A/N: Well, well, the things I write when I should be studying for exams... and the week is not nearly over... hmm, maybe one fanfic tomorrow, and certainy another one on Friday, I'm already looking forward to that.

Without any further ado, I haven't written much of this pairing (there is Glimmer of Hope, although it's a different style altogether), so please tell me if this BlaiseHermione is fine. I hope I got their characters right, and seeing as I'm in a darker mood, this is much darker than your usual sweet fanfic. I hope you enjoy, and please review!

Dedicated to my grandparents, all of them, but especially my paternal grandfather (except for the last part ;). I wish I could have known you. Also thanks to Mrs Groffe for making me read Appointment with Death by Agatha Christie, it inspired the part about Hermione's smile.

Disclaimer: Anything you might recognise (characters, setting, etc.) is not mine, it all belongs to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros. etc. No copyright infringement intended.

WARNING: Mention of violence, death and torture. Smut.

Silver lining

Every cloud has a silver lining.

Grey. The world was grey. Of a stormy, cloudy, rainy grey, one that bordered on lightning and thunder dark, mortal peril, dangerous black. The world was a stormy, cloudy grey that was getting darker and darker every instant, as if night were falling, shadows growing longer and longer as the sun slowly set. A sunset, but without the usual burst of splendid colour at the end of day. Just an ordinary sunset, the sun disappearing behind the horizon, as if she hadn't a care in the world.

He did care. He was worried. Things weren't looking up in the least. There was to be no salvation, no redemption, no ending. There were only condemnation, regret, infinity. Darkness was rising upon him, and he didn't like it at all.

True, he had not been born to be the hero, he really hadn't. He had been born to be the villain, the anti-hero, the devil. And he had been just that, faithfully, without asking a single question, like a dog too stupid to complain and to afraid to run away. There was no running away for him.

And so he faced the fight ahead of him, trying, fighting, shouting spells with all his might. In the end, it was all in vain. Despite his efforts, despite his despair, they took them down one by one, one falling after the other until he was the only one left standing. He saw them coming for him, and decided it was worth a try. But before he could even attempt to raise his wand, several curses were shouted his way – curses he didn't recognise and couldn't fight – and he blacked out as a violet ray of light it his forehead.

That was how they captured him. When he awoke in a dark cell, chained to his bed with thick metal ropes, he almost wished he had been killed in battle. Almost. He knew it wouldn't have been worth it – the Dark Lord was not worth dying for. Neither was his Cause, if he thought about it clearly. But neither was it worth being tortured by the Order. He groaned. He couldn't believe he had been so stupid. He should have left, run away, escaped, at the first chance he'd had. He should have – yet he couldn't. He had been the most faithful, perhaps the most obedient, the unquestioning follower. He'd obeyed the way a dog would obey its owner, or the way a hand might carry out the brain's orders. He'd been nothing, nobody, in spite of his status, of his bloodline and ancestry. And here in this prison cell, somewhere hidden deep beneath a safe house of the Order's, he strangely felt free again.

They would torture him, for sure, ask him all the questions he couldn't answer, all the hiding places he didn't know, all the faces he couldn't recognise. Then they would dispose of his lifeless body, maybe in a river somewhere, or bury him hastily in the frozen ground, or burn him to ashes for it was too much of a burden to dig a grave in the middle of winter, and he was just a Death Eater anyway, scum that needn't be bothered with. He simply hoped that he would be buried somewhere peaceful.

Somehow, through all these years of serving the Dark Lord, he'd kept the image of a quiet burial in his mind, somewhere in the countryside, not on the beach, but near enough to hear the endless sound of a thousand waves crashing against the rocky coastline. He'd dreamed of a family surrounding his grave – a wife, old and wrinkled, yet still beautiful, and two children, one with dark skin and hair, the other one with fairer skin and raven locks cascading down her back. His children would be married, of course, so there would be a husband and a wife of theirs, too, grieving, but not as hard as the members of his immediate family. There would be children, as well – although they wouldn't have come for being too young to bear the entire ceremony. Yet there would be his oldest granddaughter standing beside the tomb, looking exactly as his own mother had – dark hair, olive-toned Mediterranean skin and a tall but curvy built, Her eyes would be filled with tears, her face already wet and tear-streaked, her eyes red and puffy and her cheeks pale and cold, as though she were dying inside, dying because of grief. She would be a strong girl, and she would try not to let her grief show, but eventually she would hug her father and burst into fresh tears.

He snorted. That was not likely to happen. He would probably and up somewhere, unmourned, hastily buried, and his cell would quickly be filled with another. These were desperate times. The Order was short on prison cells, so they would have to get rid of any prisoners that might stay for longer than -

"Ahem," someone said.

Unwillingly, lazily, he turned his head around to look at his torturer.

"Granger," he whispered in surprise.

"Should I remember you?" she asked icily, her eyes glittering with power and force. He found it hard to take his eyes off her. She certainly had changed since Hogwarts, from a mousy brown bookworm to a beautiful young woman. War suited her well. It had sharpened her feature, made her eyes shine more in contrast to her too-pale white face and reddened her lips. In all, she was the very picture of calm strength, of tranquil cruelty and hidden danger. He looked at her in awe. She was beautiful. This was not the Hermione Granger he recalled from his library visits. This was not the Hermione Granger he'd kissed once, on an impulse, one day when the had been the only ones to

study in the History of Magic section.

"Yes," he whispered, "yes, you probably should." He didn't trust his voice entirely. She looked at him, really looked at him beneath his shabby clothes and the dirt that were hiding his aristocratic features, black hair and dark skin.

"Impossible," she breathed. "Shouldn't you be somewhere in Italy? Or dead?"

"Well," he smirked, although smirking hurt. Everything hurt. "I'm not. Not yet. And yes, it is me, Blaise Zabini."

"It really is you. Merlin, I hadn't expected to see you again." She looked as pleasantly surprised as he felt – as surprised as circumstances allowed. He couldn't say if it was a good thing or not. Maybe she was going to hurt him worse because she knew him. Maybe she would torture him longer and harder because he had kissed her without her consent once. Although she had seemed to respond to his kiss, he suddenly wasn't so sure any more.

But then she smiled at him, that unearthly, surreal smile he'd loved once, the smile he had admired and kissed her for. And strangely, he smiled back. Things were definitely looking up after all. Maybe the sky wasn't all cloudy any longer. There seemed to be a sudden sunbeam streaming through the clouds, hitting the ground right next to him, where she stood. She was that sunbeam.

Suddenly she was coming towards him, both of her hands outstretched in welcome. Something new shone in her eyes, triumph maybe, and something else he couldn't quite identify. He couldn't help staring at her figure. She'd always been lean, but somehow time had put curves on her in all the right places. Harbouring a seductive smile, she was still walking towards him.

He nearly startled in surprise when she settled herself on his lap, trapping his hands between their bodies. He couldn't help feeling her warmth, her touch, her breasts brushing against his chest repeatedly, her hands encircling his neck and drawing him closer. All of a sudden, his body seemed to act on its own accord. He moved forward to touch her lips with his, hesitantly and sweetly and first, but soon the kiss grew heated when she began to respond to his probing lips in the earnest. His hands were roaming over her body, and hers were caressing his back, pushing upwards his shirt as he tried to tear off her simple blue dress. She was straddling him now, pushing him back onto his bed while she got rid of her clothes.

He stared at her, at her white body and perfect breasts, wondering absent-mindedly if this was a new kind of torture. However, when she proceeded to take of his pants and lowered herself onto his cock while kissing him still, he decided that he didn't care, at least while she was still moving so deliciously against him. Perhaps he would regret it later, after this was over, after he had stopped sliding in and out of her warmth, after he had moaned when she breathed his name against his shoulder, after trying to bury himself deeper and deeper within her, after he had witnessed her shake with her own orgasm which was such an intense sight it sent him over the edge as well, after holding her tightly to his body and breathing heavily, completely in sync with her. Perhaps he would regret then.

But for now, he decided that today his clouds had a distinct silver lining to them.

A/N: Good? Bad? Indifferent? Worthy of a sequel? Should I write another Blaise/Hermione soon? Please review!

If you like this pairing, there's also Glimmer of Hope, accessible from my profile. It is much more innocent, much sweeter than this one.

Anna Scathach