Originally written for Interhouse Fest (2016). The original prompt was: He's either her guard or her interrogator during the war at the Malfoy's house. He never expected to like her this much. (Luna/any male Death Eater [not a Malfoy])
Thanks to my beta Raistlin for all the help. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
Warnings for torture, violence, abuse and mentions of sexual assault
He moves slowly among the trees, choosing his path with care. The light of the full moon does not reach the forest floor, but he keeps his wand unlit and ready at his side. All around him there are sounds of crunched leaves and broken branches, muttered curses and shouted challenges. Other men with masks like his flash in and out of existence, grotesque shadows come to life with each jinx and hex.
Blaise recognises their urgency, but he does not hurry. The wards have gone up. Whoever was caught inside will remain inside, and the rest is long gone.
He walks out of the tree line, leaving the commotion behind. Away from the canopies, the full moon floods the landscape with a soft glow that bounces off the Black Lake.
The witch is sitting on a boulder by the water, her blond hair the only spot of colour in a world of dark blacks and soft blues. She's not trying to hide, and Blaise does not try to conceal his approach.
"Stopped for a rest, Lovegood?"
Her fingers tighten around what's left of her wand, but she smiles up at him — a soft, sad, self-defeated smile.
"Professor Trelawney once saw that I was going to die under a big oak tree." There's blood in the corner of her mouth, and her right leg rests at an unnatural angle. "But I think I'd much rather die out here. It's so very pretty."
He crouches in front of her, just out of reach. "I'm not going to kill you."
"Because there's no oak tree? That's hardly an impediment. Darjeeling tea is notoriously unreliable."
Putting his wand away — hers is now little more than kindle — he runs his hands along her leg, and Luna stifles a scream when his hand finds the bone sticking out just below the knee.
"Dead witches tell no tales," he says, willing his magic to stitch the leg back together.
An elaborate death mask hides his features, but he's not surprised that she recognises him. "I'm not a canary, Blaise," she says, her words strained. "You can't make me sing." She can't stop a yelp when the bone snaps back into place.
"You'd be surprised."
Getting up, he holds out a hand to help her do likewise. She hesitates for a moment and then takes it. He shifts his body weight just slightly to compensate and only just sees the glare of the moon on the blade of the dagger before she lunges at him, aiming for his torso.
Luna has surprise and fear on her side, but Blaise is both faster and more experienced at avoiding pain than she is at inflicting it. Without letting go of her hand, he spins her in place, grabbing her other wrist and trapping her against him. Luna struggles to get free, but he's taller and stronger than she is, and he doesn't let up.
"What was that supposed to accomplish?" He increases the pressure on her wrist. "Drop it."
She doesn't and he can't fault her for it. In her position, he wouldn't either. But they find themselves in somewhat of an impasse. She can't move and he won't. His wand is in his pocket, and both his hands are currently busy restraining the little fool who just tried to stab him.
Understanding the futility of the status quo with that Ravenclaw cunning that still hadn't stopped her trying to attack a Death Eater with something as pedestrian as a knife, Luna lets her legs collapse under her and the sudden dead weight almost throws him off balance. Almost. He catches himself and her in time, and throws her down on the ground with a little more spite than is merited, and a little less effectiveness than he would have liked. The witch rolls and scrambles to her feet, keeping the offending knife pointed at him.
"You're a smart girl, Luna." He draws his wand with slow, deliberate movements. "How do you think this is going to end?"
"Maybe you'll kill me." She tilts her head, pensively. "Maybe you'll let me go."
"Maybe the moon will fall out of the sky." Luna jumps at the sound of the man's voice and she whirls in place, her fingers bone white as they coil tighter around her poor excuse for a weapon. "Maybe Potter will be king. Maybe riches will grow on trees." There are two of them — hooded fiends that move with the careless arrogance of predators.
Luna backs away from them, edging closer to him.
The devil you know.
"Bit of tail giving you lip, Zabini?" Avery is the bigger of the two. Old money and an even older name. A family tree that has inbred itself out of all usefulness.
"Nothing I can't handle."
Luna shrieks as the dagger turns into a snake, and shakes it off with frantic movements, to the hilarity of the masked men.
Avery circles the witch, eyeing her with hungry eyes that shine behind the grotesque mask. "You caught a pretty little thing." She flinches when he touches her face, but there's nowhere for her to hide, nowhere to run. "You shouldn't be greedy and keep her all to yourself."
There's two of them and just one of him, but the likes of Avery and Goyle do not worry Blaise. The day a Zabini cannot stand up to the rabble may yet come, but not this night.
"Imperio," he says with a flick of his wand. Luna's shoulders relax and she stands up straighter, no longer shying away from Avery. "Lovegood, come here. Finders, keepers, gentlemen."
There's a soft smile on her lips, her expression relaxed and content. Her Imperiused self resembles her actual self — cheerful and distracted, not a care in the world.
"You won't always have Bellatrix's protection, boy." Goyle Sr is much like his son — short and stout, and fond of idle threats. "Maybe then you'll learn to respect your elders."
His elders, but not his betters — though asking either of them to make that distinction might be stretching their limited cognitive abilities too far.
"A chilling prospect, I'm sure." He wraps an arm around Luna's waist and puts his wand away. "Send any other prisoners to Malfoy Manor." Without giving the men time to reply, he touches the Portkey inside his pocket.
He drops his cloak on the house-elf without stopping, Luna trailing behind him like a ghost.
"Is Draco back?"
The small creature hops next to him, trying to keep up. "No, master Zabini. And mistress Bella sent word not to expect her until next week."
"Tell Draco to come find me when he gets in."
"Yes, master."
The halfbreed disappears with a pop.
The Manor is quiet these days, with Voldemort holding court elsewhere and Bellatrix busy up and down the country. It suits him. As long as he keeps providing them with enough intelligence to keep them happy, they'll leave him alone to do as he pleases without asking questions. It's a long enough leash that he doesn't mind the collar around his neck.
Paintings and tapestries give way to bare walls as they descend deeper into the lower levels of the Manor. They walk down a spiral staircase, past muffled moans behind heavy wooden doors — broken minds and shattered bodies that still linger on. Some of them are his handiwork. Some of them are Bellatrix's. Narcissa calls them the lucky ones — the ones deemed useful enough that they're kept alive even after they've spilt all their secrets. Blaise thinks the opposite is true.
The bottom landing is several feet below the surface, almost as deep as the Manor is high. He can feel the soft humming of his wards before he reaches the single door.
The fire flares up in the huge stone fireplace when they walk in, and the lamps come to life along the walls. He drops his mask and gloves on the massive desk by the far wall and turns to Luna, who has stopped next to the stone table that takes up most of the centre of the room.
She doesn't move as he walks up to her, doesn't flinch when he tilts her face up. The war hasn't been kind to any of them, not even to the girl who never had the sense to see the bad in anything. There are dark shadows under her eyes, and her face looks gaunt in the wavering light.
"Hop on the table," he says, and she does — the perfect puppet on a string. "Lie down." Enchanted ropes slither up the sides of the platform and coil themselves around the witch's wrists and ankles, and around her waist.
Avery would leave her Imperiused, a biddable doll who would spread her legs or get down on her knees at a single word, but Blaise has no use for an animated corpse, and not just because she can't tell him what he wants to know under the spell.
"Finite Incantatem."