Most New Years bring promises of change and hope for a new start. Hope for something better. Hope for a new and better world. For Hermione this New Year only brought routine. Yet in routine there was comfort. The comfort of food, of a warm bed, of books and intelligent conversation. Hermione had learnt long ago not to take comfort for given, and not to frown of the safety that lay therein.
Blaise still brought books every three days. Always classics, always well known. He debated them with a skill and passion she wouldn’t have given him credit for when she first arrived, even if she still thought his conclusions were odd and most of the time just plain wrong.
It was when Blaise brought her a copy of Sherlock Holmes, The Speckled Band that she started thinking about mysteries, or more accurately “ about the mystery of him. He really was a puzzle. She couldn’t understand why he kept bringing her books or talking to her. Just as she couldn’t understand why he still let the window appear in her wall everyday with the added risk it posed to him. There was no gain in it for him as far as she could see. Yet she couldn’t imagine him doing things for any other reason.
The first time the idea occurred to her she tried to push it away, but the questions kept spinning around in her head and the more she thought about it the more confused she felt. For every fact she knew about Blaise there seemed to be something else she knew that contradicted that fact. For everything he did or said there seemed to be something to indicate the opposite.
As he sat commending the murderer of the story for being clever enough to think about such a sophisticated method of killing, Hermione could hardly concentrate on their debate at all. She knew she argued the need for compassion for the victims with less skill than she normally did, and she could even see the disappointment in Blaise’s eyes when he didn’t get the level of opposition he had got used to.
“May I ask something?” Hermione had interrupted him as he was talking about the inconsistency between the cleverness of the murderer when it came to methods and the stupidity of him when it came to everything else. Frowning and huffing at the interruption, Blaise had still nodded at her to go on with her question.
“Why do you discuss these things with me? I mean instead of one of your friends?” Hermione had asked. “Not that I don’t enjoy these discussions, I do,” she had added quickly, remembering past times she’d asked questions. “I just think you would enjoy them more if you had them with a friend, would you not?”
“A friend?” Blaise had replied, looking surprisingly amused. “If I had a friend to discuss these things with, don’t you think I would?” he had said sarcastically. “Besides, friends are overrated. Friendships make you vulnerable, make you less inclined to do what is necessary, open you up for attacks or betrayal. I am not alive because I trust people. I’m alive because I trust no one,” he had finished coldly. Hermione had nodded silently, wishing she hadn’t understood what he meant. There had been a time when she wouldn’t, but trust had died, and she had been able to see his point.
That evening Hermione had barely been able to sleep. Getting up from bed, she had paced the chilled stones of the floor until her feet were as cold as ice. Too many thoughts had spun in her head to allow her to rest, and that’s when she had finally grabbed her book and quill and started writing. Sorting her thoughts out logically would help, she had been sure of it.
By now her writing covered almost two pages, and yet she wasn’t closer to solving the mystery. There were all the pieces of the puzzle laid down in the book in front of her “ and yet they didn’t seem to fit together.
They were only short statements, facts and beliefs mixed together. Death Eater “ fact. A tangible piece of evidence of which there could be no doubt. Believes Voldemort will lose the war “ probably true. It wasn’t a fact as tangible as others, but it did seem both likely and logical. He had no reason to keep her here “ alive “ otherwise, and she had seen him lie to Malfoy, and therefore indirectly to Voldemort about her being there. Which led her into statement number three: He could lie without hesitation, without regret and without any tell tail signs.
And still the statement following that was: He hasn’t lied to me. In brackets: (That I know of). Taking a deep breath, she looked a bit more at the statement, almost raising her quill. To add or subtract she wasn’t sure. Eventually she let her arm fall back down and moved on.
He likes to read “ fact.
He says Voldemort’s name without fear “ fact.
He calls him the Dark Lord in conversation with others “ fact.
He has killed without regret.
He is selfish.
He is ruthless.
He has few or no friends.
He saved my life.
Hermione stared at the statement. It was true. She couldn’t deny it. He had saved her life. He was taking a risk keeping her here. He was taking a risk every time he let the window appear in her wall and every time he lied about knowing her whereabouts. Of course, she couldn’t be sure that he had to. Malfoy had seemed convinced about Nott’s guilt in her escape. They might never have brought the matter up with Blaise again.
He still took a risk though. She added that fact to the bottom of the list, right after the sentence “ He respects house-elves. The statement was followed by a question mark in brackets. Stopping the movement of her hand, she looked at it, thinking about the day she’d found that out. If it was true that was. But then again he had had no reason to lie about it.
It had been one of the days Blaise was supposed to come and discuss the latest book they had been reading, yet Hermione had been surprised to see him arrive when Minny was serving her dinner. Blaise usually avoided coming down before or while she was eating, and he was usually not dressed in quite as spectacular robes as he had been that day.
They had been Slytherin green, with delicately embodied silver serpents around the high collar and the wrists. Looking closer Hermione had been able to see that the serpents were enchanted to move, and even though she hadn’t been fond of the thought, she had been forced to admit that the green colour looked rather fetching against Blaise’s dark skin.
She hadn’t been that surprised when he told her he had to forgo their discussion in favour of a dinner-party at the Malfoys, but she had been the more surprised when he turned to Minny and told her to get ready to leave.
“I didn’t know it was custom to bring your house-elves to parties?” she had asked in surprise after Minny had Disappareted out of the room.
“It’s not unusual,” Blaise had answered simply. “And Minny is handy to have around. She has big ears and knows when to keep her mouth shut, making her a very good spy.”
“Minny spies for you?” Hermione had asked in surprise.
“Of course. Knowledge is crucial to staying on top, and house-elves make perfect spies. After all, most wizards pay little or no attention to them, and even if they do they almost always underestimate them,” Blaise had stated.
“You really think so?” Hermione had wondered. “That house-elves are underestimated?”
“That’s not a matter of opinion, Hermione,” Blaise had replied quickly. “That’s a matter of fact. And if house-elves ever were to see their own worth and demand treatment thereafter the wizarding community would be at a loss.”
He had left her with that. With words echoing her own, spoken so many times to deaf ears over the years. It didn’t seem right that a Death Eater with a house-elf of his own would be the one to finally understand what she meant. Writing the comment in her book she had spent several minutes watching it before she raised her hand and added the question mark. She couldn’t be sure, after all, and just taking his word for it had seemed to rash an action.
Closing the book and putting it down next to the bed where she sat, Hermione picked up the copy of the book she was supposed to read instead, Phantom of the Opera. She had already finished it the night before, but she wanted to look through it one more time before Blaise came down.
It was a well known story for her, but one she hadn’t read before. She remembered her mother taking her to see the musical in London when she was around fourteen. She had fallen in love with the story then “ the setting, the costumes, the phantom’s desperation and Christine’s search for love and acknowledgement.
Reading the book had been quite different from seeing the show, but the general story was the same and as she read she hummed the music from the musical to herself and imagined the costumes on the characters. If she tried she could even remember the sound of Christine’s voice and the despair in the way the phantom, or Erik as she now had become used to thinking of him, moved.
Looking at the cover of the book it seemed almost new, and Hermione couldn’t help to wonder if this was the first time Blaise had read this one. It wasn’t the type of book he normally brought her. In fact it was the first book he brought her that dealt with love in any shape or form, and even if the love in Phantom of the Opera in many ways was dark and tragic, Hermione had been surprised to see the book when Blaise brought it for her to read.
His behaviour when he arrived seemed to confirm her suspicions. Even if Blaise didn’t tell her that he hadn’t read the book before, it quickly became clear that he didn’t like it, and Hermione really couldn’t see him rereading a book he didn’t like.
He frowned at the story, thought Erik was pathetic and stupid for not using the hold he had on Christine to his own advantage. He showed no surprise that Christine chose to leave Erik when she was offered the choice and he snorted when Hermione argued that it hadn’t been an easy decision on Christine’s part and that Christine was torn between her love for Erik’s brilliance and her fear of his madness.
“Of course she wasn’t!” Blaise snorted disdainfully. “She is just like any other woman. She didn’t love Erik! She was attracted to him because of what he could do for her, but the moment she saw what he looked like she was repulsed. She chose Raol because he was the more attractive one, and then she convinced herself it was love. Just like women always have done!”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Hermione responded, feeling slightly offended at the implication.
“Exactly what I said,” Blaise replied firmly. “Women pretend to be ‘in love’ every time they are in lust. That way they can walk around feeling good about bedding the men they fancy, calling women honest enough to admit that they want sex, tarts,” he finished.
“So what you are saying is that we women can’t love?” Hermione snapped, now definitely offended.
“No, what I’m saying is that there is no such thing as love!” Blaise answered back. “It’s an illusion, created to make humans feel better about wanting sex,” he continued disdainfully. “But yes, women are more prone to using that illusion of love to justify their actions of lust than men,” he finished, folding his arms across his chest.
“That isn’t true. There is a huge difference between lust and love!” Hermione argued, upset.
“Of course there is. One is real and the other is made up. I’d say that’s a fairly large difference,” Blaise said sarcastically.
“Love isn’t made up and if you’d ever been in love you’d never say that! Lust is temporary “ it’s attraction, hormones. Love is more, love is forever, it’s“” Hermione responded heatedly.
“There is no such thing as forever!” Blaise snapped, getting up from his chair as he interrupted her. “Just as there is no such thing as love. I’ve seen it too many times “ the promises of love, of forever “ it never lasts. Never has, never will, because love doesn’t exist, and anyone claiming to love is a liar,” Blaise nearly shouted.
“I am not a liar! I loved Ron, and don’t you ever dare tell me that wasn’t real!” Hermione yelled back, getting off the bed to stand in front of him.
“Then I won’t,” Blaise replied coldly, a hard expression on his face as he turned his back on her and headed towards the door, tossing a new book on the bed before he closed it behind him. Hermione stared as the door disappeared into the wall, her insides still burning from anger. Growling to herself she stalked into the bathroom, slamming the door.
Later that night as Hermione picked up her book and quill, she pondered his words for quite some time, wondering what he could have meant when he said he’d seen it too many times. Her anger had died fairly quickly as the impact of those words had finally sunk in.
Blaise wasn’t older than she was, and surely he couldn’t have loved and lost that many times. Besides Blaise didn’t seem like the type to fall in love. He cared too much about himself to open up to someone else. Yet somehow, although she was quite sure he hadn’t meant to, he had opened up to her tonight. Through admitting that he did not believe in love, Blaise had undoubtfully revealed more about himself than he was probably aware of.
Biting her lip Hermione pondered the conversations they’d had as she added another note to her ever growing list of random facts about Blaise.
He does not believe in love.
When she was finished she looked at the statement for a while before letting her eyes scan the others. Having read through them earlier, only one caught her attention this time. He hasn’t lied to me. (That I know of). Hesitating for only a short while, Hermione lifted her quill and crossed over the last part.
Taking a deep breath she stared at the thick black line. She wasn’t sure what it meant, or even if it meant anything at all. Yet it felt like it did. Could it even be that she trusted him? But she couldn’t, could she? She had seen trust die “ so how could she think of trusting anyone, let alone him? Still, thinking about it, she couldn’t deny that she did.
Closing the book and curling down beneath the covers, Hermione tried to push the thought away. Yet a tiny voice of fluttering hope kept whispering in her ear.
Maybe trust didn’t die. Maybe it just needed to rest for a while.