disclaimer: Don't own it. I wish I owned Blaise. But then, who wouldn't?

-happy-

She asked me once what I wanted to do with my life.

I told her I wanted to be happy.

I really, really didn't want to be there. New Year's Eve parties were terribly overrated, at least in my opinion. Just a bunch of drunk boozers talking and eating and spilling their drinks all over the damn floor.

I blamed my mother. She was crazy, but she was a stickler for family and business functions. And this party was a combination of both. There were no holds barred at Belle Viti's annual New Year's Eve bash. The wine poured freely, and there were some bottles of excellent cognac and vodka floating around. The waiters and bartenders were excellently trained—and they should have been, considering how much we paid them.

Snatching a glass of Moscato from a server's tray, I took a deep sigh and began mingling.

The first rule to mingling as the future owner and operator of Belle Viti is to make sure and hit every single private buyer, and make an attempt to meet and greet a major representative of each corporate buyer. The second rule is to talk to the employees, and the third rule is to talk to everyone else. I glanced briefly at my watch. Right. Four hours until midnight, and one hundred guests on the list.

The first person I talked to was Severus Snape. He was surprisingly fond of our red Sambuca, and was a surprisingly avid wine connoisseur. In fact, many of the professors from Hogwarts bought wine from Belle Viti, something encouraged, I was sure, by Dumbledore.

"Good evening, Severus," I nodded, still feeling strange using my former professor's first name.

"Good evening, Blaise. Compliments on the Sambuca, as always," he said, lifting his wine glass.

"Thank you, sir. I believe it's from my grandfather's personal collection," I said.

"And how is Giuseppe?" he asked.

"Fine, as usual. I believe he's in the far corner, speaking with Albus," I said, motioning towards the two white-haired wizards.

"If you'll excuse me," he nodded, turning and heading in their direction. I absently rolled my shoulders back, stretching them. Ninety-nine guests left.

The papers claimed we had parted amicably and that we would still be friends. That's what the Belle Viti representatives had said, anyhow. In all actuality, we had parted after a cold war—she upset that I had no plans for my life, and I annoyed that she insisted on planning every waking moment of our life. After two long drawn out months, she dropped her engagement ring in my glass of Carignano and stalked out of L'isola di Viti without a second thought. I had made no move to stop her.

That was three years ago.

And now she was back. My mother often talked about her—they met for lunch every week in London. I would listen to Mother's chattering about her—how wonderful she looked and how she was mostly the same girl, but a little different—but oh, we mustn't call her a girl—after all, she's twenty-seven now. It's a wonder I stopped myself from stuffing a napkin into her mouth. Mother had never really forgiven me for letting her go.

I never really forgave myself either.

When her name showed up on the guest list, I guess I never really thought about it. After all, she and my mother were still friends, and wonder of wonders, my grandfather had liked her. I had never expected her to show up, however. It was one thing to still be friends with your former fiancé's mother, but something else entirely to show up at a party that is hosted by his family at his ancestral home.

She was admiring our latest addition to our gallery when I saw her. Her back was to me, and as far as I could see, she was still the same Hermione. Her normally bushy hair was held tightly in place by what could only be Lavender Brown's wandwork. No one else had the knack of keeping Hermione's hair within its constraints. She was wearing a dress I had never seen before—but then, three years did wonder's to one's wardrobe. I could see the earpieces of her glasses peeking out behind her ears—her vision had been nearly destroyed during a battle, so she made sure to get transfigurable spectacles in Hogsmeade the following week. She said that if she had to wear them, she wanted to make sure they would always match her clothing.

I noticed her left hand was bare, then practically kicked myself when I realised I had intentionally looked. And if she was engaged, no doubt Mother would have told me anyway.

"Do you like it?" She spun around and stared at me a full minute before answering.

"It's beautiful. Giorgio?" she asked. I nodded.

"Giorgio painted this specifically for Grandmother."

"It's a painting of the kitchens, right?"

"Yes," I nodded. "You know how Grandmother loves working in the kitchen, and for her last birthday she wanted a painting of them. Giorgio was more than willing to comply." She smiled at me, and I knew she heard the unspoken sentence—defiance of Grandmother could mean disinheritance.

"It's lovely. Does he still live in Venice with that American friend of his, Paul?"

"Yes." I wanted to tell her that they were more than just friends, but figured it would be in poor taste.

"The Malvasia is wonderful," she said, gesturing with her glass.

"Thank you. Grandfather prides himself on the Malvasia—after all, it was the first wine the Zabini family ever marketed."

"How is business?" She looked at me with that concerned, interested glint in her eyes, and it was too easy for me to fall back into the pattern of telling her everything that I usually told no one.

"Good. The foreign market is expanding—especially America. In fact, I believe we have about ten Americans here this evening. We owe the expanding US market to Rosa, my aunt. She's not a woman to trifle with, and she always makes her sale," I smiled.

"That's Rosa for you," agreed Hermione. "How well are the native Italian wines competing with the more well-known types?" she asked.

"Very well, actually. People are a little more hesitant to buy wines that aren't labelled Chardonnay or Cabernet, but they're warming up to Belle Viti wines."

"That's wonderful. I know most of the wizards and witches in England are practically addicted to Belle Viti—it's the last word in wine for them."

"Our sales in the United Kingdom are certainly up," I agreed. "It's always nice to see we're outselling our French competitors," I laughed. "Of course, Belle Viti simply doesn't sell in France—but none of the French wines sell in Italy."

"Who would believe it—a French-Italian Wine War," she grinned.

I could feel the eyes on us by now. There was a particular set of eyes boring into the back of my skull—my mother's. No doubt she was already planning the wedding. My eyes strayed again to her left hand. Still no ring. I wasn't hallucinating the first time I looked.

I felt strangely elated. Three years was a long time. Surely forgiveness didn't take that long—and weren't we talking just as easily, just as comfortably as we had before?

There was a lull in the conversation then, and I tried desperately to rekindle the conversation.

"So, Hermione—any regrets this past year?" She stared at me a moment, then turned back to Giorgio's painting.

"Yes. But not from this year. You?"

"The same," I said, after a beat. "New Year's resolutions?" I asked lamely.

"Forgiveness. I haven't done much of that for a while." I could practically feel the air getting heavier around us. Way to go, Mother. "What about you? Do you have any resolutions?"

"Not yet," I shrugged. "I figure I'll come up with something by midnight."

"You'd better think fast—you only have three minutes left," she said, nodding at the old grandfather clock displayed in the foyer. Indeed, it was only three minutes to midnight, and I had been talking to Hermione for nearly half an hour. She hadn't changed much—but what had changed had changed drastically.

Three years was a long time.

"Listen, Blaise," she said suddenly, "I just wanted to let you know how sorry I am about three years ago. I know it ended badly—I was a bit of a priss back then, you know that. And you were right, you know—the most anyone can ask out of life is to be happy," she finished in a rush, her eyes not quite meeting mine.

"Are you happy, Hermione?" I asked blandly. She glanced into my eyes, then sighed.

"Almost."

"Almost doesn't exactly count, you know."

"I know."

The crowd suddenly began counting down.

10.

"Why aren't you happy, Hermione?"

9.

"Various reasons, but mainly because of my regrets."

8.

"That's too bad."

7.

"What about you? Are you happy now?"

6.

"Almost."

5.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

4.

"I'm just a few seconds away from being very happy."

3.

She stared at me curiously.

2.

"What are you doing, Blaise?" she asked, as I bent my head closer to hers so that our lips were nearly touching.

1.

"Being happy."

-end-