Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

A/N: I would like to apologize for my absence, but as of late, it's been difficult for me to write anything. This was previously titled "It Started with a Kiss," but I decided to change it, since it wasn't well fitted for the story as a whole. This is also, a rewrite of the prologue. I've had it on my computer for quite some time and finally decided to post it. I hope you like it. Many great thanks to the amazing embirsiphonelilathia who betaed this.

Prologue

Blaise Zabini stood in a corner of the common room, apart from his housemates who were enjoying the holiday festivities. He downed his goblet of firewhiskey, finding an odd comfort in the burning sensation coursing down his throat, and leaned back into a wall, waiting for the alcohol to take its affect.

Nothing. He felt no urge to make a fool out of himself or even the slightest bit of drowsiness. Wasn't he supposed to feel something?

Then again, he had never actually been intoxicated – and he was not ashamed of it in the slightest – so he didn't know how it felt like or if he would even be aware of it if he was.

He waited a few more minutes, hoping to feel something, but all he felt was a pounding headache from the blasting music. However, that wasn't because he was drunk, they were common enough when he was sober as well.

He hated parties and crowds. He rarely attended them. Yet, he had made the exception this time, anything to keep himself distracted from the approaching midnight hour.

It hadn't worked. If anything, he had been more on the edge and annoyed with anyone who dared to come near him, which is why he had then resorted to firewhiskey, hoping to ease away his nerves and even get drunk if it deemed necessary. It had been necessary.

Now, if only he could just get drunk. Just how many goblets had he had? And how many more did he bloody need?

As if someone had read his mind, he heard the answer to his own question.

"Look who's getting into the party, now. That's your sixth goblet."

If it had been any one but Millicent Bulstrode, Blaise would have sent them a deathly, cold stare. Instead he slightly turned his head to acknowledge her, and didn't bother to hide the sneer that came across his face.

She was wearing dark trousers and a dark purple jumper that he knew was too big for her. Her hair was tied back, in its usual low ponytail. Her entire apparel made her look grotesque.

Her eyes narrowed at him as she noticed him looking at her. "What?"

"Millie, you look terrible, as usual," Blaise told her. "You won't even dress for the holidays."

Millie scowled at him. "I'll dress as I bloody well please. And the last time I checked, there is still a good week left 'til Christmas. Git."

Blaise inwardly smiled, keeping his mask for everyone else in the room. He then noticed that Millie had a plate of strawberry cake – loaded with fresh strawberries and cream on the side – in one hand and a goblet in the other.

Millie, noticing the change in his gaze, smiled. "Oh, yeah, this is for you."

Blaise didn't hesitate taking the plate from her. He had a great fondness for sweets, especially strawberry cake. He took a bite out of it. It was good. More than good, it was delicious. Why hadn't he seen this earlier when he was at the snack table getting more firewhiskey?

"How is it?" Millie asked him.

"Quite excellent," he responded, seizing the goblet from her hand and taking a huge gulp. He almost spit it right back out. "Water?"

She crossed her arms. "Sixth goblet, remember?"

"Pumpkin juice would have been nice," he muttered under his breath but she heard him nonetheless.

"You don't need it. That cake is disgustingly sweet, as is. It has twice the sugar and extra everything else, not including the large portions of strawberries and frosting, which are also dusted with sugar. It's possibly the worse thing I've ever baked."

Blaise was in the middle of taking another bite, when he stopped and turned to look incredulously at her. "You made this?"

Millie always stood proud and firm, intimidating those around her, but as he waited for her answer, he watched as her shoulders slumped a little, and she diverted her eyes as if embarrassed. Yet, she closed some of the space between them to make sure that her soft voice reached him above the music.

"I know you said you didn't want to make a big deal about it but since you are coming of age, I thought I should at least try to make it special. The rest of the cake is sitting on your bed in a box," she then smiled warmly at him. "Happy Seventeenth Birthday, Blaise."

Blaise was then overtaken with a sense of dread as he heard the chime of the grandfather clock announcing the midnight hour. He could hear it ringing loudly over the noise in the common room, even if the rest of his house seemed oblivious to it.

He dropped his plate of cake, swearing under his breath. "Damn it, Millie!"

He pushed passed her, uncaringly, and made his way out of the common room in haste.

Blaise walked down the halls of Hogwarts with no destination in mind. His only concern was to get himself to calm down, as he could already feel a ripple go through his entire body.

This is why he had wanted to keep himself distracted. He had wanted to forget his 17th birthday, the only thing that could ruin his accursed life even further. He had dreaded this day for years, and just thinking about it riled him up. With his "condition" it was important to keep his emotions in check which is why he had been hoping that the firewhiskey would have eased his anxieties, and drown away his anger when the midnight hour had approached.

Millie had been able to make him forget, but just for a moment. It all went to hell when she brought up his birthday, something he had been telling her for the weeks that preceded to not talk about.

"Damn it!" he growled out, stopping completely. He turned into a wall, placing both of his palms on it, and rested his forehead against it. Breathing deeply, he tried to focus on nothing but the feel of the cool, rough texture of the brick wall on his skin.

He then slowly began to hum a tune his mother had always sang to him to soothe him, even as a child. Immediately he could feel his muscles relaxing.

But of course, fate had other plans.

Blaise heard the sound of footsteps and he pushed himself off the wall, turning just in time for someone to come around the corner and bump into him. He didn't even budge but the other person stumbled a few steps back with "Oof."

Blaise noted the feminine pitch, and immediately guessed it was a girl who had bumped into him. Looking forward, he saw that indeed it was a girl. She had to be at least a foot shorter than he was but he couldn't recognize her. Her head was bowed and a mass of hair covered her face.

Then it dawned on him and he inwardly groaned.

"Sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going," came the swotty voice he knew well.

"Granger."

Blaise hadn't meant to say that aloud but it caught her attention, and she snapped up her head so quick he thought that if she did a few more times, it might actually break her neck. Now wouldn't that be unfortunate?

"Zabini," she acknowledged him a bit tersely, bringing her hands closer to her side, where he would bet she had her wand. "It's a little late for you to be wandering the halls, isn't it?"

Blaise noticed that her eyes were slightly red but didn't think too much on it. Instead, he put on his mask, and said rather indifferently, "I would ask you the same thing, if I cared enough to carry on this conversation. I'll take my leave."

He was about to walk away when he discovered that his feet wouldn't move. He tried again but his feet were firmly planted on the ground. What the hell?

Hermione not having had notice this said, "Need I remind you, Zabini, that I am a prefect. Consider this a warning."

"Can you move, Granger?" he asked her, trying to keep calm.

She obviously took it the wrong way, as she crossed her arms and huffed. Yet, she didn't seem to want to get into a further argument so she attempted to move aside. She did so a few more times and failed miserably. As it turned out, she couldn't move either.

"What is this, Granger? This better not be some -"

She held her hand up to silence him – it irked him – her eyes growing wide. "Mistletoe," she breathed out, tilting her head upward and indicating with her finger.

Blaise felt a sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach, but he followed her gaze nonetheless. There, floating right above them was indeed a mistletoe. His body turned cold.

No…no…NO! This was not happening to him.

In one swift movement, he pulled out his wand and aimed it. The mistletoe remained intact. He uttered another curse, causing a bit of debris to fall from the ceiling, but did nothing to the mistletoe.

Blaise swore, feeling his anger resurfacing. He raised his wand once more but Granger griped his wrist with both of her hands.

"Stop! You'll only do more harm than good. There's only one way to get out of this and we both know what it is."

Blaise shoved her, hard. She yelped and would have fallen back if it wasn't for the spell. "Not on your life, Granger," he growled out, his shoulders shaking. "Not on mine."

"What the hell is your problem, Zabini?" she demanded.

Blaise turned his face away from her, and closed his eyes, trying to keep calm. He couldn't. He could feel the vibrations going through his entire body, fueled by his panic and anger at himself for managing to get himself in this situation, not even an hour after he had turned seventeen.

Blaise then felt his face start to shift.

Clenching his fists, he said through gritted teeth, "Granger…please…get us out of this."

"Alright," he heard her say, not realizing what she was about to do. He felt her gripped his robes from the neckline, tugging them down with her weight as she raised herself up.

Blaise instantly opened his eyes and turned to his face to demand what the hell she was doing, when their lips met, unintentionally.

Her brown eyes grew wide as she stared at him but Blaise didn't allow the kiss to last more than a second as he pushed her away. This time, she did fell back flat on her back, her head hitting the stone floor as well.

Yet, Blaise couldn't care less at that moment if she was dead. He could feel his face contorting, and he took a few steps forward, looming over her.

He saw her blinked warily up at him, and he let out a deep, inhuman growl.