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Time's Up	By : Gotbooks00 Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Hermione/Blaise Views: 23286 -:- Recommendations : 4 -:- Currently Reading : 6
Disclaimer: I own many things, but not any recognizable characters, things, or places in the Harry Potter series. Somehow, I doubt that JKR would agree to joint custody…shame, that. Also, no profit is being made from the writing or posti

Chapter List
- 1-Time's Up
- 2-TWO
- 3-THREE
- 4-FOUR
- 5-FIVE
- 6-SIX
- 7-SEVEN
- 8-EIGHT
- 9-NINE
- 10-TEN
- 11-ELEVEN
- 12-TWELVE
- 13-THIRTEEN
- 14-FOURTEEN
- 15-FIFTEEN
- 16-SIXTEEN
- 17-SEVENTEEN
- 18-EIGHTEEN
- 19-NINETEEN
- 20-TWENTY
- 21-TWENTY ONE
- 22-TWENTY TWO
- 23-TWENTY THREE
- 24-TWENTY FOUR
- 25-TWENTY FIVE
- 2
- 3
- 4
Time’s Up, by Gotbooks93

Summary: After successfully hiding the existence of her son for eight years, Hermione is out of luck and out of time. When the father of her child discovers her secret, their quiet worlds aare changed forever. Will things become better, or worse? Join Hermione and Xander as they find out.

CHAPTER THREE

Blaise Zabini

Things were not going according to plan. As Blaise Zabini sat in a chair at the Department of Magical Transportation inside the Ministry of Magic, he attempted to remember why he returned to the U.K. in the first place. Within a few minutes, he had compiled a short, but effective, mental list.

1.       He had been offered significant financial compensation to represent several English clients who were looking for half- decent lawyers.

2.      Draco was getting married- finally- and Blaise had been appointed the best man.

3.      He missed his house, his mother, and his dogs.

4.      Celia, Sophia, Mia, Ava, and Madison.

The list made him relax a little more. The first item on the list was hardly due to necessity. The Zabini name still had several vaults, packed with galleons, all over the world. But he was bored with custody battles and writing up wills. He wanted a case he could sink his teeth into, something he had to really think about. And he wasn’t finding it in his travels in the rest of Europe. If he couldn’t find it in the U.K., at least he was getting paid, and paid well.

The second on his list prompted a small smirk. For years, Draco had claimed he would never, ever marry. Ever. His friends chuckled and shook their heads, knowing that he would one day meet his match, and be married within the year. And they were right. What they were wrong about was the woman in question. They expected a tall, thin blonde, with blue eyes who spoke French. She would have perfect manners and an edge to her that would keep Draco in check. Merlin, where they wrong.

Amanda-call-me-Mandy Jones came out of left field. She was an American witch, for starters, and didn’t know a glass of well-aged cognac from a bottle of Carlsberg beer. The first time Draco’s friends came over to meet her, she served home- made cookies, and glasses of lemonade. Blaise had noticed tiny ladybugs painted onto her toenails, and her southern twang was a source of great amusement among Draco’s friends. The girl was all sugar and honey, without a speck of guile. The most amusing part? Draco, the youngest Death Eater in history, who had more than drabbled in the Dark Arts, and was a complete wanker to most of the population, adored Mandy Jones. He wouldn’t hear a single word against her, and drew his wand on anyone who tried.

After nine months of dating, Draco had proposed, and Mandy had accepted. Blaise hadn’t even been asked if he would serve as best man. He was told to show up in dress robes, and be ready to hand Draco the rings at the appointed time. Although nothing had been said about Draco’s bachelor party, Blaise had every intention to rustle up the old gang- Theo Nott, Adrian Prucey, Marcus Flint, Greg Goyle, and a couple of Ravenclaws- to give Draco one last hurrah.

Third on the list was somewhat more complex. He missed his house. He missed the décor he had picked out, with Pansy’s help. He missed looking out the windows onto the well- kept grounds, and standing on his bedroom’s balcony at night, seeing the lights of the village in the distance. He missed his dogs. Brutus and Duke were his half Mastiff, half Dobermans Pinchers. While they were devoted, loving dogs to Blaise, his mother, and close friends, enemies beware. When aurors came to search the house for ‘dark artifacts’, Blaise delighted in having the dogs by his side. They wouldn’t attack, but any auror with sense knew the massive dogs could take off a limb before they could palm their wands. Besides messing with the aurors, Blaise enjoyed an afternoon out on the grounds, playing fetch. The dogs were a comforting presence in the sometimes depressingly quiet house.

To most people, it wouldn’t seem strange to miss one’s mother. Blaise, unfortunately, was not ‘most people’. Elena Zabini was a strange paradox. She was beautiful, to be sure. However, that beauty came with a price. Famous for having a string of wealthy, dead husbands, she had earned the title ‘the black widow’ among pureblood society. Those who had not met her imagined her as a cunning, soft- spoken woman, and that was often the cause of their downfall. On the outside, Elena was a cheerful, bubbly woman, prone to spoiled behavior. She seemed to be, in a word, a ditz. But beneath that scatterbrained mask was a woman deadlier than the spider that was her title. Blaise made no excuse for his mother; he knew she killed her husbands in cold blood. However, after the fourth husband was found dead, after ‘choking on a piece of meat’, he developed a distance between himself and his long stream of step- fathers. Blaise’s own father was the only living ex-husband, and made a point to speak to Blaise only through occasional letters. He didn’t to Elena at all.

So, yes, it was strange that Blaise missed his mother. But he missed her attempts at baking, and her rants in Italian. He missed her blatant but futile match-making efforts, and her terrible choice in artwork. Most of all, he missed seeing the woman behind the mask, the one that read stories to him as a child, and affectionately straightened his tie as a man. Besides her evil Siamese cat, Minga, Blaise was fairly confident he was the only other living thing that Elena actually cared about. This theory was compounded by the fact that she was currently on husband number twelve.

As for Celia, Sophia, Mia, Ava, and Madison, they were both the simplest and most powerful reason for him to return to England. Blaise wasn’t under any delusions when it came to himself. He knew he had a reputation as a playboy among a large portion of wizarding society. But he lived by the motto “Love ‘em and leave ‘em.” Women all over the globe had made efforts to catch him and keep him, and Celia, Sophia, Mia, Ava, and Madison were some of the more determined examples of these husband hunters, and had Blaise high- tailing it back to England when things got a little too heavy. However, the difference between him and, say, Draco, was simple. Draco had been well and truly caught. Blaise knew his heart never could be caught, because it already belonged to someone else. Even if he hadn’t seen that ‘someone else’ in more than eight years.

While he hadn’t seen her in a little under a decade, Blaise had kept tabs on Hermione Granger. Not in a stalker-ish sort of way, though. He knew she was at Hogwarts teaching… something… and made a concentrated effort to stay out of the Prophet. Whenever Blaise saw Pansy Parkinson, he always made a point to ask after Hermione, but Pansy claimed there was little to report.

“You know how she is, Blaise. Same old, same old.” Pansy always said.

It made Blaise wonder, sometimes. Hermione was a beautiful woman; any hot- blooded wizard could see that. So why hadn’t she gotten married by now? Maybe…

Giving his head a quick shake, Blaise brought himself out of his mental musings and back into reality. He knew what the ‘maybe’ game would do; he’d end up torturing himself, going in loops of ‘what if’ scenarios.

‘She had been clear that night.’ He thought, ‘You might not have moved on, but she most likely has. Give it up.’

Blaise turned his attention back to his surroundings. Although he had already made it back onto British soil, he was stuck in the Department of Magical Transportation for a frustrating reason: they had lost his luggage. While the luggage appeared to only be some shrunken- down suitcases, they held the contents of Blaise’s life: case files, clothing, a few pieces of furniture, some family heirlooms, and various knick- knacks that he had picked up on his travels.

His ticket stub had D314 printed on it in big, black letters. Just then, the witch behind the counter shouted a new number. “D24.”

Blaise suppressed a groan. Looked like he would be waiting for a while.

~(o)~

Four hours later, Blaise stepped into one of the Ministry floos, and proclaimed a long- awaited destination: “Zabini Manor!”

Moments later, he stepped out of the flames, and into the luxurious receiving room at the manor. Awaiting him was the collection of the manner’s house elves, Brutus and Duke, Elena, and Husband Number Twelve, whose name escaped him.

“Blaisey, welcome home!” Elena declared, throwing her arms open in welcome.

Suppressing a smirk, Blaise gently kissed his mother on both cheeks, murmuring “Hello, Mother”. In front of Husband Number Twelve, Blaise and Elena would keep things formal. Over the past few husbands, they had learned to keep affection to a minimum in front of her husbands. Otherwise, Blaise became a pawn in the game of marriage.

“Oh, Blaisey, you remember Charles.” his mother gestured dismissively to the older, fat man next to her, and the men inclined their heads in greeting. “Wait until you see the driftwood sculptures I’ve picked out to decorate the foyer. They’re simply divine! Oh, you’re all dismissed,” she said, waving her hands at the five assembled house elves.

“Blaisey I’ve missed you ever so much! Keeping this place running is such a chore, I’m glad you’re back so I can go home. Did I tell you about the pair of muggles somehow made it past the wards along the south boarder? It gave me such a scare! But don’t worry, I flipped their memories around a bit and sent them on their way. But they were so adorably simple! I was telling Charles that I want to collect a pair for my own…”

Elena continued to chatter as she pulled Blaise through the house, showing him her ‘renovations.’ To say they were hideous was an understatement. Green drapes with purple embroidery hung in the music room, a garnish, orange tablecloth draped the dining room table, and a bright pink couch now occupied a space in his office. Thankfully, Blaise knew his mother didn’t expect him to keep any of it, and intended to set the place to rights as soon as she went home. He knew she purposefully searched for the most hideous things she could find to decorate, and enjoyed making his house ugly. It was a twisted sort of hobby for Elena, and he indulged his mother’s whims.

Soon, Elena and Husband Number Twelve departed, reminding Blaise of how much he liked living by himself. Many pureblood males lived in their ancestral home with their parents until they were married, but Blaise’s mother liked to live in her husband’s house… while he was still alive, that is. Blaise suspected she got a perverse sort of pleasure out of playing ‘house’ before she killed them.

Once he was settled into his office, Blaise called, “Jeb! Snitch! Carlou! Quin! Lonnie!” Within a moment, five faint pops were heard as the Zabini house elves apparated into the room. Glancing up from a letter on his desk, he took in the assembled elves. He did a double take on one of the females- Quin, he believed.

“Quin, what’s wrong with your stomach?” his eyes swept over the strange lump under her pillowcase.

One of the male elves stepped forward. Blaise recognizes this one as Jeb, the oldest elf of the bunch. Jeb had served the Zabini family since Blaise’s grandfather was born, and was the head of the manor’s elves.

“Quin’s mate and she is expecting new elf in life soon, Master.” The old elf gestured to Quin and Carlou, another male elf.

Blaise shivered in disgust at the thought of elves having mates, and dismissed the thought from his mind. “So, she’s pregnant?” he clarified, looking at the lump under her pillowcase.

“Yes, Master. Quin will bring the new elf to Master right after he is borned, to be named, Master.” Jeb intoned seriously.

“Um, yeah. You do that.” Blaise said, awkwardly scratching his head. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure nothing too serious has happened since I visited last spring?”

“No, Master. Elves is taking good care of the most honorable house of Zabini. We is keeping everything cleaned, and Lonnie is making Master’s favoritest foods. May Snitch unpack for the master?” Jeb asked, gesturing to the youngest elf.

“Sure,” he said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing several shrunken- down suitcases. “Here you go, Snitch.”

Of the five elves, Snitch was the only elf younger than Blaise. When Blaise was seven, his mother had called Blaise into her sitting room. One of the female kitchen elves, Lonnie, had birthed a new elf. Elena had told Blaise to think of a name for the elf, and Blaise had peered into the bundle of rags that swathed the elf.

“He’s so little!” seven year old Blaise had exclaimed, a mix of fascination and revulsion in his voice. “Sort of like a snitch in Quidditch. That’s his name, Snitch!” Ever since, Snitch had a fierce loyalty to his master, surpassing the standard loyalty of most elves to their house.

“Well, you’re all dismissed. I want dinner ready by seven, please.” With that, Blaise went back to the letter he had been reading. Setting it down, he pulled out a clean sheet of parchment and a newly- sharpened qill.

Dear Draco, Blaise wrote,

The favor you as is no favor at all. I would be happy to accompany you to the Board of Governors meeting on Thursday evening…

~(o)~

Hermione Granger

‘Don’t panic.’ Hermione told herself desperately. ‘Do. Not. Panic.’

Her breath came in gasps, loud in the stone passageway. She was panicking.

Leaving heavily against the wall, she slid down to the floor, the rough stone scraped her back through her dress, and her legs soon grew chilly as they rested against the ground. Soon her gasps became quiet, as her logical mind caught up with her racing heart. She had just heard the voices of Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini, mere feet away from her hiding place. While the first man was an annoyance, he was not the reason for her fear. Blaise Zabini was.

‘He’s not here for me, or Xander. But they’re in the same building together. He’s too close, too close. Okay, what to do? Do I go home, take him to Harry’s, and go to the meeting late? But he’ll be sure to notice me, if I walk in late. Should I just go in now, and hope that he doesn’t care enough to really pay attention? That’s an option, I suppose, but someone’s sure to say something about Xander’s birthday, and if Blaise found out it was Xander’s eighth, there would be no chance of him not figuring it out. Okay, just go in, sit in the back, and leave before anyone can say anything to me. Easy.’

Standing up, Hermione straightened her dress, and adjusted her askew jewelry. Feeling her hair, she felt that it begin to frizz in her distress. Re- casting her smoothing charm, her hair fell in glossy waved down her back; Hermione knew from experience that the affect wouldn’t last for more than a few hours. Just as she stepped from behind the tapestry that hid the door, the clock tower chimed eight times, hustling Hermione towards the staff room.

Slipping into the room, she dove for a chair along the back wall. On her left, sat Neville Longbottom, who greeted her kindly, whispering “Glad you could make it. The governors are starting to get restless.”

Smiling faintly at him, her attention soon turned to the proceedings of the meeting. Soon, one hour turned to two, and two turned into three. One of the lawyers tried to put a cooling charm on the room, only to fail miserably.

“If you would?” called McGonnagall from the front of the room to Hermione.

She cast the charm immediately, before anyone could turn to look for her. The room cooled instantly, and sighs of relief were heard. She was good at her job, after all.

A few minutes before midnight, the governors and their lawyers seemed to run out of questions. McGonnagall stood, preparing to adjourn the meeting. As she cleared her throat to speak, a house elf suddenly cracked into the room.

“Headmistress, I is needing to see the healer Lady and the Mistress of Charms right away! The Mistress of Charms’ young Master is very ill, indeed! He is falling off a ladder, and there is being blood everywhere! Come! Come!” the elf’s high pitch squeak bounced off the walls of the room, and launched Hermione and Madam Pomfrey into action.

All thoughts of avoiding Blaise Zabini were instantly wiped from her mind as she hurried for the door. Only one thought remained in her head, a stream of ‘Please, Merlin, not Xander. Please don’t take him from me. Not Xander.’

Following Poppy out, she was already gone when Draco Malfoy looked at the Hogwarts staff and asked, “Who’s the ‘young Master’ supposed to be?”

~(o)~

Bursting through the doors to the Hospital Wing, Hermione stood, frozen, in the doorway. There, lying on a cot, with blood like a crimson halo around his head, was her little boy.

“Well, don’t just stand there Hermione, come help me!” Poppy barked from the bed, where she was gathering an assortment of potions, bandages, and her wand.

Jolted into action, Hermione ran toward the bed. She whipped out her wand, ready to cast a complex healing spell. Hermione stopped when Poppy grabbed her arm.

“You can’t just heal him. If we close up the wound, his brain will be suffocated by the blood. Head wounds are tricky like that. We have to find the internal cut, heal that, clean the wound, seal the external opening, and make sure he doesn’t lose too much blood.”

They immediately set to work, with Hermione’s wand working as an x-ray so Poppy could see the internal damage. Several parts at the front of Xander’s scull pulsed a dull red, and around the edges, little pin pricks of black were starting to form. When Hermione asked what they were, she only got a worried look from her college. It spurred her to work faster, harder.

The dull red was starting to spread across his head, one millimeter at a time. The seconds turned into minutes, and the black dots were starting to multiply. Desperately, Hermione switched the x- ray to her left hand wandlessly, a risky tactic that thankfully worked. So, with Hermione’s left hand working the x-ray spell, her wand began to cast the healing spell with Poppy.

As the minutes became a half hour, both witches had sweat dripping from them. The healing spell was complex, but the tide seemed to have turned. Soon, the clear white light indicating a healed wound overwhelmed the black and red, and they cleared up the last splotches of deadly color. Releasing both the x-ray and healing spells, Hermione fought to not slump to the floor. The remaining work was simple, just a quick episkey to seal the cut. Opening her son’s mouth, she poured in a blood- replenishing potion, followed by a general healing potion.

Poppy evanesco’d the sheets, quickly replacing them with new ones. Hermione prepared to vanish the blood from his face, only to be stopped by Poppy, once again.

“Head wounds are sensitive. The muggle way would be better, at this point.” She said, handing Hermione a bowl of clean water and a wash cloth.

Dipping the cloth into the water, she gently began to clear the blood form her son’s face. The adrenaline draining from her, Hermione was left shattered. She had come so close, too close, to losing the only thing that mattered in her world. Her son looked so pale, so fragile lying on the starched white sheets. His normally tanned face had drained of color, and the only movement one could detect was the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Hermione continued to mop the drying blood from his face, and found tears had begun to fall into the bowl of water.

Touching her face, she found it wet. Quickly dashing away the tears, she focused on Xander once more. He looked so little, there in that bed. Her son had a way of holding himself that made him seem older, bigger. In reality, he was so small, so vulnerable.

Hermione was cleaning the blood from his hair when she heard several sets of footsteps behind her. Ignoring the sound, she continued her job, delicately cleaning the flesh around the wound. The episkey had left behind a nasty, red scar on his forehead. Partially obscured by a long, damp curl, Hermione was reminded of her promise to get his hair cut. It looked like her little Slytherin had wound his way out of that one. Normally she would have been frustrated at his tactics, but at the moment, the trait brought a smile to her face. A smile that was quickly wiped away, as she heard a smooth, angry voice behind her.

“You better have a damn good explanation for this.”

Ch.3 Author’s Note:

Hey Guys,

So, I’m really glad I don’t have my address registered online. Who knows how many of you live on the west coast of the U.S., and would be happy to come after me if you had a street address? Just kidding…or not.

Okay, so I know this is pretty much the mother of all cliff- hangers. I don’t know how I feel about channeling Blaise at this point. Was his POV good, or not so much? As the chapters progress, you’ll find out more and more about how Hermione and Blaise started out, and realize Blaise is big on list- making. They make him feel better.

Also, don’t you just adore Elena Zabini? I most certainly do. She’s probably my favorite minor character to write, because she’s such a messed-up person. No one really ever knows when she’s being genuine or not, which makes it even more fun. Hahaha I love it.

Leave a review and let me know what you thought!

Next update will be on Monday. See you all then!

Gotbooks93
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