Chapter Three: 12 Grimmauld Place

She looked at the bite mark, more than a little surprised by the intensity. She had been dreaming. A certain ebon-haired, amethyst-eyed Slytherin had been dominating her thoughts and dreams over the past year.

How, oh, how, was she going to face him during the coming year?

‘One year, Red. One year to do as you please,’ he had whispered hoarsely.

That year was almost up.

She sighed and rose from her bed, much embarrassed to feel her body’s reaction to ‘seeing’ Blaise Zambini alone in his room, shirtless and needy. Silently she cursed her curious nature.

Also, she cursed the fact that she hadn’t been able to ‘see’ whether or not Blaise slept in the nude like she suspected.

She blushed at her wayward thoughts. She did not desire that kind of knowledge about Blaise Zambini.

Hermione moaned in her slumber, causing Ginny to jump as she headed to the bathroom. She showered, the blessedly hot water pounding on her body.

And she remembered.

She was almost done with this wing, which meant she might be able to retire early for the evening. Oh, that would be such a blessing, for she was exhausted.

“Alex McMahone, fifteen points from Hufflepuff for breaking curfew,” she sighed.

“I bet you can be.. persuaded to return those points, prefect.”

Something in his tone set her on edge. Perhaps it was the blatant disrespect for her hard-earned title. Suddenly, though, she was tense and scared.

Alex touched her and she flinched. She was well and truly cornered. To her left and right were the huge firepits. Behind her was the wall. In front of her was someone she desired to escape.

She cried out as his touch became more intimate and insistent, more disgusting. She began scratching and fighting. Where was her wand? Why couldn’t she find her wand? Why was she fighting like a Muggle? She didn’t think, she just fought.

He was pulled away suddenly and she slid to the floor in hysteria.

Blaise Zambini stood in front of her, eyes glowing reddish-purple. He frightened her. What would he think of her now? She had fought like a Muggle, for crying out loud.

His touch was gentle, though she jerked away. His fury, she realized, wasn’t directed at her, but at McMahone, whom was crawling away like a whipped dog.

His eyes radiated something she wasn’t entirely comfortable with, though, in this one moment, she needed it and him.

She pulled herself away from the memory. The water had started to run cold. With a sigh, she turned off the water and dried off, pulling on some fresh night clothes, though she knew she wouldn’t sleep again this night.

She went to the secretary in the corner and took a seat, searching the drawers for a quill and ink. She would journal, an activity she had found most relaxing since the incident with Tom Riddle so many years back.. Had it only been five years?

I don’t know who to trust anymore, she wrote in the dim light of predawn. I feel like I’m trying not to break, but there’s just too much deceit for me to stay sane.

Zambini… he’s like a dark-haired avenging angel. He really isn’t half bad, for a Slytherin. I’ve always like demons more than angels. Explains my little side trip with Voldemort, right?

The younger version of Voldemort, I should say. To me, in that form, he was my poor, unloved Tom. I loved him, for what time we had. And I loved him truly. Harry didn’t even compare to what I felt for Tom.

I’m off-topic.

Zambini and Tom are alike, though I wish I didn’t realize that. Thank Merlin, though, that Blaise will never have Tom’s power level. Simply being around that kind of raw magic was addictive.

She closed her journal, chuckling quietly. She had, indeed, been addicted to the raw magic surrounding Tom Riddle. She sighed, looking out the window at the London dawn. She was still addicted to Tom, though she could never admit that to anyone. She was a druggie, and he was her high. Simply being around him was enough to sate the need.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Hermione awoke with the sun right in her eyes.

“Ouch!” she yelped, sitting up. Muscles screamed protest at the sudden movement.

“Good morning, Hermione. Did you sleep well?” queried the fully dressed, wide awake, annoyingly perky Virginia Weasley.

Hermione blushed as her dream came back to her. She nodded and whispered, “Wake me up in a couple of hours.”

She ran as though her life depended on it, and it did. The life she treasured for it’s simplicity and serenity was in mortal danger. She glanced over her shoulder.

He was close. Too close. If he pounced, she wouldn’t escape.

He growled, a low sound from the back of his throat. It scared her. Humans shouldn’t be able to make sounds like that.

He leapt over a tree stump. Involuntarily, she froze, amazed by the liquid grace of the action. It was beautiful and inhuman, just like he was.

A soft sound as he landed on her, twisting so that he hit the ground instead of her, and rolling until he was on top. She was pillowed by the wet grass. It had rained here recently. In fact, a drizzle was starting up.

Oh, Merlin’s Beard! No! she begged, trying to get back up to run. She wanted him, there was no denying that, but not when he was like this. Not when he was feral.

She stopped, eyes closed. She knew what had happened, even if it was only in her head.

It terrified her.

Tonight, Hermione LeAnne Granger, you get a Dreamless Sleep Potion, she informed herself, turning on Disturbed’s ‘Liberate’ as loud as she could in her headphones.