed, as soon as she left he would grab the pistol lying in his bedside drawer and blow his brains out. The only reason he wasn't doing it now was because he didn't want the blood and gore to splatter her pretty face.

Argh.

"Literary gems?" she said. "Yes, it's right up there with 'Never trust a Slytherin snake; they'll bind you with a school tie and bugger you with a rake!'"

"Rather graphic, wouldn't you say?" Blaise commented.

"That was the idea, Zabini," she pointed out.

He stared at her, and she clasped the sheet tighter. "Now that we've...well...done the deed...shouldn't you at least call me Blaise?"

"No," she said decisively.

"No?" he echoed, and cringed inwardly at the slight (yes, it was slight!!) twinge of disappointment that coursed through him).

She took a deep breath and slid off the bed, all the while clasping the sheet to her chest. The light spilled in from the windows behind her and lit up her figure through the thin sheet, causing Blaise's breath to catch in his throat. He wanted to remember touching her, because to have been with her and forgotten the feel and taste of her skin had to warrant at least ten years in Azkaban.

"No," she repeated softly, and gathered up her clothes and turned to head to the bathroom to dress. At the doorway, she paused and said, without turning to look at him, "Because then this might happen yet again. And we might not be drunk."

And when Blaise pondered it after she disappeared into the bathroom, he could not come up with a single reason as to why that would be a bad thing.

* * *

He was still lost in his reverie when he heard a muffled thump that indicated the front door had closed. He rushed to the window that overlooked the downstairs walkway, and saw her walking to the closest Apparition Point.

He knew he should follow her, run down the street and sweep her up in a mad, passionate kiss they way the men did in all his mother's torrid novels. But something--other than the fact that he was stark naked--held him back. He needed to sort things out in his own head before he could talk to her. No need to make a bumbling idiot out of himself. No, if he wanted to do that, he could just get sloshed again.

She clutched her clothes tight about her as she walked down his street. She couldn't help think that she preferred his sheets touching her skin...and, from what little she remembered, she didn't quite mind his hands...

She didn't quite know what the problem was. Plenty of people her age did this...get drunk in a bar, wake up the next morning next to a stranger--or if they were lucky, an acquaintance or friend--get on with life, and maybe even live happily ever after. Nevermind that she'd never had a one-night (or two-night) stand in her life...her love life had been planned and meticulous like everything else about her. But she had already deviated from the norm after the first night with Zabini...so why should this be any different than a drunken roll in the sack?

Maybe, she thought hopefully, I'm just not the drunken roll type.

Of course, it's not like she wanted it to be different...

* * *

Hermione sorted hurriedly through the mess on her desk and gave a "Ha!" of triumph when she found the file she was looking for. That should help Harry with his case, she thought, turning around distractedly and almost falling over when she came in flush contact with another human body.

"Eep," she said, looking up into Blaise Zabini's hooded aqua eyes.

"Eloquent as ever, I see," he grinned disarmingly.

She couldn't help it. She whacked him with the file. "Don't do that!"

"Ow! What?" he winced, dodging the second blow.

"Don't smile at me! I haven't had my coffee yet!" she snapped.

"And this is my concern...how?" he asked.

"Balls, Zabini. Jar, Zabini," she replied wearily, trying to get past him.

He moved adroitly so that he was once again in her path...and the look on his face was far too innocuous to be believed.

"You know," he said conversationally, "That was a rather pathetic attempt at a threat. You might want to put more feeling into it."

"As if you're worth it."

"You wound me, Granger."

"That's the idea, Zabini."

"Tsk. Losing your touch already?"

"You wouldn't know my touch if it bit you in the--"

"Miss Granger!" A shocked Minister Fudge stood in her doorway, flanked by a Harry Potter quivering with suppressed laughter.

"Minister Fudge!" she said in a bright voice, with a smile that was bordering on manic. "I was just about to send the file up to Harry."

Fudge took an unconscious step backwards and said warily, "Have you had your coffee yet, m'dear?"

* * *

"You're stalking me," Hermione snapped, without bothering to turn around.

Blaise didn't look the least bit perturbed at the accusation. "What on Earth makes you say that?"

"You turn up everywhere I go...my office, the underground broom garage, the Tavern, the library and now The Leaky Cauldron," she listed in a bored tone.

"That just constitutes following," Blaise said.

"Yes, but you're creepy, so it constitutes stalking," Hermione retorted.

"Alcohol really has a way of loosening your tongue, doesn't it?" Blaise asked, walking around the table and sitting down opposite her.

"Amongst other things," she muttered, looking down at the table and tracing the ring of moisture the condensation from her glass had left.

Blaise grinned suddenly, and looked down at the mass of curls obscuring her face from view. "You're embarrassed!" he crowed.

She looked up quickly and said vehemently, "Of what?"

"Of what happened," he said, in a tone that clearly indicated he knew he was stating the obvious.

"At the risk of sounding sixteen again," Hermione said, slowly sipping her wine, "I have to say: "No duh!""

"Your wit astounds me," Blaise replied, reaching out without asking and taking her wineglass so that he could have a sip.

"And your manners disgust me!" she exclaimed.

"Now, Granger, I'm just ensuring that neither one of us exceeds our limits and ends up in the position we found ourselves in last week!" Blaise said innocently.

"There's nothing you'd love more than the position we found ourselves in last week!" Hermione said heatedly.

Blaise chuckled. "My, we're confident of our abilities, aren't we?"

"We wouldn't remember our abilities because we were too sloshed, weren't we?" Hermione mimicked with an uncharacteristic smirk.

"Refill?" a waitress asked, pausing at their table.

Blaise and Hermione paused for a moment, looked at each other and said quickly: "Two Firewhiskeys, please."

* * *

The kiss, when it comes, is hard and furious, like he is exorcising a demon (good or bad, neither knows) that has eaten away at his soul.

She kisses back with equal ardour; her arms twining around his back and fisting in his hair, then yanking his head back to allow her to trail her lips down the column of his throat. She feels the low rumble that emanates from his throat, and smiles against his skin, just before his hand reaches up to cup her face and then (surprisingly gently) pushes her away.

She stands, her breath coming in short gasps that she tries to keep quiet, but he's there, and he's shirtless, and his lips are swollen, and his eyes...

The room is dark, but his eyes burn.

With such intensity, that for a moment she fears (fears? why?) that it might be hate. But it's not. And it's not love. And it's not intense desire.

It's everything all at once, and now she can't breathe at all.

"Are you drunk?" Blaise asked, his voice low and as gravelly as the rumble Hermione had incited from him just moments earlier.

"I'm not sober," Hermione replied, not knowing whether to reach for him, or her shirt that was flung...somewhere.

"Then we can't do this," he said.

Well. What? "What?"

He blinked languidly and said: "Sex, Granger. You and me, Granger. Not happening tonight, Granger."

And the words, while themselves brutal, were softened by the regretful tone in his voice. But she still felt like a fool and had to stop the tears from welling up in her eyes.

"Fine," she said, and the coldness in her voice almost made her flinch.

"Granger," he said, reaching out for her.

"Don't!" she pulled away from his grasp. "Let me go before the other side of your split personality decides he's horny again."

"Hermione," Blaise said softly.

"No," she said forcefully. "No, we are not going to do the whole first-name-use-has-special-meaning thing now."

She turned to leave, almost stumbling in the dark, when she heard him say: "I wanted you to be able to remember this time."

* * *

She had wanted to turn around, really, she had...he had sounded like he meant it.

Too little too late, she mused bitterly as she sat at her desk the next day. I screwed up...and definitely not in a good way.

"Granger," a voice drawled from her doorway, and for a moment she was almost hopeful. Until she looked up.

"Malfoy," she groaned.

"Yes, well, lovely to know you're glad to see me," he smirked, and again, she was forcibly reminded of Blaise.

"Do all you Slytherins do that?" she snapped irritably.

Draco Malfoy was actually taken aback. "Do what?"

"Smirk. Pout. Growl. Drawl..." she ranted, ignoring the shock in his widening grey eyes.

"Granger!" he cut her off.

"What?" she screamed, and he jumped.

"Is there a point to this? Because I need those files...MMPH!" he mumbled in disbelief as Hermione fisted her hands in his robes, yanked her down towards him and affixed her lips to his.

In other words, she kissed him. Very thoroughly.

And then shoved him back with such force that he tumbled against her desk, lying there in a (for once) very undignified heap.

"Nothing!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Says you," Draco muttered, adjusting his robes.

"I meant nothing like...well, nevermind!" Hermione whirled around to face him. "Am I ugly?" she demanded.

Draco looked at her cautiously from his sprawled position and said: "Depends...where's your wand?"

She ignored him and pressed on. "No, Malfoy, I mean, would you sleep with me?"

His eyebrows inched so high they almost melded with his hairline. Again, warily, he asked, "Sleep with you...rhetorically, literally or sexually?"

Hermione growled in frustration. "Nevermind. You're not him. Get out!"

Draco slid off the desk and looked at her hesitantly before saying in a (for him) gentle voice: "Slytherins, huh? Honestly, Granger, don't get so worked up. If you want, I'll tell Crabbe you fancy him."

Five seconds later a grey-eyed toad was seen hopping out of Hermione Granger's office.

* * *

It probably wasn't healthy, she told herself, holing up in some dingy bar and getting sloshed every night.

But honestly, today it was vital. Absolutely bloody life-giving essential. Zabini hadn't even stalked her today. Bastard.

She sat at a solitary table in the Hog's Head, Where it all began, she snorted, almost laughing at her own sentimentality. Though, really, was it sentimentality? Could you actually get sentimental about a roll in the hay, a romp in the sack...oh dear, she'd gotten those two mixed up, hadn't she? Idiotic things, really, idioms.

A glass filled to the brim with Firewhiskey plonked down on the table and a long, lean body folded itself into the chair in front of her.

"I'm sorry, but I've stopped shagging strangers when I'm drunk, so you might as well look for prospects elsewhere," Hermione said coldly, not looking up.

"Pity," said a smooth voice, and Hermione's head snapped up.

"Zabini," she said evenly, though after God-alone-knows how many drinks, she rather suspected it came out sounding like "Shabeenee."

"Granger," Blaise nodded. "Kissed Malfoy, eh?"

"Bleargh," she replied.

"Any particular reason?" he asked mildly, sipping the drink he held.

"Um," she retorted oh-so-wittily.

"And further examples of that famed eloquence," he announced.

"S'not fair," she said accusingly. "You're not drunk. If we were both drunk, then I'd still be smarter."

"Your logic is amazing, Granger," Blaise said dryly, and whipped out his wand.

"You whipped out your wand," Hermione giggled. "There's something Freudian there."

"Thank Heavens for magic," Blaise raised his eyes skywards, as if in prayer, then pointed his wand at her, intoning: "Sobrietus."

"Damn you, Zabini," Hermione said irritably, now perfectly sober. "Couldn't you have just thought of that last night?"

"My mind was concentrated on other activities," he said amiably.

"You can just say you were thinking with your other head," she retorted.

"Crude, but effective," he conceded.

"Describes you to a tee," she said.

"Are we back to our vicious circle of fighting, drinking and shagging like rabbits, then?" Blaise asked.

"If that is in any way a reference to the way my teeth used to be..." Hermione said in a dangerous voice.

"Shut up, Hermione," Blaise snapped suddenly, and Hermione, though indignant, was silenced.

"Why did you kiss Draco Malfoy?" he asked with a bit of a smile on his face.

She shrugged. "Someone slipped me a Love Potion that drew me to ferrets?"

"From what I hear, you seem more drawn to toads," he commented.

A heavy silence settled over them, and Hermione knew what was coming up next.

"Why did you leave last night?" he asked quietly.

She appeared to be fascinated by the knots in the old wooden table.

"Hermione," he said. "Answer me."

"I thought," she said in a small voice, "That you didn't want me."

He laughed, but it wasn't pleasant. "Even after I said what I did?"

She shrugged. "You were horny. You would have said anything."

"If I was just horny, then I would have wanted you, don't you think?" he asked her, peering down so that he could look at her.

She looked up, then, and looked closely at him. "Maybe you're used to this, Zabini. Taking home a new girl every night and having your fun till you get bored of her and toss her out." She stood up. "Well, I refuse to be one of your disposables."

He looked up at her in amazement and then said, in what she thought was a completely unrelated topic, "Portus," while tapping his wand against the glass of Firewhiskey.

"Why on Earth are you creating a Portkey now? Is that the new male way of dealing with things?" Hermione said, looking at him cynically. "Muggle men just walk away...wizards Portkey, do they?"

"You talk entirely too much," Blaise said, grabbing her hand.

"Wha-?" Hermione's words were swallowed as she felt the familiar pull behind her navel and a rush of wind swirling past her ears, which ended when she was firmly deposited in Blaise's bedroom. "-t do you think...well...now it's just a redundant question."

"And she still won't shut up," Blaise murmured to no one in particular, not letting Hermione's glare faze him in the least as he walked past her to light the fire.

"You're in huge trouble, Zabini," Hermione said sternly.

He turned inscrutable blue eyes to her and said: "Are you going to hex me?"

"No, but the bartender at the Hog's Head probably is," she replied. "You didn't pay the bill."

He stalked over to her and stood so close that Hermione could have sworn that if he blinked, his eyelashes would tangle with hers. Except, of course, he wasn't blinking. Just looking.

"Personal space, Zabini," she snapped. "You're invading mine."

"Then step away," he said softly.

With him so close that if she wanted, she could just reach out and trace the contours of his shoulders, the arch of his neck, the planes of his face? "Fine, I will!"

He looked at the mutinous expression on her face and sighed. "You're free to leave, Hermione."

"Granger," she said. "The name's Granger."

"I can't keep calling you Granger!" he protested. "It feels like I shagged your father!"

"A mental image that I could have done without," she said, shuddering.

"Hermione," he said forcibly, "I can't keep you here against your will. So leave if that's what you want."

She turned miserably and walked out the bedroom door, and down the steps that led to the foyer, all the while telling herself that it was for the best, and that she was salvaging her pride, and that she would wake up tomorrow morning and every morning for the rest of her life alone, and really, who needed a handsome stalker who made you tingle with just a look...much less a kiss...much less a glib banter that made you want to pound your head against the wall and smile and laugh and scream all at once?

Well, not her, certainly.

She turned the brass doorknob and opened the door to step out into the cool night, only to walk straight into Blaise Zabini.

"I've changed my mind," he said hoarsely. "I'm holding you captive. You can't leave."

Hermione grinned as she looked up at him. "I thought changing one's mind was a woman's prerogative?"

"Then we'll be a great lesbian couple." He grabbed her shoulders as if trying to shake some sense into her.

"Is that supposed to be my incentive?" she asked as he backed her into the house.

"No, you daft woman," he said. "Stay because..." he swallowed hard, and his blue eyes grew sharper, and the sudden smile that flitted across his face tugged at her much like a Portkey.

"Stay because, if you leave, I'll never find out if I could have fallen in love with you."

Damn it all, she was going to cry. She took a deep breath and said shakily, "If this is your drunkenness, horniness or bastardishness that's talking, Zabini..."

"Are any of those even words?" he asked, laughing and pulling her closer.

"Balls in a jar, Blaise," she replied, her voice muffled against his shirt.

And, okay, yes, so she was crying...but she was happy, and she was in his arms, and she could smell his cologne...

And he was irritating as all hell when he was pulling her up the stairs...but all was right with the world.