One Night

(Week 3 of The Maple Bookshelf's War of the Words)

by

AnneM

All characters and canon situations are the property of JK Rowling and Warner Brothers and I make no money from the writing or publishing of this story. Thank You.

It was a clear, cool night. There were no clouds in the sky, the stars were abundant, and the moon was full and shining bright in all its magnitude. He turned from his place at the window and looked over at the bed. What lay there was more beautiful than every star in the heavens. It was more precious than the sun and moon combined. It was worth more than all the riches in the world. And he was about to lose it all because he was a total arse, and he didn't know how to fix any of it.

On the bed lay his wife of two years and their five month old son. They were everything he ever wanted out of life, and because of a stupid argument, a stupid disagreement, he was afraid they would leave him forever. Ending up alone had always been his biggest fear.

He remembered the night he fell in love with her. It happened instantly. He saw her across a banquet hall, at some silly Ministry benefit, and she was standing there in a brilliant, royal blue gown, her hair up in ringlets and curls, and she was laughing at something one of her asinine friends had said. She placed her hand upon the man's arm, laughed louder, and that was when he knew.

He was in love and he was going to make her his.

Blaise Zabini walked up to Draco Malfoy, knocked his arm into his and said, "Is Granger seeing anyone these days?"

Malfoy gave him an indolent look of extreme boredom and said, "Do tell me why that would matter to you." Then, just as adamantly, he asked, "And why in the world would you think that I'd know the answer, anyway?"

Blaise raised his eyebrow at the blond man and said, "Because if its information someone wants, they can always get it from you. You're the fountain of useless knowledge."

"Thank you my good man," Malfoy gleamed.

His friend smiled. "I didn't exactly mean it as a compliment."

Malfoy said, "And yet I've chosen to take it as one, as is my prerogative." Malfoy laughed and leaned closer, "And by the way, the answer is no, my good man. She broke up with our mutual friend Flint not a moment too soon if you ask me. He was apparently cheating on her, if you can believe that. Oh, I say, you're not asking me because you're interested, are you?"

"I might be, and I thought Marcus Flint was a good friend of yours?"

Malfoy sighed. "He is, but since the war ended five years ago, Granger and I have become friends as well, at least of sorts. I now know what all the fuss was about, and if you plan to hurt her, my good chap, you'll have to go through me."

Blaise Zabini arched his eyebrows at that comment from Draco Malfoy. He explained, "I have only honorable thoughts toward the woman, I guarantee it. I'm not Flint, or Pucey, or any of your other friends. You know I would never hurt a woman."

Thinking of those words uttered so long ago caused Blaise to shudder now. He had promised Malfoy that he would never hurt her, yet he hurt her without cause this evening. He hurt her and she would probably never forgive him. He walked away from the window and started toward the bed, pausing only when he heard his son make a small 'coo' noise. After the baby settled back down beside his mother, he continued across the room and sat on the edge of the bed.

The evening he decided to make Granger his was a warm evening. Hermione walked out of the doors at the back of the banquet hall out to the balcony beyond. Blaise deftly followed, making certain no one saw him leave behind her. He didn't want anyone to follow them, and likewise, he didn't know what he was about to say to her, therefore, he wanted to be alone with her – just in case he made a fool of himself.

He walked up to her and said, "Warm evening, isn't it?"

She turned swiftly, and then leaned against the railing. "Oh, hello. I saw you talking to Malfoy earlier. And yes, it's warm tonight. Summer will soon be here. I thought I'd come out for some air since it's so stuffy and warm inside."

"Did you want solitude as well?" He hoped she would say 'no' but he half feared she would say 'yes' and then what would he do?

She leaned forward slightly, fanned her face with her hand and said, "Not particularly, or really, not at all."

That was all the opening he needed. He took a deep breath and another step closer. Reaching out his hand, he snaked his fingers around her wrist, pulling it down from her face. She looked surprised. He felt just as shocked by his actions as she looked.

Then he said, "Come here."

She laughed. "I can't get much closer than I already am."

"Yes you can," he said softly, pulling her to him. His mouth lowered to hers.

Before he could kiss her she asked, "What are you about, Zabini?"

"I'm about to kiss you, that's what I'm about," he said seriously, his lips so close to hers that he could already taste how sweet they would be. Then his lips touched hers and it was a million times better, a million times sweeter, a million times more everything than he'd ever imagined it could be. It was the most brilliant kiss of his entire life. Her lips were warm and moist under his. Her mouth opened with very little urging from him and when his tongue touched the tips of hers, he wanted to weep.

One arm went around her shoulders as the other went around her waist. He felt every curve of her body next to his and it made him want to shout for joy. It felt right. He knew in that instant that she was the missing half of his soul.

The kiss lasted no more than twenty seconds. When he lifted his head from hers, he said, "Hermione," and she said, "Blaise," and then they laughed at the same time.

That sealed her fate in his opinion.

He knew that he wanted to kiss this woman for the rest of his life, if only he could.

Now, watching her sleep, holding their son in her arms, he recalled that first kiss with as much fondness as he felt while he was kissing her. He had loved her from the start. He loved her still. He knew she didn't always feel loved, and for that he was abjectly ashamed and sorry.

He leaned down, picked his son up from her arms, and placed him in the cradle in the corner of the room. Coming back to the bed, he sat down on the empty side – his side – and moved his fingertips gently down her arm as it rested on top of the covers. His thoughts went immediately to the first time they made love.

They had been dating for six months. He was beginning to wonder when they would make love, but he never felt right being the one to initiate it with her. Therefore, they kissed often, and a bit more, but it never went beyond heavy snogging, until one night, as they were lounging on his bed, watching a movie.

Hermione turned to Blaise and said, "I love you. I thought you'd want to know." Then without further ado, she went back to watching the telly. Blaise laughed, placed a hand on her cheek, and turned her face toward his.

"That's good; because I've loved you since the first time I kissed you." And he had.

She smiled. "I've loved you since you came out to the balcony that night and made that silly remark about the weather."

"Oh, really? Well, I probably really fell in love with you when you laughed at something Potter said that night, so there."

"And I think I fell in love with you when you entered the ballroom, spilled that drink on the floor, and left it there for someone to slip on." She had a 'so there' gleam in her eyes.

"You saw that?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes, and I've loved you ever since." She leaned toward him, turning slightly, and gave him a seriously, nice kiss.

She was so close to him, almost lying on top of him, that he could feel goose bumps on her skin. He decided to take that as another sign… this one meaning that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

Oh, and they were apparently in love with each other.

Blaise pulled her down so they were reclining on the bed, face to face. Placing one hand on her breast, he began to knead it slowly. She hummed low in her throat and closed her eyes.

He was in awe that a simple touch to her breast could cause such a response. Gliding his hand around her shoulders to her flat stomach, he tucked it under the hem of her shirt, around to the back and unclasped her bra. The rest of their clothing came off easily and quickly after that.

Moving over her, he let his hands roam up and down her legs before he leaned in to kiss her again.

She pushed on his shoulders and said, "Can I confess something?"

"Is it better than what you confessed a moment ago? That you love me?" he asked, nervous of what she might say. He was nervous that this wouldn't mean as much to her as it did to him. He was nervous that it might end what had just begun.

"I just want this to be perfect. I'm a bit nervous. I don't want to mess up. I want this to be special. I want it to mean something. I want it to mean more than the simple statement of 'I love you'. Do you understand?"

He laughed even as he buried his face in her hair, his weight coming down upon her. "You won't believe it, but I swear I was just thinking the exact same thing."

Hermione turned slightly, pushing him away so that they were once again on their sides, facing each other. She placed a hand on his chest and said, "You silly man. I just said I love you and you said you love me. We're both being silly. This is right, I know it is. I never do anything unless I'm certain, and I don't think I've ever felt more certain in my life. What was I thinking? How could I be nervous when I'm with you?"

He didn't know if she was saying this for him or for herself, but it didn't matter, because she was right about it al, just as she said she was.

She leaned forward and kissed him deeply. She pushed him onto his back and leaned over him, kissing him all over his face, neck and chest. His hands wandered up and down her back. The feel of her soft breasts, with erect tips, pushing against his chest, made him feel more desire than he had ever felt in all his twenty-four years of living.

Rolling so she was again on her back, he leaned over her and kissed her breasts all over, tasting first one and then the other. He kissed down her stomach, while his hands held her waist, resting on her ribs.

He kissed the top of her left thigh, and then her hipbone, his tongue and lips sliding over her hips, to her stomach, to her other thigh. She moaned again, softer this time, triggering a stab of desire throughout his body.

Then she said, "Please." Just please.

She longed for him as much as he longed for her. Placing his body directly over hers he looked down at her and said, "I want to marry you." He didn't ask her 'will you marry me' or any other such nonsense, because his marrying her was a forgone conclusion in his opinion.

Still, she answered, "Yes." Again, just a simple 'yes' like her simple 'please' from a moment ago. It was enough. His mouth went back to hers, and he moved his entire body so that he could glide into her. They moved together. It was more than enough. And it was right.

Hermione's hands continued to caress his shoulders and back. Which each stroke, he would come back and kiss her mouth.

She was wet and tight and it had never felt that good. The fervor he felt was nothing in comparison to the love he felt.

He started moving faster, and her legs entwined with his, bringing him closer. Holding his body off hers, his weight on his arm, he opened his eyes at the exact moment that she opened hers. He had a fleeting thought that that one single moment was the pinnacle of everything. Staring into the eyes of the woman he loved while making love to her was more than he had ever hoped to have.

He didn't deserve her. Malfoy told him that once. Malfoy was right, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to hold onto her with everything that he was, and with everything that he had.

Finally, she closed her eyes again, while chanting his name. Her inner muscles began to clench, her legs moved from his hips, and she trembled beneath him. When he was certain she was at her peak, he screamed out her name.

And it ended. But in a while, it also began. They lay together, arms around each others bodies, breathing erratically. He gave her cheek a final kiss and said, "So was that a yes to marrying me?"

She patted his stomach and said, "It was a hell yes."

He smiled and went to sleep.

She was so trusting back then. She believed in him more than anyone had ever believed in him. She understood things that no on else ever tried to understand. She understood how hard it was for him to be bi-racial in the pureblood world in which he was raised. She understood how hard it was to grow up without a father, especially when all his friends had fathers… even if they were Death Eaters.

She understood how he felt having a mother who cared more for her many husbands and lovers than she ever cared for her son.

Even though she came from a happy home with two loving parents who were married and who wanted her dearly, even though she grew up in a Muggle world, even though her background was as different as his as night was from day, she always understood exactly how he felt. She knew what it was like to be slightly different from others – being a Muggleborn – and she never once judged him from a prejudiced point of view. She never made him feel inferior, or different, or unloved.

No – leave those unsavory things to him. Leave the prejudice and the belittling to him. He called her the very worst thing he could possible call her last night. He called her the one thing that he promised he would never call her. He called her the one name which she said always hurt her the most.

He called her a Mudblood.

His wife, the woman who was the mother of his son, the love of his life, whom he promised to love, honor, cherish… Oh, just remembering it now caused him physical pain. Remembering how her face crumbled and how the strong, lovely woman he married cried caused him to hurt deep in his soul.

He made the one person whom he loved the most unhappy.

Malfoy told him right before his wedding to her that he had better always treat her with kindness and love. Malfoy's exact words were, "Treat her well, Zabini. Love her and be kind to her, or you'll have the whole Wizarding world to answer for. She's a national treasure, after all. A bloody war hero!"

Knowing that he hurt her so badly caused him abject guilt and shame. He reclined on the bed beside her, on his side, and recalled how beautiful she looked on their wedding day.

Her dress was a deep ivory, plain and simple, but beautiful. She was stunning. She was so lovely that his breath caught in his throat. He wanted to run to her side, but his legs felt weak and as if they might give out at any moment. Watching her walk toward him on her father's arm made him realize how lucky he was to have fallen in love with such a woman. A woman who was bright, and loving, and selfless.

He didn't know how to be a good husband. His mother had been married several times (just not to his father), but none of those men were especially good to her. Still, Blaise would have to try very hard to be a good husband, because she deserved the best.

She was finally standing beside him. She smiled at him. The officiate was talking, but Blaise didn't hear a thing, because he was lost in her smile. She continued to smile at him even when she reached out and took his hand. That was all he needed, and she knew it. He needed her hand in his. He needed it more than he needed water to drink, air to breath, blood in his veins to live. And she knew it.

He returned her smile, gave her hand a squeeze, and turned to the officiate and said, "I do."

He swore to love, honor, and protect her. They took out the word 'obey', and rightly so. Yet he broke almost all the vows he made to her that day. He broke them all last night when he shouted at her. When he raged at her. When he called her names. Nothing that happened last night was her fault! All the blame was his, yet he tried to blame it all on her.

That wasn't the case when she was pregnant with their son. That night, she blamed everything on him. He grinned just thinking of it. She told him that everything was his fault, and that he was never to touch her, with any part of his body, ever again.

She had been in labor for hours! Hours! Would this night never end? Would her pain and suffering continue forever? For that's how it appeared. She was so tired, in so much pain, yet she was so incredibly brave.

He paced around the small room, glancing over at her each time she made a small noise of distress. Finally, the Healer told them, "It's time."

Hermione reached out her hand. Blaise ran to her side, took her hand in his, and said, "I'm so proud of you." And he was.

A few moments later their son was lying upon his mother's breasts. He was the most beautiful thing Blaise had ever seen in his entire life. His skin was pink and wrinkly. Blaise wondered if he would have darker skin, like him, or lighter skin like hers. One thing was certain; all his dark curls were from her!

She started to cry – happy tears – but tears all the same. "What do you want to name him?" They had been discussing names for four months, ever since they found out they were having a boy, but they had yet to agree on a single name.

Blaise was so happy at that moment, he said, "I don't care. You decide."

Hermione ran one finger down his little back and said, "I want to name him after my grandfather, my mother's father. But, I don't want to name him after his first name, which was Tremont. I want to name him my mother's maiden name. I want him to be named Huntington. It's a strange name, perhaps, but I'm named Hermione and you're named Blaise, so I think it's fitting. We can call him Hunt for short."

Blaise thought that was an excellent idea, and at that point, he would have given her anything she desired, including the stars and the moon.

After a long and arduous labor, their little baby boy was born. Now that he was five months old, his skin darkened to a shade somewhere between her pale complexion and his light brown. His eyes were brown, but then again, so was both of theirs. He'd lost some of his hair, poor boy, but he had ten fingers, ten toes, and was perfect in every way. He was a part of her, and a part of him, and that made little Hunt Zabini a pure miracle, at least in his father's opinion.

He moved gingerly off the bed and went back to the bassinet in the corner of the room. Brushing his fingertips down the baby's cheek, he sighed. How could he have argued with his baby's mother over something so mundane and utterly stupid as to the way she had decorated the nursery? It pained him to admit it himself, but that was exactly what he had done earlier in the evening, and what shouldn't even have been an argument, escalated out of control until he called her that terrible, ugly name. There were equally ugly names she might have called him in return, for example there was an especially ugly racial slur she might have called him. She might have called him a bastard, in the truest since of the word, since his mother and father was never married. She might have even mentioned the fact that he was a coward during the war. When she was out there fighting, he had left England to live in France, only returning when the war was over and Voldemort was gone.

But she did none of those things, called him none of those names. She merely looked at him and said, "You promised me once that you would never, ever call me that. You broke your promise." Then she walked quietly into their bedroom, closed the door, and started to cry.

"Hermione?" Blaise walked into the house rather later than he had expected to be home. He and the fellows had gone to a Quidditch match the day before yesterday and he was just now coming home. That was the thing about Quidditch – one never knew how long a match might take. In this case, it took the better part of two days.

He started up the stairs, still calling her name. "Hermione?" It was almost dinnertime. Surely she was home.

Walking toward the bedroom, he stopped when he noticed the door to the nursery was opened. They had yet to decorate the room for the baby, and the reason was simple. They had only moved into the house a month before the baby was born, and they reasoned that the rest of the house needed decorated before it, seeing how the babe would be staying in their room at first anyhow.

The morning he left for the match she said, "I'd like to start on the nursery this weekend. Do you have any preferences as to what you'd like to do in there?"

He was going to be late. He knew if he was even five minutes late, Malfoy wouldn't wait for him, and the match was in Germany. If he missed the Portkey, he'd missed the entire game.

"We'll talk when I get home," he said, bending down to kiss the top of her head as she nursed their small son. "I love you both."

"Wait," she called out. He turned quickly.

"Sweetheart," he pleaded, "I have to Apparate to Malfoy's so we can catch the Portkey. Can't this wait?"

"I might want to start without you," she said reasonably.

"Fine, fine, you do that," he said, starting out of the kitchen.

"Blaise!" she called out.

Leaning back into the room, his hands on the doorframe, he said, "What now?"

"Please, tell me what you want in the nursery? Colours, themes, anything?"

"Fine," he repeated, "Dragons. I want dragons, alright? See you both later. I love you." Apparating away, he heard her say, "Dragons?" in a questioning tone, but thought no more about it.

Now, there was a light coming from the nursery. She must be in there. He winced. He should have stayed home and helped her decorate their only son's nursery. He should have been by her side, but instead, he was in Germany at a stupid Quidditch match. Would she be angry? Would she be upset at all?

It was unfair of him to leave her and the baby alone for two days. Hermione was probably frazzled from that alone. He knew he wouldn't be able to take care of a small baby alone for two days!

Feeling a bit guilty, he opened the door slowly. She was up on a ladder, her wand in her hand, and it appeared she was 'painting' a mural on the wall, with magic.

She turned on the ladder. A large smile was on her face. "Oh good, you're home," she said happily. Shouldn't she be railing on him? Shouldn't she be upset that he had been gone for two days, and that she had to do all the work in the room by herself?

She said, "Do you like it? It's taken me the better part of two days to finish it. Ginny and Harry are watching Hunt right now, so I could finish before you got home."

He felt a sudden rush of anger. She didn't need him. She did all of this on her own, without him. His beautiful wife was smiling proudly down at him from up on the ladder, and all he felt was instant rage. She had a splash of paint on her cheek, and her hair was standing on end, and she looked as beautiful as ever, but he only saw red… he was angry… incensed… livid.

All because she had painted a mural of a forest, with tall, dark trees, a bright moon in the sky surrounded by stars, centaurs in the distance, and last but not least, a large white unicorn in the middle of the mural.

A unicorn. He told her he wanted dragons (even though he knew he frankly didn't give a rat's arse either way) but instead of dragons, she had painted an effing unicorn on their son's wall.

There wasn't a single dragon in sight. He was utterly speechless. Her smile started to falter, even as she asked, "Do you like it? Oh, I hope Hunt likes it. And look what I've charmed it to do."

She stepped down the ladder, swished her wand in the air, and extinguished all the lights. The mural on the wall seemed to come to life after that. The moon and the stars shined mutely in the sky of the mural. The branches on the trees swayed as if there was a breeze in the air. Most of all, the unicorn, the center of her masterpiece, started to drink from a bubbling brook, its skin glowing, shimmering a white light.

It was beautiful

It was amazing.

And he hated it with all his heart.

"It's a unicorn," he said with an obvious edge to his voice.

"Well, yes, it is," she answered.

"A white unicorn!" he said louder.

"Yes," she replied.

"A bloody white unicorn in my son's room!" he shouted. "My son, Hermione! Son! He's a boy… yet you've painted unicorns all over his room! What's next? Rainbows? Flowers? Fairies?"

"He's a baby," she reasoned. "They like things that are colourful."

"Where's the dragons?" he yelled. "Dragons are colourful, and I told you I wanted dragons! Why did you bother asking me what I wanted if you weren't going to pay any heed to my suggestions?"

"You were serious?" she asked, shocked. "I thought you just said that so you could leave to go to the match. I didn't think you were serious."

"Well I was!" he shouted. He wasn't, but he would never admit as much.

"There's room on the other wall for another mural," she said reasonably. "You can help me. We'll make a mural with dragons on it."

"Oh really?" he asked sarcastically. "You'll let me 'help' you with our son's nursery? How magnanimous of you!"

"What's the problem?" she asked seriously. "Are you upset that I did this without you? Are you truly upset that it's a unicorn and not a dragon? Or are you feeling a bit guilty that you went off with the lads two days ago, leaving me here alone with the baby, and decorating the nursery without you?"

And bang – she hit the proverbial nail on the proverbial head and wasn't the a swift and painful kick to his arse?

"You know nothing!" he shouted. "But I know something. I'll not have any son of mine sleep every night in a stupid room with a fucking unicorn on the wall."

And the argument went down hill from there. Oh, she gave as good as she got, that was certain. She shouted, screamed, and called him out on quite a few things, none that he could recall as he went to lay back down on the bed beside her. All he knew was that at one point he called her that very, very bad name, and made her cry.

After her tears (alone in the bedroom) she finally opened the door. He was sitting on the floor in the hallway waiting to apologize. She didn't give him a chance. She said, "I'm going to go get the baby, bring him home, and then go to bed. You should get started on the nursery. You don't want to be up all night."

"Started on the nursery?" he asked numbly.

"Yes," she said stoically. "I even have a book here with pictures of dragons in it. You can copy them from the book and put them on the wall. I'm sure it will look lovely." She sounded as if she thought the exact opposite, and he couldn't blame her.

"Please, don't leave yet," he said, struggling to stand. "I need to apologize first."

"For what?" she asked, no expression on her face. "Do you need to apologize for taking out your anger in an inappropriate way? Do you need to apologize for being angry at yourself, but blaming me? Or do you need to apologize for breaking your promise to never, ever call me that name? Because, frankly, Blaise, I don't want any apologies from you. I don't think I want anything from you right now."

She threw the book with dragons in it on the floor by his feet, walked down the stairs and out the door. He was afraid she might never return.

Instead of following her, he turned and walked back into the nursery. It looked so beautiful. She had been so proud. He decided to finish it for her… for Huntington… and for himself. He arranged all the furnishing and placed books and toys on the shelves. He hung drapes she had apparently bought, and finished by placing a rug on the floor.

He was asleep in a white rocker in the corner of the room when he heard her return, four hours later. Hermione walked directly into their bedroom, shut the door, and turned out the light.

He snuck into their bedroom about an hour ago. He was struggling, even now, on how he could make any of this right. Moving off the bed again, he picked up his infant son from the bassinette and carrying him gently he walked across the hall and placed him in his new bed, in his new room. Then he activated the charm of the mural with a wave of his wand, kissed the baby on the head, and leaving the door open, crossed back over to his own room.

Dipping down on the bed, he lay on his back, looking up at the dark ceiling. She turned to face him, awake apparently.

"Did you take the baby to his room?"

"Yes."

"Does it have dragons on the walls?"

"Not a one."

"Are you still angry?"

"Are you?"

"I asked you first."

"No. No, I'm not angry." He turned his head to look at her. She was laying on her side, her hands under her cheek. "I was never really angry at you. I was angry at myself, just as you suggested."

"When will you learn that I'm always right?" she asked lightly.

"I think I learned that very important lesson tonight," he said, lifting his hand to place it on her hip. "Do you forgive me?"

"Of course. I love you. I will always forgive you," she answered plainly. "But don't ever do it again, do you understand? There is a limit to my forgiveness."

He smiled. "Good to know." Pulling her over to him, she rested her cheek upon his chest, her hand over his heart. He linked his arms and kissed the top of her head.

"I love you," he said.

"I know. I love you, too."

"And I love the unicorn," he added with a smile.

Leaning up on her elbow, she smiled at him in the dark and said, "I knew you would. As previously stated, you should remember that I'm always right about everything. Oh, and I can't wait to show you the plans I have for the other wall. What do you think of fairies?"

He sighed. "Let's talk about it in the morning."

"Fairies and flowers and a giant rainbow," she said with a laugh.

His wife was evil, that's what she was, but she was all his, and that's all that mattered.

The End