Authors' Note: This fic is not Adrianne Zabini centric. It's a B/G story. Slytherins Abound. Only the plot belongs to me.
"Better Together"
Adrianne Zabini was a woman of balance and poise. She liked to think she kept enough pieces on the board for everything to work out exactly according to plan. She'd worked hard for years to cultivate the perfect mobile consisting of government officials (mostly blackmailed into associating with her), high society wizards (Death Eaters, Purists, and Blood traitors as well), Unspeakables (probably sent by the ministry to keep tabs on her), and even one or two key members of the Wizengamot (most of whom were in debt to her and probably feared for their lives). All of this made it that much easier to get away with her little charade.
That last idiot, Zabini - her lip curled at the very thought of the name, had given her a son, and with him, the perfect sympathy chip. But now, some three years after his fathers death, Blaise was no longer garnering the reaction she so enjoyed. Being a widow, and the mother of an infant child was one thing, but being the mother of a 4 year old boy who'd just been accepted to a prestigious wizarding school was quite another. Especially when you spent your nights gallivanting at wizarding parties, hob-knobbing with the upper crust, and seeking out the next Mr.-Unfortunately-Close-To-Coming-To-An-Untimely-Death. The balance was tipping.
Blaise was four years old now, bored out of his mind, and left to his own devices. It'd probably been decades since this wing of Zabini Manor had received visitors but the house elves hadn't let that stop them cleaning it, or dusting for that matter. Yet, suddenly, coming up here didn't seem like the brightest idea he'd ever had. He glanced back at his only friend, Samuel, the washer-woman's five year-old son, and smiled nervously.
"Maybe we should go back?" he mumbled, fidgeting as his palms started to sweat. 'Never fidget!' he flinched, his mother's stern voice sounding in his mind. She told him over and over, often with dire consequences.
The older boy smiled at him slyly, and belatedly Blaise saw the flaw in letting people know you were scared. If they knew you were scared you were easier to manipulate.
"Oh, come on Blaisey-poo," Sam crooned maliciously, using his mother's hated nickname for him, "We'll miss out on all the action if we go back now. My Gaffer says that the Oubliette entrance is down this way. We'll never find it if you chicken out now."
Blaise felt his resistance starting to crumble, and he shrugged, trying desperately to hide his hurt pride.
"I'm not a bloody chicken!" he murmured under his breath as he followed the taller boy down an offshoot passage. Sam carried on, oblivious, and uncaring.
All the sudden Blaise felt awfully suspicious. Sam wasn't questing about, opening doors at random, or poking his head behind tapestries and paintings, exploring like he usually did when they snuck away. This time he was walking ahead, confident in the way they were going, and not worried about getting lost either. Something was terribly wrong.
They stopped at a blank wall that looked much like any other, and Blaise's suspicions grew. Sam was looking down at him expectantly.
"Well," he said smugly, "Ladies first."
Sam went to push, but Blaise was smaller, and faster. He ducked, spun around, shoved the other boy with all his might, and took off like a shot, spurred on by the echoing sound of the other boys scream.
Lydia Littlewell and his mother found him some time later scrunched inside an ornate liquor cabinet in the formal drawing room. Neither woman looked particularly pleased.
"What've you done with my boy, you little brat!" Ms. Littlewell screeched, dragging him roughly from his hiding place. Adrianne Zabini was giving him a speculative look, and a slightly surprised one at that. She smiled calmly, but the glint in her eye was more than warning enough.
"Blaise. Where is Samuel Littlewell?" she asked.
He didn't answer, refusing to look at either of them.
"Tell me." his mother's voice was bland, but the words were like white hot metal in his ears. They promised retribution, swift and harsh consequences, and he wondered at the moment if she'd send him to Azkaban. He wondered if he'd prefer it to facing her alone, later.
"Blaise," she started again, but his frightened yell cut her off.
"He's Dead!" he screamed, "he's dead, Please!"
Lydia Littlewell went ashen. A flicker of uncommon emotion flashed across his mother's face. Whether it was satisfaction, or annoyance he couldn't tell. The only thing he did know was that the death hadn't surprised her. And his lonely world had just gotten one boy less populated.
Blaise awoke with a yell as he sat up in bed. His bed linens were on the floor, and his wand was gripped tightly in his hand. Draco was leaning against the door frame wand tip lit and hair tousled. He moved into the room, and perched precariously on the end table next to the bed.
"Nightmare," he stated sleepily. Blaise caught himself mid-nod as a sweep of irritation gripped him.
"If you knew, why didn't you wake me?" he growled, tossing an errant pillow aside as he climbed out of bed. Draco shrugged; one black eye had definitely been enough warning. He was never waking Zabini again.
Blaise flung the nearest window open and stuck his head out, breathing in the cool early morning air. It had rained tonight, and he felt himself relaxing as the trees nearby glistened with it. Adrianne Zabini had always had an unreasoning fear of rainstorms, especially those involving lightening. He shook himself lightly. She was gone now. Long dead and buried. It was only a dream.
Draco had dozed off where he leaned, propped up by the end table, legs stretched out in front of him, arms folded across his chest, wand dangling limply from his fingers. Blaise tapped him on the shoulder.
"It's four in the morning, Drake. Go back to bed. Work's not for another couple hours." Draco shrugged.
"Where are you going?" he asked as he sauntered toward the door.
"Flying," Blaise tossed over his shoulder as he tied his muggle trainers, and grabbed his broom. One disillusionment charm later he was soaring over the rain-washed rooftops of Britain, the last vestiges of his dream long gone.
When he got back, Draco had left the kettle on for him, and was making great use of the shower from the sounds of it. He was singing, which in and of itself was a very odd thing, but Blaise ignored it. He set the toaster to doing what it did best, and poured himself a cup of tea, collapsing into a nearby chair tiredly.
Draco came in, toweling his hair dry with one hand, slacks on, and shirt in the other hand. He tossed it over a handy chair, and poured himself a cup of tea, ignoring the appraising look his flat-mate was giving him.
"You know, Gin's going to be there today." Draco mumbled around the lip of his mug. Blaise deign not to comment.
"Isn't it going to be a little awkward? You haven't seen her in years. Not since -" Blaise cut him off.
"It doesn't matter. She's with Potter now isn't she? And it's only one meeting." Blaise said as he sauntered out, and undoubtedly toward the shower. Draco nabbed his toast from the toaster, and took a large bite, reaching for the jam jar.
"I have my doubts about that. All of it." Draco said as he watched Blaise's retreating form. He grabbed his shirt threw it on, and summoned his cloak with a careless spell, still munching on Blaise's toast. It was going to be an interesting day.
Ginny arrived at the Ministry running ten minutes late, with a cup of coffee firmly in her grip, and her wand pointed threateningly in front of her at anyone dumb enough to get in her way. There was a sheaf of papers gripped haphazardly under one arm, and a deadly look on her face. Ginevera Weasley was one pissed off witch.
Luna Lovegood, Editor in Chief of the Quibbler gossip rag had called upon her fire early that morning with word that Blaise Zabini, owner of practically half of Wizarding Britain, India, and the better parts of France, and Italy was going to be in today's meeting and press conference about Wizarding finance and new laws concerning international commerce. Blaise Bloody Buggering Zabini.
She'd thrown a curse at Lovegood, and rolled over intent on falling back asleep when the name sunk in. By the time she bolted out from under her covers to yell plaintively at the fire, Luna was already gone, and there was no possible way Ginny was going back to sleep.
She flung her legs over the side of the bed, found her slippers, and heaved herself up, moving toward the kettle, and her chipped mug with the vicious intent of having something hot to calm her, and possibly wake her from this horrible dream, regardless of how much hurt a scalded tongue would be later.
There was no reason for him to come walking back into her life after years and years, and damned if Luna hadn't completely ruined her morning. She took a gulp of tea, then another, draining the cup, and pouring another, not caring about the lack of sugar, or the scalding heat of the beverage sliding along her tongue. In such a state it wasn't a wonder that she hadn't realized she was late, not even that it was past time for her to be up, as her alarm clock was nigh un-hearable from the kitchen. Half an hour and one hasty shower later she was apparating to work, making a slight detour to Perk's for coffee before she found herself rushing toward her office cubicle. It was going to be one hell of a day, she thought to herself as she waved hastily at Perry Perkins, and apparated away.
The P.R. office was thronging with activity, and hushed gossip no doubt, but through the hustle and bustle no one quite dared notice the red-head, eyes blazing, who hurried past grumbling to herself around her take-away cup of morning joe. No one until Colin Creevey, who was the most annoying sort of cheery morning person was running toward her, photos clutched in one hand, and a P.P (1) clutched in the other.
She flung a hasty curse his way - which he dodged expertly - and kept walking, hoping against hope that he'd get the message. He didn't.
"Gin, we've got some stuff to review before the meeting, and the Minister sent over these pictures for approval for the new article in the Prophet. He say's you're to pick the best ones." He called at her retreating back.
She turned around. The lousy bugger was still coming, and she wondered if summoning a large file cabinet would even slow him down. Probably not, after all, he was like a particularly pea-brained dog. He just kept coming, and wagging his tail, waiting for you to take the stick or whatever else it was he'd fetched for you no matter how unwanted or slimy.
"Gin, the Minister won't be at the press conference, he's sent Parkinson and McMillan over to give his statement. And, did you hear? Blaise Zabini's coming!"
Colin never saw the filing cabinet coming, and even if he had, everyone doubted it would have done any good. A mass flinch made a wave around the room as poor Colin was steamrolled by the runaway office furnishing. Gin Weasley was in one hell of a snit this morning.
Finally reaching her cubicle she place a silencing spell on it, and a rebounding charm on the door, hoping to keep most of the less determined people at bay. She sighed quietly into the blessed silence, and put her head in her hands.
Blaise Zabini. What the hell was she going to do now?
1. P.P. - Portable Panorama - A 2D scale viewing screen that allows live feeds, and indeed recordings to be shown on it. Similar to a muggle LCD Television.