Mornings can be cruel when they bring you the memories of yesterday, and when Hermione woke up her head reminded her clearly of what had taken place the night before. It took her a few moments to come to her senses, and when she did, she was surprised to find herself beneath covers. Her head hurt and her eyes and nose felt swollen, but she was lying rather comfortably on her pillow and the covers were pulled over her. She couldn’t remember doing that. But then she couldn’t even remember falling asleep. The last she remembered was crying into Zabini’s lap. Frowning she wondered why he had let her, why he hadn’t pushed her away. It wasn’t like him to do anything that didn’t benefit him “ yet she couldn’t see how this would.
Groaning she sat up, almost automatically running her hand over her book. She hadn’t realised she was still holding it. Forcing herself to put it down, she stumbled into the bathroom and poured herself a bath, trying to avoid her image in the mirror. She could imagine how she looked right now, and she didn’t need to confirm her suspicions.
The hot water was soothing, and she felt slightly better after the bath, in spite of the fact that the prospect of a day without writing made her want to crawl back beneath the covers and pretend the world didn’t exist. Still, she knew that wouldn’t do her any good. Her stomach ached from too much crying and not eating the night before, and breakfast was what she needed, even if it would feel strange to eat it without the book next to her plate.
Walking back into the room, she stopped short in the doorway, staring at the table. For a moment, she didn’t believe her eyes. Then she thought that the book lying next to her breakfast tray must be the same one she’d cried over last night. Yet, she remembered distinctly leaving that on the bed and this one didn’t look as if it had ever been opened before, while hers was worn from months of being opened and closed daily. A quick glance to the bed confirmed what her mind already knew but her heart couldn’t accept “ the book on the table was indeed a new one.
Swallowing hard, she sat down by the table, the breakfast momentarily forgotten. She didn’t understand. Zabini was selfish. She knew that. He even told her that! ‘In the end, self preservation is the only thing that matters.’ So why this? He couldn’t be after information “ it made no sense. She’d wasted an entire book on nonsense, if he read it he’d know that. So if he had been after information, wouldn’t he have given up by now? And if he had done that, why give her another book? Unless he wasn’t after information, in which case the books served no purpose at all “ so why then he bother in the first place?
Closing her eyes Hermione rubbed her temples. This was getting too much. Her head was already feeling as if it wanted to explode and the added confusion wasn’t helping. With a sigh, Hermione started to eat her breakfast, hoping that the head ache would lose its grip if she at least got some food in her system. She realised long before finishing her breakfast that the head ache wasn’t going to budge. There was simply too much going on in her mind, and the fact that she still felt emotionally drained didn’t help matters either. Giving in, she undressed and crawled back into bed, for once grateful that the room was dark even in the middle of the day.
She wasn’t sure what time it was when she woke up again. Day, night “ there really wasn’t any way to tell in here. Usually she went by the meals served. When breakfast was served it was morning, lunch came at noon, dinner in the evening “ although, of course, Minny could have set serving times to fit her sleeping pattern. House-elves were known for adjusting to others after all. Still it was something to go on, and as good of an indication as any she supposed. Right now, however, there was nothing to say what time it was. Her head felt better though and her eyes didn’t feel as puffy as before.
Stifling a yawn she sat up only to shriek and startled when the candles in the room were lit by themselves. As a witch she guessed she shouldn’t have been surprised at the candle lighting magically, but she hadn’t been around any other magic than that which Minny used for the past six months. Minny usually didn’t magically light her candles; Hermione had ordinary Muggle matches for that task.
He was sitting on the chair next to the table, his fingers playing with the quill lying there as he watched her. Straightening up, she pulled the covers higher around her, wondering why he was there.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked calmly, spinning the quill between his fingers. “After yesterday…I wanted to make sure you weren’t sick.”
“No, yesterday was…no, I’m not sick,” Hermione said, feeling both confused and a bit uncertain.
“Good,” he answered. He watched her intently for a few moments, his eyes burning her, making her feel even more undressed than she already was. Clearing his throat, he stood up. “Well then “ if you’re not sick I’ll just be on my way,” he said plainly, turning his back towards her. Hermione watched his as he headed for the door.
“Zabini, wait!” she called out, just as he opened the door. Biting her lip, she took a deep breath and continued as he turned around to look at her. “I have to ask “ why?”
“Why what?” he asked sceptically.
“Why the books? What purpose do they serve?”
“You don’t want them?” he wondered, sounding surprised and slightly annoyed.
“No, that’s not what I… I do, of course. That wasn’t what I meant,” Hermione hurried, scared that he might change his mind and take them back. This had been a mistake. She shouldn’t have asked.
“Then I suggest you make yourself a little clearer,” Zabini said testily.
“What purpose do they serve for you? What do you gain from giving them to me?” Hermione asked trying not to let the tone of his voice annoy her. There was a bit too much on line for that. Besides he had given her the books, for whatever reason, and she couldn’t pretend that she didn’t appreciated it.
“Well I can’t very well have you counting the stones on the wall. You’ll go insane,” he replied, as if it was the most evident reason in the world. For once, Hermione didn’t know what to say. She had thought of a million different reasons for why Zabini had given her the books. This one hadn’t even crossed her mind. “People don’t listen to those that are insane,” Zabini continued impatiently when she didn’t answer.
“Ah, I see,” Hermione answered, feeling stupid for not realising that sooner. Of course that was the reason. It made sense. It was the same reason why he cared about her health. He was just looking out for his investment.
“Besides, if something were to happen to you, those books could help me prove I saved you. Assuming that you write that in there, of course,” he added plainly.
“Oh. Of course “ I’ll think of that,” she responded. It did seem fair, after all. He had saved her and even if he didn’t do it for any noble reasons, she was alive because of him. The least she could do was hold her end of the bargain.
“Good. If there wasn’t anything else.” He turned towards the door once more.
“Zabini,” she said, hindering him once again. “I should probably“”hesitating, she tried to figure out how to express what she wanted to say. Nothing really seemed appropriate. “Thank you,” she finished. For a moment, Zabini looked surprised.
“I guess the courteous thing to do would be to say you’re welcome,” he then replied, sounding a bit strained and awkward.
“No need,” Hermione assured him, feeling a bit ill at ease herself.
“Good,” he nodded, turning and leaving the room before she had the chance to say anything else. Not that she had planned to. Her questions had been answered, and for now that was all she needed.
Zabini didn’t call on her again for almost two weeks “ not even to check on her health. Hermione could have been surprised, but given the nature of their last encounters she wasn’t. He had been clearly uncomfortable, and was probably making sure to avoid her out of fear that she behave in the same emotional manner again. Hermione wasn’t bothered by his absence as much as she was bothered by the fact that she actually missed his visits. It annoyed her to no end “ and yet it was the truth. Zabini wasn’t nice to her, he didn’t care about anything other than protecting himself, but he was a person she could talk to, someone that at least seemed intelligent, and her short conversations with Minny couldn’t begin to compare to having a thinking person in the room to talk to.
Nevertheless, Hermione was enjoying herself more now than she had before. She was still bored by the lack of activities, but at least now she dared to write about the things that mattered. Ron, the life she wouldn’t have, the life she did have. She made sure to write about her stay in the dungeon, why she was there, how she got there “ keeping her promise, and her end of the bargain they made when she first got here. But once that was done, she wrote about things that mattered. Things that might not be important to anyone else, but that were certainly important to her. It helped, she noticed, to write about them. It didn’t take the pain away, but it did help her to deal with it. Until now, there really hadn’t been a way for her to do that before.
She was in the middle of writing when the door appeared and burst open and a surprisingly flustered Zabini walked through the door. Confounded, Hermione wondered if she had ever seen him show an emotion that clearly before.
“Have you read this?” he asked her, throwing a book on the table before her. Hermione looked down on the book in front of her, a battered copy of A picture of Dorian Grey. Fisting her hand she forced herself not to reach out and touch it as she nodded.
“Yes I have,” she answered as calmly as she could master.
“Good!” Zabini said, pulling out his wand and conjuring up a chair to sit in. “Then you might be able to tell me how a Muggle writer finds out about the existence of Horcruxes!” he continued plainly.
Hermione looked at him for a while, trying to understand. When she did, she couldn’t help but to smile.
“Horcruxes? You mean the painting?” she said surprised. “I never thought of it that way. I guess it has some similarities, although I doubt very much that Oscar Wilde ever thought“”
“Some similarities? I thought you’ve said you’ve read the book! The painting containing his soul? Him losing a part of what makes him human because of it? Him dying when the painting is destroyed?” Zabini exclaimed. “Sure, he’s got his facts wrong “ but what else is to be expected from a Muggle. It is still clear that he does know about the existence of Horcruxes. Of that there can’t be any doubts!”
“Well I disagree, Zabini. There may be likenesses, but they may very well be entirely coincidental. A picture of Dorian grey is a book about morality “ what is it? How does it affect us? It stems from the belief in those days that one’s sin etched itself in one’s face “ that you could see who was a moral person and who was not. It explores the possibilities for those who wouldn’t be affected. The picture is only a means for Wilde to“”
“Clearly, it has been quite some time since you read the book!” Zabini interrupted her again. “If you had read it recently, knowing what you know today you would of course have another opinion,” he continued. “How fast can you read it?” he then asked.
Hermione stared at him, for once stunned into silence. She tried unsuccessfully to remember the last time she’d read a book for pleasure. Was he really serious? Was he actually giving her the book to read?
“Well?” he asked impatiently.
“Uhm…a couple of days,” Hermione answered trying to collect her thoughts.
“I’ll be back in three,” Zabini said tersely before turning and heading out the door, the new chair vanishing as he left the room. Hermione stared at the door, then at the book. She didn’t need three days to finish it. She didn’t really need any time to finish it. It was already one of her favourites and she had read it more times than she could remember. She knew half of the story by heart already. Not that it mattered. Just the thought of reading again, of discussing a book, any book, brought her more joy than she’d felt in years. Picking up the book and running her hand over the covers, Hermione moved to the bed, curling up with her feet under her like she used to when she was a little girl living with her parents. It was surprising really, how something she hadn’t done in so long could feel so natural to do again. Inhaling deeply she opened the book and began to read.
During the following three days Hermione realised that she’d almost forgotten the pleasure of reading. To be completely absorbed in the story you were reading, to see, hear and feel what the character did. To be able to forget your surroundings and the circumstances you were living in for the benefit of someone else’s. She had always liked that about books. She had never needed it as much as she did now.
By the time Zabini returned, Hermione had already read the book twice “ revelling in the world of Dorian Grey. What she hadn’t done was change her mind. She was still convinced that the painting was just a symbol; a means through which Oscar Wilde made his point. Zabini was just as convinced of the opposite, and he spared no energy telling her that she was a fool not to see something so obvious. Hermione didn’t mind. Debating had always been something she’d enjoyed.
“Did you not read the book as I told you to?” Zabini said agitated, actually standing up from the conjured chair. “I thought you were supposed to be smart!” he said pacing the small room.
“I did read the book “ I just don’t agree with you,” Hermione answered as calmly as she could, surprised to see Zabini show this much emotion. She had hardly thought him capable of that. “Haven’t you before?” she then asked, the worn cover of the book and Zabini’s reaction not truly a match.
“Of course I have!” Zabini snorted. “I just didn’t know about Horcruxes the last time I did!” Hermione bit her lip, on the one hand afraid to break the discussion “ debating being something she’d missed more than she’d realised. On the other she needed to know.
“And how did you learn about those exactly?” she asked nearly holding her breath as the words escaped her lips.
Zabini stopped mid-track and turned to watch her. “Through Slughorn of course!” he answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “A bottle of fine wine and a few crystallised pineapples and he was very chatty. Told me all about Horcruxes “ about how he told Voldemort about them. He was more reluctant to tell me how he told Potter about them, but a bit more persuasion and a promise that Voldemort would leave him alone and he was talking merrily about that too.”
“Oh, I see,” Hermione answered, wondering what she was most surprised about “ that she hadn’t thought of that possibility or that Zabini had.
“Don’t worry about it, I erased his memory of the entire meeting, and to make sure he wouldn’t tell Voldemort about Potter knowing about the Horcruxes “ I erased that memory too,” he said casually.
“You can do that? Erase a memory that is several years old without doing damage to the mind?” Hermione asked surprised, she had only ever heard of erasing specific memories if they were relatively new.
“Well it isn’t easy, of course,” Zabini said sounding slightly proud. “I think I accidentally erased a memory of some dog at the same time “ but it can be done, and the damages to the surrounding memories shouldn’t be too extensive,” he continued, shrugging his shoulders. “Now should we get back to the topic at hand?” he added, not even noticing the stunned look on Hermione’s face. Nodding, she wondered if she would ever understand him. How could he be agitated over a book, but not show any emotion at all over damaging someone’s memory?
“Sure,” she answered, trying to push away the feelings of discomfort while enjoying the contents of their debate. She didn’t persuade him, nor did she really think she could have ever persuaded him. But he didn’t persuade her either, and so it didn’t feel as if it mattered. He stayed until Minny brought her dinner, tossing her another book on the table as he left.
“I’ll see you in three days,” he said as he closed the door behind himself and the house-elf.
Over the following months Hermione’s life suddenly filled with books again. Every three or four days Blaise would bring her a book only to return to discuss it with her later. He never agreed with her opinion, usually sided with the bad guys and almost always thought the good characters were either stupid, incompetent or weak “ often he thought they were all three. She argued her case well “ no longer scared to tell him her mind or to get agitated when they disagreed with each other. He never seemed to mind her outbursts and had quite a few himself, and he never changed his opinion just as he never managed to change hers.
She didn’t know when she started to think of him as Blaise rather than Zabini, or when he started to call her Hermione instead of Granger. They never discussed it, and usually pretended not to notice “ but things still changed between them somehow, and somewhere along the line, Hermione started to feel less like a prisoner and more like someone actually in hiding than she had before.
It was nice to read again, even if she didn’t get to decide what books to read herself. He never asked her opinion on the matter “ and she never raised it. Reading was nice enough, and the anticipation of which book she was to read was surprisingly pleasant. She sometimes wondered why he kept returning. She never managed to change his opinion, nor did he ever manage to change hers. She wasn’t even sure if either would have liked it so much if they had. She was fairly sure she wouldn’t have. She liked the resistance, the challenge, the heated arguments and she got a better insight to who Blaise Zabini really was; selfish, cunning and composed “ but also passionate, strong-willed and intelligent. She didn’t really like the first part of his personality. She found she didn’t really mind the second.
She was flipping through the pages of The Merchant of Venice - the latest of the books Blaise had given her to read. He was late. Or later than usual that was. At least if her sense of timing wasn’t completely thrown off. When he finally arrived, his hair was dripping with water.
“You’re wet,” Hermione stated plainly, trying not to let her irritation with him for being late show.
“It’s raining,” he answered with a frown.
“Really?” she asked, more excited to hear about the world outside than she would like to admit.
“Well obviously!” Blaise replied pointedly, pointing to his wet hair. “So typical of this time of year,” he muttered to himself while conjuring up his chair to sit in.
“What time of year would that be?” Hermione asked, unable to refrain herself.
“November. Why do you ask?” he answered while sitting down, throwing his ankle up to rest on his thigh as was his custom.
“November?” Hermione repeated quietly, letting his question hang unanswered. “I’ve been here that long? That’s what “ almost a year?” she asked looking at him.
“That sounds about right,” he replied casually.
“A year. I missed autumn,” she said dully, almost more to herself than to him.
“What’s there to miss?”
“You don’t like the autumn?” she asked surprised.
“Like? Why would I? It’s cold, windy “ rainy,” he said critically, once more pointing to his wet hair.
“Colourful, beautiful, powerful,” she replied with a slight smile.
“You can hardly go outside without getting soaked,” he protested.
“You can stay inside and read while listening to the wind howl and the rain smatter against your window,” she countered quickly.
“You can read outside while soaking up the sun in the summer.”
She smiled at his answer, knowing he only got that tone of voice when he thought he’d said something that couldn’t be disputed.
“No thanks. Shade works fine by me. And summer isn’t as beautiful as autumn,” she said calmly.
“Well clearly we don’t agree,” he answered with a frown, not one too fond of being contradicted about a thing like this. “Now should we concentrate on the play instead?” Hermione nodded, but she couldn’t help it, even in the midst of their discussion her thoughts lingered on the season, on what she missed, on what she didn’t get to see. The red leaves blowing in the wind. The birds moving south. The rainstorms to watch from inside.
“You aren’t listening!” Blaise said annoyed. Hermione snapped back into reality.
“I’m sorry,” she said, knowing he had been right. He sighed.
“Well if that’s what I have to do to get your attention,” he muttered, pulling out his wand and directing it at the wall opposite the door. A window appeared, showing her a huge park-like garden, filled with trees with red and yellow leaves. Piles of leaves blowing around in the wind “ covering the entire ground. Rain smattering hard on the windowsill. “It’s the view from the library. And no, it isn’t there to stay. It’s traceable magic and everyone knows I don’t use the dungeons. I cannot afford to keep it there for more than an hour or so,” he said calmly while Hermione ran her hand over the glass. “Will you watch that for the entire hour or will you get back to discussing the play?” he asked.
“The play, right,” she answered, casting one last longing look at the window before returning her attention to the book in her hand. “Thank you, Blaise,” she added softly. Blaise snorted and got turned his attention back to the book. Smiling she did the same.
To her joy, Hermione soon noticed that the window wasn’t an off occurrence. Every day, for half an hour to an hour, the window appeared in her room, giving her a glimpse of the outside world as it changed from autumn to winter. Every day, Hermione waited in her chair, until the window appeared. She never knew when that would be “ its appearance always random to make detection hard if not impossible. Yet Hermione didn’t miss it once and refused to go to bed before it had appeared.
She learned to like the randomness of the window. It allowed her to see what she would otherwise have not seen. She saw the trees glow red in the light of the sunrise, saw the rainbow as the sun broke through the rainy clouds. She watched a thunderstorm rip the sky apart in the dead of night, and fell asleep to the calming sound of the rain against the pane of the window. Yet with the beauty of autumn, came the reminder of what once was, and with every read leaf that fell came the memory of someone else that fell. Thoughts of the Burrow, of a happier time filled with red haired people, mingled with thoughts and worries of the present. How many Weasleys had died? Were any of them still alive?
The snow of winter started to fall before the last of the leaves had fallen from the trees. A battle between the red of autumn and the white of winter fought every day “ the snow falling at night “ the rain melting it at day. Hermione watched as the leaves struggled in a war they couldn’t win. She watched as they lost the battle. She watched as the snow covered the world and enveloped it like cotton. With it came some ease “ as if her heart was enveloped in the snow with the rest of the world. And then came another pain, the pain of knowing that sometime soon it would be Christmas.
She wondered if people still celebrated Christmas. If her parents would cook dinner and share presents on Christmas day “ or if they would sit around wondering where she were. Wondering if she was still alive. She wondered how far away Christmas was. Blaise had only told her November, she had no way of knowing if that had been the beginning or the end of the month. For all she knew Christmas might very well be over already. She could ask of course, but then knowing would be worse, and so she let the books draw her in, the conversations and discussions take up her time, and tried to forget all about Christmas.
Yet for all her attempts Hermione couldn’t block out New Years eve. The window came late that night, and she could see the fireworks in the distance. People were celebrating. Another year passed. Another year of war and death was over. And she hadn’t helped. She had spent her time in a small room hiding from the world, running from the fight. How many had died this year? How many more would die before this war was over?
He entered quietly, yet she sensed his presence behind her back already before he spoke.
“It’s New Years I see,” she said before he could speak, not even turning around to look at him. He hummed his affirmation. “I don’t know what they’re celebrating for. Voldemort is still in charge. The right side is still dying,” she said quietly, staring at the fireworks.
“Your side will win. I do believe that,” he answered her softly, in a voice that she would have called comforting, had it come from anyone else.
“I know you do. You wouldn’t keep me here if you didn’t,” she stated calmly. He didn’t answer. There was no need. They both knew it was the truth. “I should be out there. I should fight with them. I shouldn’t hide in here like some coward.”
“What’s wrong with staying alive?” he asked, coming around to sit on the table next to her chair, the darkness of his skin contrasting to the light fabric of his robes as he placed his hand on his knee.
“It’s wrong when others are dying because of it,” she answered plainly.
“Why should you sacrifice your life for others? Would they do the same for you?” he asked. She turned to look at him. She didn’t like it when he spoke that way. She liked to believe that they would. His right eyebrow was raised as he watched her, waiting for her reply.
“They are, aren’t they?” she asked, meeting his gaze. Taking his challenge. “I just wish I felt like it mattered. Like ´I mattered,” she continued, turning back her attention to the window. “I don’t expect you to understand, but I need to feel useful. I’m of use to no one while I’m here.”
“You’re of use to me.”
And there it was. The unadulterated truth. The one reason she was sitting here looking out a magic window instead of fighting the war. The one reason she was still alive, still breathing and talking and living. She was of use to one single person in the world. A Death Eater in need of insurance. It shouldn’t make her feel better. And yet somehow it did.