Buzzed

Prolouge

Hermione was startled when the silence of the sleeping kitchen was disturbed. Being rather skittish, she jumped in her seat and cursed when parboiling coffee splashed into her lap.

"Language, Granger," a masculine voice said. Hermione whipped around, not thinking. This action spilled even a larger amount of coffee over herself. She let out a frustrated yell and slammed her cup on the table (spilling even more coffee) and grasped her wand to hurriedly remove the liquid. She cast an annoyed look over her shoulder at her new company who seemed rather amused.

She looked down at her favorite gray sweatshirt and cursed under her breath. The coffee, even though immediately removed, left a large tan stain on the front of the overlarge sweatshirt. She sighed in pouty melodrama.

"Good evening, or morning rather, to you too," her company said, smirk evident in his voice. With her back to him she could just picture him leaning against the wall to the right of him, arms crossed against his chest and smirk lingering over his arrogant features. She turned around; hypothesis wrong.

His arms were crossed like he was waiting for something and her had one dark eyebrow raised to accentuate the fact that she was wuite a spectacle. She scoffed. He was his own spectacle.

"Fancy meeting you here, Zabini," she said in a monotone voice. She turned back around to clean up her coffeedrama. She mopped up her mess with some napkins provided decorated with dancing pumpkins along the edges. At that moment Dobby rushed in night cap set on his head but his eyes wide as usual.

"Mister Zabini! How can Dobby help you?" he squeaked pleasantly. He then cast a look at Hermione. "Oh, dear," he said and seemed as if he were trying to decide who he would rather help. He must've known that Hermione would've shooed him away because he looked up expectantly at Zabini.

"Coffee, please, black," he said. "And I think Miss Granger is going to need another cup herself. Seems she has downed hers already." A smirk crept its way across his face and he looked her, still thoroughly amused. Hermione, ignoring him completely, stood and disposed of the dancing pumpkin napkins and returned to her seat in the corner of the kitchen without paying any respect to her new company.

As quickly as he had left, Dobby came rushing in with two cups balanced precariously in his hands. His round orbs of eyes kept a close watch on the level of the large mugs. He gently set the mug with the lighter-colored fluid in front of Hermione who muttered what was supposed to a be a grateful thank you, but came out quite annoyed. Dobby ignored this as he took the cup filled with the presumably black liquid to Zabini. He scampered out of the kitchen to probably catch a few more seconds of sleep before the two coffee-addicts called for more coffee.

Zabini pause a few more moments before walking over to the small three by three card table. The tiny table was worn and old, probably drawn out from Filch's closet from fifty years ago. The table top was brown and cushioned with cotton and a faux leather covering that had seemed to see one too many straight flushes. There were cuts in the top small puffs of old yellow cotton peeping out. There were stains of green, darker browns and reds across the table. The fold out legs were folded out at angles slightly larger than ninety degrees and each leg poking out at a different angle making the table slant slightly to Hermione's left.

He eyed the table but sat down on one side that was not occupied by Hermione or by the wall it was leaning against. He took a gulp of his coffee his mouth acquired to the scalding heat of his regular cup. He leaned back in to the comfy, out of place chair. He looked down to see him self sitting in a dining room chair with cherry wood and crimson upholstery. He raised an eyebrow in amusement of the odd setting. He concluded that Hermione must've dragged two chairs out of the dining room neighboring the kitchen. The dining room was secret and was made for professors who cared to dine late in the night. The table had collected a good bit of dust for the dining room was often neglected.

Zabini figured that Hermione must've been let into the dining room, being a favourite among most elves (and others, an enemy). She must've dragged out two chairs and set them in front of the ratty table. Why two? He shrugged this off before wondering if he was taking the place of someone else.

When he sat down Hermione cast an aggravated look at him. He smirked arrogantly and his hand absentmindedly reached up to brush wild curls from his face. Hermione argued inside her head why the concieted Slytherin had to smirk so much. Didn't he smile? Didn't he frown? Did he ever find melancholy or blithe in anything? Or was it just one egotistical game to him?

"How do we do this lovely morning, Granger?" he asked nonchalantly. Hermione mumbled something incoherent and took a long swig of her coffee seeing Zabini doing the same earlier and thought it had cooled. But her more sensitive tongue was not as trained as Zabini's and she spat her coffee out into her cup with a whimper.

"Not so good? Hmm, me neither," he said without a smirk as he took a long sip of his coffee not taking his eyes off of her steady glare. Hermione set her cup down while holding the ridiculous paper towels to her tongue. She removed the towels and looked at him somewhat civilly.

"What are you doing here?" she mumbled, replacing the towels.

"Well, I'm drinking coffee and sitting in the middle of the Hogwarts kitchen talking to the castle's most prestigious student. How about you?"

Hermione seemed slightly confused at the game he was playing. She set the crumpled napkins down. She paused before responding. "I am drinking coffee sitting in the middle of the Hogwarts kitchen talking to the castle's most... unnoticable student," she said quite honestly. She was going to note that he was egotistical but the only thing she had ever took note of was his quiet demeanor but arrogant air. She couldn't say egotistical with honest heart.

He blinked at her. "Well, that's not much insult to injury," he said, just blinking. "I'm disappointed."

Hermione looked at him. "I don't have much of a quarrel with you, now do I?"

"I would've thought otherwise basing on the moment I walked in here. All it's been is glaring and incoherent mumbling. Besides, I would expect nasty and offensive snapping in response to 'prestigious,'" he said, slouching lazily in his chair and looking at her through the dark curls that siwlred irritatingly into his eyes. Yes, they swirled, Hermione thought, annoyed.

"Depends on what you mean by prestigious," she said, looking down into her coffee.

Zabini looked at her and took a moment on whether or not he should take the challenge.

"By being stuffy, untouchable, far too literate, and quiet perpetual," he said simply and flatly. He didn't know if he regretted the words or not the moment he started them. Once her head snapped up and her brown eyes drew forward in fury, he knew he didn't make a mistake.

"Zabini, do you honestly think that you have any right at all to make such a conclusion? In all of our six years here, can you honestly say we've had a conversation in which you can make your own opinion in how I am? I wouldn't have thought you so low as to come to such a conclusion," she spat out with a tone as hot as her swirling drug.

Zabini straightened and leaned over the table. "And what about you Granger? What about those accusations that float around in your little head? Egotistical and naive about the real world. Arrogant with the prize of wealth and ignorant with the poison of my own house. Conceit is what I'm about and narrowmindedness is what my mind is conformed to," he said spitefully. "Can you honestly say that you have an original opinion about me?"

Hermione's mouth paused in surprise and she couldn't force out a reply. Hadn't that been what she was thinking just moments before?

Zabini stared at her for a while, even when her mouth closed and her eyes left him. After it was evident she wasn't going to say anything he leaned back into his chair. Hermione looked up and was nearly disappointed to see the expected smug mask painted on his face. Instead his face was placid and his eyes were glued to one of the tears in the old card table. For a moment her conscience grew metallic and thudded against the back of her mind with guilt. But the rage of his stereotypical accusation that was often a nemisis for her insecurity bounced against her heart in eager anger. But she kept silent and took a sip of her cooled coffee.

He finished off his coffee and stared at the bottom for a while. "Well, I do converse with a Malfoy. That serves excuse for both of our triviality," he said without and spite or guilt. He flicked his eyes up to hers and held them before she looked away. She supposed the comment was meant to be a reconcilation or a humorous input, but the comment only had her conscience thudding against her skull once again. She set her jaw and kept from saying anything. She drank idly and her eyes made conversation with the grey concrete on the wall.

She didn't even know he got up and set his cup on the counter before she heard his nonchalant "goodnight." She she turned her head to see the portrait sway slowly to a close with a small knock. She sighed.

She didn't know why she felt so bad for, well, what did she do? Not much of anything. Then why did she feel so bad? She relayed it to the pity-party she had been having for the past week every evening at three in the morning. She rubbed her eyes with her long fingers, drawing out the drying goops from the corners of her eyes. She set her half-empty cup on the counter deciding to rid herself of the oncoming headache was a good idea. Not that she was going to get any sleep to begin with.