October
2004. Malfoy Castle.

In a vast and yet unplottable estate
somewhere in the New Forest area, a woman of uncommon and effortless beauty
stands at one of the numerous windows of mullioned glass of a brightly lit and
massive castle. She observes the solemn countryside, appreciating the way the
darkness obscured the shapes and shadows of the trees outside. If only it could
obscure her as well, make her blend with a crowd she knew she would always be a
bit of an oddity in.

Lucius Malfoy was notorious for throwing
the most extravagant and well-attended balls in the wizarding world. An
invitation to one of his parties was a sure ticket to instant acceptance into
what the general (and generally unsuspecting) public saw as high society. To a
muggleborn witch such as her, it was a passport to everything that her brains
and brilliance could not get her.

Hermione Granger sipped at her glass of
Chardonnay with a bitter smile curling across her perfect lips. She watched as
the third Ru Paul wannabe brushed past her in sequinned bikini top - matching
skirt slit up to the heavens - complete with foot-high pink Ostrich plumes. For
a man who professed to hate Muggles as much as Malfoy did, the theme of
tonight’s masquerade was an idiosyncrasy in itself. Mardi Gras, New Orleans
style. Jay-sus freaking Christ.

Parties had never been her cup of tea. Even
as a child she vastly preferred the solitude of her room to her own birthday
parties with the children of her parents’ acquaintance. She debated whether or
not to take the bottle of red wine a house elf had left on the table at her
request and retire to one of the more distant - and therefore empty - towers to
have a bit of fresh air and maybe, just maybe, if she was feeling inebriated
enough, she just might jump off and be done with the whole absurd affair.

The loud music and jumbled babbling was
beginning to give her a headache. She rubbed her temples in a clockwise motion
in an attempt to alleviate the pain that felt very similar to a giant hand
giving her cerebral cortex a completely unwanted rubdown.

“You look ravishingly beautiful tonight,
Venus,” a husky voice whispered into her right ear as a black-clad arm wrapped
itself around her waist. “Almost good enough to eat.” The music swelled as if
on-cue, which left Hermione in near giggles at the cinema-esque coincidence.

She turned her head sharply towards the
deeply tanned face smiling down at her. “Hello, Rhett. And it’s Persephone, not
Venus.” He offered her a glass of wine - her fourth that evening - which she
accepted gratefully.

For pureblood wizard from one of the oldest
families, Blaise had been remarkably well acquainted with Muggle culture, often
accompanying her to Friday night film marathons at the local pictures. She
suspected the reason for that particular affinity had largely to do with his
younger sister, Juliana.

Blonde and green-eyed, Juliana Zabini was
probably the greatest love of Blaise’s life. He adored her as an older brother
would his one and only baby sister. Three years their youngest son Blaise’s
junior, it had long been an unspoken suspicion within the proud Zabini family
that the sweet, doe-eyed angel was a squib, a fact that became painfully
apparent during his third year, when Jules failed to receive a letter from
Hogwarts, or any of the two other wizarding schools of the Zabini’s choice,
Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. Their affections had quickly turned sour and the
poor child had to bear the brunt of her older brothers’ sneering, derisive attitudes
made worse by parents who simply did not give a damn. Arriving home for the
summer break, Blaise had found her status reduced to almost that of a house
elf, picking up after Thomas and Marcus Zabini, junior Death Eaters to the nth
degree, just like mummy and daddy.

Finishing Hogwarts, he convinced his
parents to allow him custody of Juliana - with a certain catch. One he had
given a great deal of thought to and one he had managed to avoid successfully
in all his time at school.

However, when it came together in the end,
Blaise found himself possessed of an almost Gryffindor selflessness that led to
him to agreeing with his parents terms. That summer, two years later than
expected, nineteen-year-old Blaise Anthony Zabini was the newest member of the
family to join the ranks of Voldemort’s army.

If at any time he ever regretted his
capitulation to the dark side, he would at once think back to the look on
Juliana’s face when he came to apparate her to his flat in Camden. That alone
was enough to keep him going through the nights and the raids and the blood and
the rapes. And the killing. Just that one unadulterated memory of a woman with
a strange, sad beauty, her green eyes bright with unshed tears, mouth frozen on
its way to a smile of stellar proportions. A memory etched perfectly into his
subconscious with all the precision of a Muggle photograph.

None of this Hermione knew. But had she
been aware of it, she would undoubtedly look upon him with a different light
than the one she had accustomed herself to seeing him with. Blaise had never
told his in - as well as out of - bed partner his reasons for joining the Death
Eaters, and she never asked, just like he didn’t hers. Both seemed to sense
instinctively the near-intangible taboo surrounding the subject, coming to an
unspoken but mutual agreement to never question the other about it.

But what Hermione Granger did know was that
Juliana was, at present, a promising scholar at Oxford, blissfully contented
with her life as a normal college student and savouring the freedom and
happiness she had long been denied. Big brother Blaise still visited her at
least once a month and together they would go through the Muggle world with
Hermione acting as a sort-of informal guide to both brother and sister.

“Venus, Persimmon. What’s the difference?
Both equally edible,” he leered rakishly. “Although one’s a fruit and the
other’s a flytrap. Dangerous combo.”

“It’s Per-se-pho-ne. She’s the Greek
goddess of the underworld. Hardly what I could call the goddess of Love,” said
Hermione in a matter of fact manner; aware of his dislike of being corrected
yet simply too irked to defer to it.

“Still compelled to correct everything I
say wrong, don’t you?” he hissed and shook her, his good mood gone, causing her
head to snap back with a small crack. It must have been harder than he
intended, as he let go of her and stepped back.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, lacking sincerity.
Hermione clenched her teeth, reminding herself not to cause a scene. Her right
hand itched for her wand.

“Just because you are sadly lacking in
intellect is no reason to take it out on me,” she snapped, and a look of near
murderous fury crossed his face. Just before he would have dragged out out of
the room and have at it, thankfully, his attention was distracted by something
across the ballroom.

She followed his line of vision to a tall,
heavyset man wearing dark blue wizarding robes and a gold Punchinello mask.
Goyle. Blaise nodded almost imperceptibly and underwent one of his infamously
mercurial changes of mood. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe duty calls.” He
flashed her a dashing smile, all the irritation of the previous minutes
forgotten.

“There’s a meeting?”

“Yes,” he replied tersely, moving away from
her.

“Wait a minute, I’m coming with you,” she downed
the last of her wine and picked up her skirts to follow him.

“Oh no, no, my love. You are staying here.”
That endearment, said in the most dry and ironic of tones was enough to make
her change her mind about whether her hot-headed lover and their dubious group
of acquaintances were truly the lesser evil as opposed to enduring the company
of people she hardly knew for the remainder of the evening. “I’ll try and look
for you later,” he finished, kissing her lightly on the forehead before patting
her hair absently like a child.

“Don’t bother.” Retorted Hermione, deciding
that she really wasin tin the mood for any bloodshed. Augh ugh a good, quick
Crucio on the smug Rhett Butler would have been a welcome distraction. Not to
mention immensely satisfying.

“Really? I suspect you might change your
mind in a few minutes. Until later, Venus,” he winked at her and gon gone.
Hermione turned to the direction his eyes were looking and saw one of the last
people she wanted to see at this very moment.

“Fan-bloody-tastic,” she muttered quietly as Pansy Parkinson, also known as the future
Mrs. Avery cut her way to her with a high pitched “Yoo-hoo!”, waving a
green-gloved left hand to display a hideously styled massive gold engagement
ring encrusted with a stone of disgustingly kitschy proportions that there was
the indubitable possibility of putting somebody’s eye out. Plastering a fake
smile to her face, Hermione steeled herself and went through the universal
socialite greeting of the air kiss with Pansy, first one cheek, then the other,
trying not to grimace.

“That is simply the grandest costume,
dahling. You look like the very image of Venus. Why, if I weren’t already
engaged, I would be most jealous!” declared Pansy, critically appraising
Hermione’s attire.

“Thank you, Pansy, but this isn’t Venus,” she
gestured at her robes. “It’s Persephone.” Pansy gave her a blank look.

“Whatever you say, dahling. Anyway, you
cannot believe what my Avery has bought for me today. This morning he took me
to the newest jewellery store in Paris where we picked up the most sinful looking necklace,” Pansy
indicated the nearly egg-sized rocks hanging from her
too-thin-yet-still-desperately-aspiring-to-be-swanlike neck.

“Er, they’re certainly blinding. I mean
lovely,” Hermione replied sardonically, struggling not to comment that the
necklace’s gems looked more like a piece of glass from the bottom of a soda
bottle than anything else. Could this
evening possibly get any worse? She grated silently. One of the main reasons she never became a Death Eater was probably
because she was too stupid to even spell out any of the Unforgivables, not to
mention pronounce Morsmordre, Hermione kerekered.

“But they’re so beaul, ul, though. Let me
tell you what else he bought for me--” Pansy blathered, oblivious to the less
than kosher thoughts stomping through the other woman’s mind.

Hermione disguised her smirk behind her
wineglass as the other woman droned on and on about the latest wizarding
fashions and the exotic locales where her beloved Avery was going to be
taking her for their honeymoon. Little did she know that her ‘beloved’ had been
screwing half the initiate Death Eaters at the last meeting, and not the female
ones either. It seems that the younger Mr. Avery had developed some unfortunate
fudge packing tendencies while in Durmstrang, where his father - who was less
than pleased when his firstborn managed to get himself expelled from Hogwarts
for assaulting a Gryffindor Muggle-born - had exiled him.

One can only speculate how Avery Senior
would react if he found out that his little wonder boy was gay. Completely,
unequivocally, unhappily gay. Blaise, that unflappable example of tall, dark,
handsome and brooding Slytherin male had possessed an odd predilection for
gossip, although he attempted to justify his little hobby by referring to it as
“merely relaying interesting titbits of information to the general public.”
Yeah, whatever. Even with politically correct phrasing, gossip is gossip, and
the juicier the better.

She wondered what cutting remarks he would
have reserved for the endlessly prattling, absolutely clue less woman in front
of her. Poor homophobic Blaise had once disgustedly told her of a particular
very forgettable Dark Revel when the said woman’s faggot of a fiancée attempted
to make some decidedly ardent overtures towards the already uneasy Mr. Zabini
and had gotten his extremely pug-like, miserable excuse of a proboscis bashed
in for all his troubles.

Her eyes came to rest on a tall man dressed
in almost satanic garb with a black half-mask to cover the r por portion of his
face, emphasising the pallor of the skin beneath. Had he not been breathing she
would have immediately mistaken him for a corpse, although an upright corpse
who had a champagne flute in his hand and was hurriedly reaching for another.
Clearly the man was enjoying the ball no more than her.

He was attempting to secrete himself into a
corner, perhaps to avoid the maddening crowd but was being distracted by the
clearly unwelcome attentions of two strikingly beautiful women. Courtesans, by
the look of their well-rouged lips and curvaceous, corseted anatomies. Satan
looked distinctly uncomfortable as the two women voraciously eyed him. Hermione
smiled to herself. This looked like it was going to be fun.

As if he sensed he was being observed,
Satan’s head snapped up from where he had bent it down to listen better to one
of the erm, ladies, narrowly avoiding the pink flash of tongue aimed at
his ear - much to the woman’s mortification. Miraculously though, he managed to
be completely oblivious to it, or else there would be quite a few unforgivables
tossed in her direction if his present behaviour was of any indication.

 >

He had been looking to her left, scanning
the room; his gaze slowly drifting, searching for whoever or whatever had
distracted him. Hermione had a distinct feeling it was her and she smiled a
secret smile at how he would react when he saw her. She had no illusions about
how men viewed her as, and if he were like any one of them, his reaction would
be no different.

His dark eyes met hers and across hundreds
of people, she felt as if someone had done a double bullet-tap to at her chest,
felt herself sucked into their inky black depths and in the spaces that
connected those seconds she could understand everything that the authors of all
the romance novels she always scorned had been babbling about. Kismet and fate and
destiny and all that wonderful, glorious crap in between. Of gladly plunging headfirst
into darkness and not missing the light. Or maybe it was just good old
fashioned lust.

Holy
shit. Those eyes. The man has bedroom eyes.

So.

Not.

Good.

**

A/N: I just want to say thank you to everyone who reviewed. It’s been a
while, I know, shoot me. And as I hate those people who post author notes much
longer than the story, I’ll just thank you in e-mail instead. I hope you’ve
enjoyed this chapter and there is definitely more to come. Please leave a review.
It feeds the voracious muse and keeps her happy.