Summary: For Megaera... It took eighteen years to quell the girlish flutter in her stomach. Four chance meetings in that span, each one a party in its own right, each one beautifully ordinary and mundane and wonderful and significant. HGBZ.

Although, I'm positive this is not what she had in mind for her IATQO Secret Santa gift. I'm pretty sure Megaera was expecting a bit of school-era fluff. I'm just incapable of that. Hopefully, she'll enjoy it anyway. Three more parts to follow.

Boundless as the Dark

Part I.

A corset. Right. Hermione wasn't sure how well the corset-and-garter-belt idea meshed with her thunder thighs and rather oversized chest. Actually, that was a lie. She knew exactly how it was going to go over. They would be laughed out of the party. Ginny, who was built like a flagpole that had two honeydews tacked onto it, could pull off such an ensemble. Ginny was almost six feet tall without the three-inch heels, whereas Hermione was lucky to hit five-three in heels. She hated feeling fat. She'd always been happy to be plump when some of her classmates looked downright malnourished. She'd never exactly had any complaints about her size, but still. At the moment, her feminine vanity was skipping past her down the street, hand-in-hand with her plummeting self-esteem.

But Hogwarts was over.

She tugged the top of the corset up a bit, the shiny purple satin bra part. She was deathly afraid one of them was just going to pop out or something and then she'd forever be that fat girl whose boob came right out of her top. She was perfectly happy to just be the odd smart girl with the somewhat radical philosophies.

She fidgeted with the garter strap on her left thigh and Ginny smacked her hand. "Stop it," she snapped. "You look fine."

"Easy for you to say," muttered Hermione, looking darkly at her friend and then turning away completely. Ginny even got to wear the blue corset. Everyone knew that Hermione looked amazing in blue.

"Shut up, Hermione," Ginny had said when they went shopping. "You know that purple would totally fight with my hair." Hermione conceded the point reluctantly, maintaining that they could certainly find her a green one, or an all-black one, or one dyed to match her hair, even. It had been the next thing out of Ginny's mouth Hermione hadn't been able to agree with. "And anyway, they're exactly the same in two different colors."

Obviously they weren't exactly the same. Ginny's was built with a gazelle with large breasts in mind. Hermione's was constructed for a well-endowed and overweight beagle. Hermione had gotten Slytherin-level surly and completely uncooperative from that moment on. Ginny had to literally Stupefy her and magic the costume onto her when it came time to get ready.

The hair and makeup had been easier. Hermione had always been a closet makeup fiend. She was a bit freaked out by the false eyelashes, but once they were attached she had more than her share of fun batting them and marveling at how very long they really were. It only took ten minutes of wailing "No! Don't put that there!" on Hermione's part to actually defeat Ginny on the issue of glitter, if only because Ginny was eventually too tired to argue or because Ginny had already practically basted herself in enough silver glitter for both of them. If their costumes were supposed to be identical, the sizes and Hermione's total lack of glitter made them look different enough. As for Hermione's hair, an inordinate amount of Sleekeazy had been administered and it hung almost limply against her neck in smooth strands. It even felt lighter on her scalp. Ginny insisted she wear it down. In compromise she refused to voice her opinion on it.

"You don't look fat, Hermione. I promise. Now get off that tack," said Ginny somewhat exasperatedly, realizing she had lost Hermione's attention. "Anyway, come on. We're young, gorgeous, famous, and it's Halloween of my Seventh Year, so I'm even here illegally. We're here to party hard and enjoy the moment, corsets be damned." Ginny looked out of breath after her speech and she herself was beginning to see distinctly the lack of sense in such a choice in attire.

"They were your id--" Hermione protested, only to be cut off by a joint-jarring tug on the arm by the other girl as she was dragged into the shady-looking Hogsmeade building where Adrian Pucey was throwing his Halloween Crush.

It was crowded already-- and they were early-- and the music was throbbing as it should. The walls were painted black and covered everywhere with glass, most of it mirrored. There were a few spots where glowing eyes had been painted to the walls under the glass, and showed through, malevolently glaring out at the revelers. The lights weren't low yet because the party hadn't started in earnest. The floor was black and the ceiling appeared to be spangled with stars, although there were purple storm clouds rolling in from the northwest corner of the room. Similarly, a cloud of wispy smoke appeared to be flooding its way across the floor and obscuring the matte tiles, as well as anything below Hermione's calves. A long black wood table had been set up along one wall, covered in various inedible-looking things. The punch bowl to the far end that looked to be filled with blood probably wasn't raspberry syrup. Pucey had a distinct and notable sense of humor that more than leaned toward the macabre.

"See, I told you we'd fit in just fine," Ginny pointed out, gesturing around to all the nearest people. The girls seemed to have all gotten the same memo Ginny had about abbreviated and black being the buzzwords of the evening. Black miniskirts, thigh high boots, and all sizes of fishnet diamonds ran rampant. They certainly weren't the only ones in corsets. As for the boys, pirate garb--among them Malfoy and poor, silly Ron-- and devil horns seemed the picks of the evening, with assorted ghouls and iconic figures scattered around. Boys were never very clever; girls were never very respectable.

Hermione's stomach gave a funny lurch when her gaze fell on Blaise Zabini, quite clearly dressed as Icarus, his wings bent and sad, the wax melted from flying too near the sun. His eyes seemed more hollow than usual, his shoulders more stooped than normal, his voice hoarser than ever. He was near enough she could hear him over the bassline, although what exactly he was telling the statuesque blonde girl in the fair-but-not-great veela costume--not enough feathers-- was lost in translation. It could have been "Is the weather nice in Copenhagen this time of year?" or "I was born a naughty boy," for all she could tell.

She'd never understood fully why she reacted in her gut to seeing him. It always made her nervous and put her on edge and the sight of him made some little siren go off in her head that left her dizzy and distracted, like someone had taken a file to her senses and left them raw and grainy. It even happened in class, although in the security of her robes she could quite easily ignore the siren call and carry on as normal. She didn't know why she reacted so because she had never regarded him as really attractive or threatening, although he had certain attributes of both adjectives. He had a strong jaw and coarse brown hair that strongly put her in mind of her own, and his voice was famously gravelly.

Ginny knew nothing of Hermione's Zabini issues. She had never noticed him at all beyond registering the dark eyes, sexy voice, and then, green badge. She was busy staring around in awe. "Pucey knows how to throw a party, Hermione. We're in for the night of our lives!"

It was an hour of relentless dancing-- in which they were at times seen with Vincent Crabbe the annoying singing pirate and Hannah Abbot whose outfit was skimpier than her own-- before Ginny was effectively distracted by a kiss from Dean so that Hermione could slip away for a moment of sanctuary out of doors, where it was cool and quiet. Once outside, she found herself more or less alone. She walked a short way down the path to lean against the cool, dark brick wall beneath a flickering sconce. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the bricks. She could feel the barest hint of the beat from inside, reverberating through the thick wall.

Several minutes passed as Hermione's ears stopped ringing and her heartbeat slowed down from the hummingbird speed of dancing. She opened her eyes to find Zabini himself walking past, apparently caught up in his own thoughts. Feeling foolish as she did so, because he always was so catlike and aloof, she called out his name. She didn't say it terribly loudly, possibly so that she could blame his poor hearing for a non-reaction. He had suffered a head injury in the war; there was a spider silk scar running the length of his hairline from left temple to jaw, hugging his sideburn as it passed in front of his ear. There was every chance that he was deaf in that ear, or nearly.

But he stopped and cocked his head toward her, a passively curious look on his face. His eyes were really very dark, especially in the moon- and candlelight that lengthened the shadows thrown by his brow and cheekbones. Hermione could feel the familiar jerk in her stomach as she looked at him and realized their proximity. Without the protection of her school robes, she couldn't stop her shiver reaction. "Have you drowned?" she asked in a breathless voice as she felt her throat closing off.

To his credit, he immediately understood and a small smile spread across the lower portion of his sharp-angled face. She didn't know if it extended up to his eyes. She could only see the gleam of normal eye wetness for all the shadow and nighttime. "I was too caught up in the light," he conceded in his remarkable voice. He realigned his head and she could see that his eyes were neutral, although by no means did they have the coldness she had too often seen there over the years.

"That does explain quite a lot," she said for lack of anything else, and she was desperate to keep him standing there before her, talking, just so she could have that voice wash over her.

He took a step backward and wrapped his fingers around the metal railing behind him, not quite leaning against it because it might further mess up his ruined wings. He set his jaw and examined her, a muscle working in his cheek. It was not an unfriendly or lecherous examination. It was somewhat scientific, but she wasn't left feeling like some mooncalf specimen. "I would have pegged you are more the naiad this night," he said. "This look is a... surprise." Surprise wasn't the right word. It sounded tinny and odd in the sentence, and especially from his mouth. The 'r' sound lingered too long, reluctant to leave his throat.

Other girls-- the more demure ones, the more sensible ones-- had dressed as goddesses and queens and animals. Hermione herself had been planning on going as a Selkie, with grayed skin and mossy teeth, until Ginny had so casually introduced her wrenching costume. "I suppose I should have gone with something a bit more suited to my body type," she said deprecatingly. She wasn't overdone. Glitter might have pushed her over, since she was short, but she had avoided it. Fishnets might have labeled her differently, but she wore black stockings to go with the black corset and contrast with the purple bra part and hotpants.

He did not bother telling her she didn't look fat. He was a Slytherin, truly enough, and their affairs were subtle at best. He did not see the need to say something many people had certainly said before and would say over and over again in a long enough stretch of time. His gaze barely flickered away from her face, to his credit or not, and she was both comforted and further disconcerted. Did his disregard for her state of undress indicate a general disinterest in the female form, or a readily established acceptance of her particular form? She didn't know which option she hoped for more.

"What were you flying away from?" she asked, gesturing at the badly bent pinions. The one on the right was at an angle that would have been painful to any bird.

"No one thing. Just, I suppose, that I've made more regrets than apologies," he said, his thin lips contorted in what she suspected was rapidly evolving into a genuine smile. Terrifying. She couldn't imagine what she'd done to evoke that.

"I realize that it's been too long, Zabini," she said, tugging up the top of her corset again. "I've vaguely known you for-- what, seven years?-- and the most we've said to one another has been limited to comments on our laziness and tardiness and idleness. It's been too long for us to be friends."

He rolled his eyes and leaned back against the barricade, wings be damned, assuming a perusal of her face and then body, only to return again to her face. He was so calm about it, leisurely, giving her the impression that standing there in that narrow corridor between buildings with her was the only thing on his agenda for the night. She refused to feel anything remotely like giddiness at the thought, and decided instead that instead of bestowing deafness, that head wound had left him certifiably batty.

Really, any sort of defense mechanism works in a pinch.

"I never said which this was, Granger," he admonished.

"I'm beginning to feel like filet mignon," she said conversationally.

"What can I say?" he wanted to know.

"Nothing. Ginny made me wear it."

The beat inside changed. Hermione could feel it through the wall. She shifted, pushed off. "Enjoy the party, Zabini," she said.