Ocelot Picture: defenders.org/images/fws/ocelot.jpg
Chapter 2
"The Otter and the Ocelot"
"The summer days are gone,
Too soon…
You shoot the moon,
And miss completely.
And now you're left to face the gloom,
The empty room, that once smelled sweetly."
-- Shoot the Moon, Norah Jones
Imperfect hues of burnt sienna sat well against a complexion as fair as his. Such a slender-framed boy was Blaise Zabini, almost to the point of appearing malnourished. His eyes, a striking shade of azure, contained a gleam of subtle disinterest.
"You're such a bore, Granger," He all but sneered, stifling a yawn. "My parents aren't paying you to put me to sleep, they're paying you to teach me how to play the cello."
And so they were. At a very handsome rate of six galleons per lesson. Hermione had been reluctant to take the job, given who her would-be-employers were, but as it turned out, she was very pleased with the position.
The steady income so graciously supported her habit of ordering books through Flourish and Blotts' catalogue service and her tendency to devour their contents the moment they came.
At first, she had been both glad and surprised that her presence was only required two afternoons a week -- and at her convenience, no less. In time, however, she began to look forward to these visits. She had been stunned to discover how accepting and supporting the Zabini's were towards ones such as herself. A stark contrast to the rest of the parents of their son's house, she would later find out that they themselves were both from Ravenclaw. Even Blaise, a notoriously cruel Slytherin within the confines of Hogwarts, was strangely kind and, dare she say it, fun to be around.
He definitely had his quirks -- here she smiled wryly, thinking of what he'd said to her just moments ago -- though any taunts directed at her were always delivered in an almost playful manner. And regardless of how heated their squabbles grew, Blaise never, ever touched the subject of her heritage, for which she was immensely grateful, because it helped remind her that she had made the right decision by befriending him.
In fact, the only time he'd ever even mentioned her parents was the time that he'd curiously inquired about what they did for a living. And even then, the only thing he had done upon receiving an answer was smile that perfect smile of his and calmly remark, "Well, everyone needs to keep their teeth clean." He would never know how much her respect for him grew that day.
"See," Blaise's soft, lilting voice interrupted her thoughts. "You even put yourself to sleep. And you call yourself a teacher? Honestly, Hermione."
"I'm sorry," She quipped sweetly, batting her lashes. "Maybe it wouldn't be so boring if you'd listen the first time around instead of making me constantly repeat myself."
Blaise smirked at her response, leaning over and throwing an arm around her. "Are you sure you're a Gryffindor, 'Mione?" His eyebrows wiggled suggestively when he used the pet name he'd coined for her just the other day. "Because that biting sarcasm screams Slytherin."
"Yes, well," She laughed, a dark expression momentarily casting a shadow across her lovely face. "You bring out the best in me, Zucchini." In a way, that was true. Blaise always managed to get under her skin with the utmost ease and drag out the side of her rarely exhibited in either Harry or Ron's presence. In a way, she resented him for it.
"Zucchini?" He repeated, arching a finely shaped brow in amusement. "Well, that's a new one, 'Mione. You been cooking that one up for awhile?"
"Of course not," She absently snapped, clearly not catching the pun, her thoughts lingering on a certain emerald-eyed boy. "It just sort of came to me. I'm sure even your pea-sized brain can comprehend the connection."
Blaise rolled his eyes, sitting back in his chair once more. "Enough with the vegetable references. It was a joke, Granger. What's with you today?"
"I'm sorry," She shook her head, breaking free from her stupor. "I just have a lot of things on my mind, that's all."
"It's okay," He assured her, despite his frown. Clearing his throat, he averted his gaze. "You, uh…Youwannatalkaboutit?"
She laughed, looking at him incredulously. "What, you're offering?"
Tossing his head, he appeared mildly offended. "Fine," He all but snarled, eyes flashing with the sting of betrayal. "Mock me. See if I ever try to help you again."
"Oh, Blaise," She murmured, instantly sobered. Reaching out, she engulfed his somewhat clammy hand in her far warmer one. "I didn't mean to make fun of you, you know that. It's just that, that's the first time you've offered to help me like that. You really care, don't you?"
"You idiot," He muttered, shaking his head. "Of course I care. In a few short weeks, you've become one of the closest friends I've ever made."
He looked more than a little embarrassed at this revelation, and she rather felt the same. By some unspoken agreement, the subject was dropped.
Looking up when he felt her squeeze his hand, he was met by her bright smile. "I'll tell you if you let me stay for lunch," She challenged with a sheepish grin. "I'm starved."
"That's Granger for you," He drawled, pulling his hand away so he could stand. "Always taking advantage of my generosity. I swear, sometimes you're worse than that bint, Parkinson."
"Pansy?" Hermione nearly shrieked, clearly scandalized. "Don't compare me to her!"
"You're just bitter because you know it's true," He scoffed, a sparkle of mirth in his eyes. Laughing at the way she fumed, he linked his arm through hers and practically dragged her out of the room and into the kitchen, where Mrs. Zabini was already in the process of cooking up something delicious.
She took a moment from what she was doing to glance over and greet the two as they came in. "Hello, my dears," She chirped pleasantly. "Staying for a spot of lunch today, Miss Granger?"
Hermione positively beamed at her when she seized a knife and began dicing all sorts of vegetables. She had been delighted to discover that though they could easily afford it, no house elves were employed at Obsidian Manor. But in her eyes, nothing was more satisfying than seeing first hand how the beautiful Mrs. Zabini was so unlike her snobby acquaintances and associates in that she wasn't afraid of a bit of domestic work. Even the wonderfully kind Mrs. Weasley used her fair share of magic to assist with household chores. "I'd love to," She murmured. "If it's not too much trouble, that is?"
"Of course it isn't," Mrs. Zabini assured her, promptly whipping out the appropriate dinnerware to set an extra place at the table for Hermione, right across from Blaise's seat. "I hope you don't mind salad and potpie," The older woman suddenly began to fret. "I know it's nothing too special, but I was sort of tired and…"
"It's just fine, mum," Blaise cut in before she started babbling. Anymore than she already was, anyway. "Right?" He'd turned to face Hermione, looking quite anxious himself.
She couldn't help but laugh her wonderfully throaty laugh upon catching sight of both their hopeful faces. She had seen Mr. Zabini several times before and felt it safe to assume Blaise got a majority of his looks from his mother. "It sounds great," She smiled widely at the pair of them.
Mrs. Zabini flushed with pleasure and shooed them into their seats before disappearing into the pantry with the promise that the salad would be out in just a moment.
Hermione sank gratefully into her chair and tucked the linen napkin away on her lap. "Your family's just too nice," She remarked approvingly.
Blaise smiled slyly at her from across the table. "We're a far cry from the Malfoy's, eh Granger?" He teased. "Or do you still think I'm a great big prat of a Slytherin?"
"Oh, you're still a prat," Hermione shot back in response. "Just not a great big one."
Blaise plastered what she supposed was an attempt at injury on his face, though the results were comical. "You wound me," He pouted, thrusting out his lower lip as far as he could manage, sending her into a fit of giggles.
"Now, now," Mrs. Zabini gently chided, placing a beautifully made salad between them, snapping the tongs in the direction of her son's nose. "There's some lemonade in the icebox, would either of you care for any? Oh! And Hermione, before I forget to ask you, do you have any dressing preference?"
"Ranch would be good," She politely decided. "And I'll have some of that lemonade, please."
"What about you, Blaise?" His mother looked pointedly at him. "Still like Italian?"
"Yes," He began with such solemnity that Hermione almost laughed. Recalling his reaction to her earlier slip, she killed the urge. "And I'll take some of that lemonade too," His lazy drawl added, almost as an afterthought.
Nodding, Mrs. Zabini bustled out to fetch their drinks and requested condiments. When she returned, the two had already dished out healthy portions of the leafy greens. "Here we are," She declared, setting two tall glasses of the chilled pink liquid in front of them before producing two bottles containing their desired dressings. "Be sure to let me know when you're ready for the other," She reminded them -- referring of course, to the main dish -- before heading right back into the kitchen.
A short while later, the two of them were leaning against each other on the couch for support. "I'm so full," Hermione breathed, a little drowsily. Though they'd both acknowledged that after finishing up the potpie they were positively stuffed, both had been too tempted by the chocolate cake Mrs. Zabini had just made and shared a slice.
"Me too," Blaise groaned in agreement, licking the last of the whipped cream off the tip of his index finger, propping his feet up on the cocktail table. "I think I had one too many, as far as that cake is concerned."
Hermione didn't bother to respond, knowing her face said it all. "Hermione, dear!" Mrs. Zabini poked her head into the living room. "Your parents just called on the fellytone--"
"--Telephone, mum," Blaise corrected her at once. "We've only had it for a year now," He couldn't help rolling his eyes. "You'd think you'd get it right by now."
His mother's ice cold glare shut him up at once and she turned back to Hermione. "The telephone," She mimicked her son's annoyance. "Anyway, dear, they said that they're on their way and that they should be here any minute now." That had been yet another amazing thing about the whole set up, and in her eyes, a very convenient one at that. Her own quaint little neighborhood was not all that far from Blaise's large home. It was concealed from the general Muggle community, but the magical wards had been altered to include the Granger's as allowed visitors.
"Okay. Thanks for the warning," Hermione said, sitting up. As soon as Mrs. Zabini had left the room, she eyed Blaise critically. "You shouldn't be so rude to your mother," She jabbed him less-than-gently in the side. "She's absolutely brilliant, you know."
"She is, isn't she?" He agreed, looking quite proud all of the sudden. "I don't mean to be so short with her," He confessed. "It's just frustrating at times. Anyway, Hermione. Did you think I'd forgotten your promise so quickly?"
One quick look at her pink cheeks revealed she had. "Oh, I suppose there's enough time to tell you before mum and dad get here," She stood. "Help me bring out my cello."
Blaise stared at her a moment before snorting with laughter. "You just take and take, don't you?" But he stood as well and led her down the hall and back into the practice room. "Well?" He looked at her expectantly.
"Well, what?" She sounded quite brisk as she retrieved her instrument.
"You didn't want to tell me out there, did you? Like you were afraid my mum would overhear, or something. But now that we're in here, you've got no excuse. Spit it out already," He demanded, appearing quite smug.
Hermione rolled her eyes at his impatience but grudgingly admitted that he did have that right, for she had indeed promised to tell him what was bothering her if she could stay for lunch. Even if she did have the distinct feeling he would have let her stay either way.
She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. Blaise took note that it was already red and swollen, revealing that she had thought often about whatever it was that she was so reluctant to speak of. "Well?" He repeated, with a grunt. Folding his arms across his chest, he tried not to look too interested, though he'd crossed that line a long while back.
"Alright," She frowned, agreeing to speak at last. Flopping down unceremoniously in an armchair, she buried her face in her hands. Sighing, her companion tentatively palmed her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Just when he was about to issue a comment regarding the sniffle he heard escape her, she lifted her head to gaze mournfully at him. "It's Harry," She blurted out. "I'm so worried about him. I mean, he says he's doing alright in his letters, yes, but given his track record…"
He couldn't help but sigh. It wasn't that he didn't care to be supportive of Hermione, but despite his decent upbringing, serpent blood lurked within. Being a Slytherin -- even one as unconventional as he -- called for certain proprieties to be observed, and that included the condescending attitude adopted when dealing with Potter.
It had been hard enough tossing aside such preconceived malignity when it came to Hermione, considering how close she and that detestable boy were. Convincing his less savory side to do so had been the result of his tendency to value knowledge above all other virtues rather than any particular amount of urging on his parent's part.
In the end, he couldn't have been more pleased with his decision to befriend her. For while Slytherin's were disturbingly friendly amongst themselves, he had yet to meet one who made him feel as welcome as Granger had managed to. So, for her sake, he would entertain her thoughts on the bespectacled boy. Even if he chose to do so in a manner which she would most definitely disapprove of. "Oh, right," He chortled, tone laced with mock congeniality even as his nose wrinkled in scorn. "He goes off the hook every now and then, doesn't he? Perhaps that loathsome woman Umbridge was correct in her dealings--"
But how that miserably inflated cow could have ever possibly been right about something, let alone anything about Harry, was never explained to her, for Hermione -- looking positively infuriated -- raised the flat of her palm high in the air and delivered a resounding slap across his face. Her eyes narrowed and burned with such contempt that he would later admit to having been relatively frightened. "You don't mean that," She murmured. And though she spoke softly, her words were scalding.
He hung his head, genuinely shamed. "You're right, I didn't." Neither of his hands ventured to soothe his stinging cheeks, and he felt the full effect of the blow, almost grateful for his punishment. He had completely deserved that, and to brush aside the pain would be to brush aside the lesson that had come along with it. Potter was detestable, at best. Umbridge had been utterly abominable.
All was silent for several moments, the only audible sound being Hermione's shallow breathing, which came in short, indignant puffs. He had yet to directly apologize for his brutish remark and she had yet to say anything at all.
In his own slightly skewered perspective, he had no reason to give further vindication of his actions. Which was all just as well, for his silence on the matter was precisely what she had expected. His acknowledgement had been more than she'd hoped for, and thus she was content. Not entirely appeased, merely satisfied. But that would have to do for the time being, as both the friendly call of Mrs. Zabini and the ringing bell informed Hermione of her parent's arrival.
Her nimble fingers curled tightly around the handle of her instrument's awkward case and she managed to heft the thing up without much difficulty. Leaving her momentarily estranged companion behind, she scurried out of the room and down the length of the hall with such speed that she felt quite certain a great number of her more athletically-inclined comrades would forever speak proudly of this moment, had they only been there to witness it.
She was met at the door by Mrs. Zabini, and once she'd set her cello aside, the two exchanged brief but affectionate words of parting. Hermione carefully threw her arms about the elder woman and whispered apologies for the mood she would soon find her son in.
Mrs. Zabini just cast a knowing smile up at the ceiling and tried her best to wave away her concerns, returning the hug all the while. The two disentangled themselves from each other and Hermione thanked her profusely for the kindness she'd been shown that afternoon, though that too was quickly dismissed. "You're practically family, dear!" She dabbed at her eyes in a way that rather reminded Hermione of Mrs. Weasley. "Do take care, now!"
Upon assuring her that she would, Hermione took possession of her cello once more and, with one more beaming smile, promptly fled out the door and across the expansive courtyard to where her parents waited just outside the impressive grid-iron gate. Said obstacle was convenient in the fact that it swung open almost immediately upon approach.
Allowing her father to relieve her of her instrument, she climbed into the waiting car and sunk gratefully down in the backseat, buckling up immediately. Leaning heavily against the side of the door, she relished the feeling of chilled glass against her forehead. Her eyes fluttered closed after a moment and she heaved an inaudible sigh. Suddenly quite exhausted, she gave in to her body's demands and willed herself to sleep.
Her sweet respite was interrupted entirely too soon. It was not long before they reached home; a few short minutes later and they were already pulling up into the driveway. Hermione's mother carefully woke her daughter and the two of them climbed out of the car. Her father popped the trunk, and once he was sure that she'd gotten hold of her cello and shut said trunk, he urged the car forward and into the waiting garage.
Stumbling after her mother with the exquisite grace of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack, she leaned heavily against the side of the house until said parent finished fishing out her keys and unlocked the door. As soon as the path was cleared, Hermione darted inside and nearly mowed Crookshanks down on the way to her room. The orange feline shot her a reproachful look before seeking sanctuary under a well-placed chair, his already smashed-in face crinkling with disdain. Running over one's own pet, indeed. The half-kneazle made himself comfortable and began nursing his now-flattened tail.
Over on the other side of the house, Hermione had barged into her room and flopped down on the bed without any sort of preamble. Sighing dreamily, she rolled over onto her side and stared blankly at the wall. A few minutes later, she shifted her gaze over to her massive bookcase, which her father had gotten custom-built for her sometime last year. Sadly, space was still a problem.
No sooner had her observations been made had she passed out in a deep sleep. A combination of staying up late studying, waking up early, and all the stress gradually piling up on her back was what drove her to that level of exhaustion. Somehow, she was under the impression that no one had cottoned on to her lack of sleep, but what she did not know was just how many times her parents had checked in on her. They had not even been home an hour, and already her father had poked his head into her room no less than three times.
It was her mother who woke her up in time for dinner, though. Throwing her hair up into a messy bun, Hermione made a stop by the bathroom to splash some water on her face before she headed down into the kitchen. Sliding into her place at the table, she kept her eyes trained on her plate. For some reason, the awkwardness of earlier carried over into her own home. She wasn't very comfortable, and would have liked more than anything to gulp down her food in one bite and return to her room.
But, as this wasn't quite possible, she was forced to make do by speed-shoveling. A mere ten minutes later, she was done. Without bothering to formally excuse herself, she pushed back her chair, carted her plate and utensils to the sink, and fled the room.
A/N: Because I was tired of being nagged on by Rena, here before you is the second chapter. It is not as complete as I would have liked it to be (I'm about five pages short of my goal for each chapter's length- and I have been for some time- and would have posted this sooner, had I known it would come to this), but oh well. An update is an update, and what I was going to add wasn't terribly important anyway. So here you are, a little bit of a peek into our resident bookworm's life. What do you all think of my characterization of Blaise? A Slytherin is a Slytherin, but I couldn't bear making him as smarmy-acting as Malfoy. So I tried to compromise.
Also, if you aren't sure what an ocelot is, I have provided a link to a rather cute picture of one at the top of the chapter. As for the chapter title itself, if you can't figure it out then you don't really need to know, haha.
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