In which Blaise first shows his face at the LFS


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“You can’t,” Hermione said, catching air and twisting the bag closed in a practiced movement. “I mean, you could, but you shouldn’t. Not in a reef tank, at least, and certainly not in one so small.” She uncapped a black marker and scrawled the number and price on the plastic, then plastered on a cheery smile and looked up at the bloke standing across the aisle from her, tall and lanky with black hair curling over his collar, bright blue eyes peering down at her, something like bored amusement shining out of them.

He was new to the store, one of those posh types more likely to frequent the fish emporium down the road than the little hole in the wall LFS where she worked. But a customer was a customer, and Remus would kill her if she chased off any more amateurs with what he called her know-it-all attitude.

“How big, then?” he asked lazily, making no move to take his coral.

She cocked her head. “How big what? The trigger or the tank? He’ll destroy your corals, you know.” And the man was about to spend nearly ninety pounds on just one.

An enigmatic grin stretched his mouth, and he replied, “Tank,” in a low drawl.

However the man managed to get the single syllable word to slide like that without sounding like an idiot, Hermione had no clue. “It depends on the type, of course, but I wouldn’t go below three hundred liters.” Honestly, she wished Bill was there, since marine fish weren’t her best subject. “If you’re really interested, our saltwater manager should be in from ten to five tomorrow. I’m afraid my expertise leans more towards fresh.” She held out his bag again, smile cracking only slightly when he continued to ignore it.

“Will you be here?”

Hermione eyed him suspiciously. “I’ve got the morning shift. ‘Til one.” Normally, she didn’t work Sundays at all, using the day to review any work she’d done for her classes that week, but Harry had begged and pleaded with her to cover for him, and since she hardly ever could say no to Harry, especially when he used his infamous pout and puppy eyes, she’d agreed to come in during the morning rush.

Giving up trying to make him take his purchase, she sighed and turned towards the front of the store, carrying it briskly down the aisle to the register. She rolled her eyes at Hannah and set it down before shooting the customer, who’d followed her silently, one last smile. The intensity of his stare was a bit off-putting. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she managed, then walked away.

As she disappeared back into the fish section, she could hear Hannah’s bright chatter and the light beeps as she rang up the sale, and a quick glance around caused relief to course through her. The store was practically empty, an extremely rare occurrence for a Saturday afternoon. Crookshanks wound about her feet, meowing plaintively as she headed to the breakroom, eager to put a few more finishing touches on her Advanced Anatomy essay.

Seamus was in the back, half a sandwich stuck in his wide mouth, his sandy hair flat on one side, looking as if he’d just rolled out of bed. Which he most probably had. The man was a notorious night owl.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, pulling out her knapsack and sinking down into the chair across from him.

He swallowed, then grinned over at her. “Guess.”

“Harry talked you into working for him.” At the Irishman’s nod, Hermione chuckled. “What on earth is going on with him, anyway? He wouldn’t say.”

“We’ve a few bets going. Terry thinks he’s ditched us for a girl. Either that, he says, or he’s hooked up with those transvestite lounge singers from Curly’s. I’ve got money on sweaty, public sex with that bloke in his mathematics class. Hannah’s taken ‘stalking Coffee Boy,’” he pulled out a small, blue notebook and flipped it open, “but ‘plotting the end of civilization’ and ‘finally became Snape’s whipping boy’ are still available.”

Hermione snorted. They never bet to win, it seemed, but to come up with the most outlandish speculations. “I’ll put five pounds down if you add ‘being compulsively secretive about his end of term project.’” The others might have more fun betting than winning, but Hermione wasn’t about to lose her five pounds. And Harry, though sweet, could be terribly predictable.

“Hermione,” Seamus whined, lips pouting.

“Take it or leave it.” Hermione held firm.

“Can’t we at least put ‘about alien life forms’ at the end?” he asked, eyes melting into a Seamus-brand plead. He had dangerous eyes. Coupled with the accent, the Irishman nearly always got what he wanted, but Hermione just shook her head, almost entirely immune to Seamus’ tricks.

Almost, of course, because it only took a half verse of ‘Julia’ from his lips to wheedle Hermione into doing anything. She was a sucker for The Beatles, as well as the man’s soft, husky singing voice, and everyone knew it.

However, Seamus only dragged out the big guns for important causes, and he clearly didn’t think the Harry Betting Pool qualified. He took her final “No” with a faux scowl and a suspicious twinkle in his eye.

Hannah snapped her gum loudly as she swished the curtain aside and stepped into the breakroom. “Sexy, sexy man,” she said, smiling.

“Why thank you, Hannah,” Seamus purred. “You’re looking lovely today as well.”

“Not you, dork.” She flicked his ear and hopped up onto the table, swinging her legs and grinning slyly at Hermione. “Mr. Blaise Zabini.”

Hermione tapped the end of her pencil on the essay. “Who?”

“Your stalker,” she answered cheerily.

Seamus straightened in his seat. “Stalker?” he asked, practically wriggling with glee. “Ooo, you’ve a stalker?” The Irishman, slim and wiry with a natural, predatory grace, often found himself faced with stalkers, of a sort. But Hermione? Too much fun.

“I don’t have a stalker,” Hermione snapped at him, then scowled at Hannah. “And how do you know his name?”

“Credit. And he is so your stalker. He was in Tuesday asking about you.”

The thing about Hannah was that she was terminally cheerful, but sadistic all the same. She’d never talk about you behind your back, never dismiss your opinions, never poke fun at your insecurities or concerns. But, having virtually no awkward bones in her body, she took great joy in seeing others fumble and blush, living vicariously on their embarrassing moments. There was next to nothing, really, that could make Hannah embarrassed herself, and she found its effect on others fascinating.

When the bell over the door rang, signally a customer had entered the store, Hermione jumped up with relief. “I’ll take care of it,” she said, before hurriedly slipping out of the room. She had no desire to talk about her so-called stalker, Mr. Blaise Zabini.

It was only Ron, though, clad in his rattiest maroon jumper. It was his favorite, but so ancient he never wore it unless he was feeling especially low. A dark maelstrom of misery settled on his hunched shoulders as he slumped against the counter.

“He hates me,” Ron muttered, scuffing the toe of a worn trainer across a puddle on the tiled floor.

Hermione sighed, knowing exactly who he was talking about. “It’s only been a week,” she pointed out, rounding the counter and settling on the stool by the register.

Ron growled under his breath. “He’s a snotty little prick.”

“He’s a mathematical genius,” Hermione countered.

“Which makes it okay?” the redhead asked, incredulous.

“No, but.” She shook her head. “You only have to survive this term, right?”

He nodded dejectedly. “I can argue for someone better, at least. Honestly,” he sighed, “his class wasn’t so bad when I was in it.” Mainly, of course, because he hadn’t had to speak to the git and Draco Malfoy happened to be very, very pretty to look at. And then, through some horrible twist of fate, proving that all the gods that ever were hated Ron Weasley, the University had assigned him as Malfoy’s aide. If he hadn’t desperately needed the extra money, he would have quit as soon as the bastard started on with his insults.

“Anyway,” he said, shrugging off his bad mood as best he could, “I’ve got to get to the café. You coming tonight?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she smiled. “I’ve got the early shift for Harry tomorrow, though, so I’m not staying late.”

He reached out and tugged a shank of fuzzy hair. “We’ll see.”

“I mean it,” she said firmly, narrowing her eyes against his mischievous grin. They both knew that she often lost time at Curly’s, though, which was entirely Seamus’ fault, with his hot-smooth lilt and too tight trousers. It was heartbreakingly unfair that the boy was gay.

A rush of customers - two families, it seemed - poured through the door as Ron left, and Hermione shouted for Hannah before walking back to the freshwater section. Busy, busy, busy once again. She couldn’t wait to get out of there.

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