Avoiding something? What? No! Whatever gave you that idea?

I deny it all.

This Way Home
By Rurouni Star

"...all dead," she finished bleakly, glancing down at the polished wooden floor. "He's not confining it to England anymore. We can be sure of that now."

There was a long, unhappy pause while the gathered Ministry officials absorbed this information. Hermione pressed her lips together, trying not to let the leaden weight in her chest grow any thicker. She focused, instead, on the fine, dark stain on the floor – on the lines that ran from plank to plank, nearly unbroken but for the occasional fine seam at the edges. Of course. Yes, they would have spelled this out of a single tree, most likely. Keep thinking, always thinking about things, that way you don't have to think about what they're going to ask you to do next...

"There's an English survivor, isn't there?" said one of the officials. Charles something. They were always nice, bland, whole-heartedly English names. "Has anyone told him?"

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment. Just a moment. Keep thinking, she told herself. About the haunted face Lupin had worn during his report, his descriptions of fire-twisted bodies and collapsed trees, and ashes, blowing and blowing in the wind...

Oh, god, she told herself, forcing her eyes open and trying to keep the tears back. Stop thinking.

"No," she said. "Not as far as I know, no. The Order just received the information this morning."

The silence brooded. She prayed, for a moment, that they weren't going to ask it of her. That they might be good enough to give it to an impersonal Ministry official with a little white envelope instead. Someone who wouldn't have to empathize, who could just stand there for a single uncomfortable moment before leaving.

No. They were going to ask. They never took responsibility these days unless it was absolutely necessary.

"We believe, upon consultation." A pause. A few murmurs. Yes. "We believe, upon consultation, that it might be best for one of your Order to deliver the news. That way, any details on the matter can be forthcoming, if asked for."

Hermione pressed her lips together, and tried to hold in her heart.

"...yes," she agreed finally, turning away from the impromptu council of men in their tightly pressed robes and shining little Ministry pins. "Yes, that might be best." Her legs were shaking.

Somehow, when she went out the door, she managed not to collapse.

0-0-0-0-0

Sunday evening, at the door, small and elegant, warded at the edges; entrance to a small, comfortable flat - there was a pause. It was the longest pause of her life.

She hadn't brought an envelope. She'd thought about it, very seriously – about writing an impersonal little note and sliding it under the door. But that was running away, it was cowardly, and for some reason she couldn't quite say, she was punishing herself by knocking on the door instead. She would be there to see his face when she said the words. She had never liked him, not at all, but... she was going to tear herself up on his behalf.

"I must be a masochist," she whispered.

Hermione closed her eyes and knocked on Blaise Zabini's door.

Silence. She hoped – no, she prayed – that no one would be home. That this could be put off, and she could go find an envelope somewhere to slip under the door. What would it matter that he'd read the news on a cold, impersonal slip of paper instead of hearing it from a living, breathing, empathizing person? She didn't have to know. She could do it all the same, and forget about it forcibly, and then later, she could convince herself it was the better choice all along.

No. Yes. It was too late. God, it was too late, and her legs were shaking again, and her eyes were hot and uncomfortable.

She knocked again. Forced it from herself, like a disease, like something that needed to be bled out. The next knock was harder, firmer, and just a little more hysterical. I hate them, she thought. I hate them for doing this to me, for giving the choice to me-

The door opened. Someone grabbed her wrist, to still her hand.

The hand was cold. Freezing, really. It whisked the heat from her skin almost instantly, greedy for her warmth in a way that refused to share equally. When she looked up, she saw immediately a face she had managed to forget for years. Long, slanting eyes looked down at her, cool and aloof, nearly scornful in their observation.

Hermione felt her chest seize up. How? she thought. How do I do this? How do I break that face of his, how do I watch him crumble-

"They sent a mudblood," Zabini muttered. He released her wrist abruptly, though the chill of it remained on her skin. "How apt. They were blood-traitors, after all."

Hermione felt her mouth drop, just an inch – just enough to let her eyes widen in utter shock. "You-" She caught her breath only barely. "About your own-"

Zabini gave her a cool, long look. His flat was dark, she noticed. It nearly hid the terrible wreck of shadows underneath his eyes. "It's called black humor... Granger." That name – it took him a moment, even. "I should think I'm entitled to it, of all people."

Hermione felt her legs go just a little more unsteady. He knew. He already knew, but the nervousness wasn't going away. And the pity, the horrible, gut-wrenching pity that she knew he wouldn't want... that wouldn't go away either. "I... someone told you... already." It was weak, and pathetic, especially considering that she wasn't the one with the best reason to feel sick.

There was a long pause, with his eyes in between the seconds, regarding her with an odd, hopeless darkness. "...the Prophet," he said finally. Then, before she could register the shock, he reached somewhere past his door and picked something up to throw at her. She caught it only by reflex.

Italian Family Devastated! English Survivor Likely Next! read the lurid headline.

He shrugged, and looked away, back toward the darkened inside of his flat. "Someone in your organization is a snitch to the media. Congratulations."

"I-" She found herself speechless. Remembering the note in her mind, the one in the envelope that had never made it under his door- "Oh, god."

Zabini glanced back at her with hollow eyes and raised eyebrows. "Steady on, Granger," he said sardonically. "You look like you're going to faint."

"Oh," she managed weakly. "Oh... I'm so... god, I'm sorry..."

"I know," he said. The corner of his mouth turned up in a tired, insincere smile. "It's a blow, isn't it? The Order isn't full of saints. Frankly, I don't know how I'll sleep tonight."

Hermione felt her stomach wrench again, the nausea building just a little. "You don't... you don't have to..."

"Are you done?" he asked vaguely, glancing past her at the hallway beyond – perhaps for reporters, or more nosy witches. "You can consider your job fulfilled. Go home. Go sit in front of your fire, have some hot chocolate. Have some friends over and chat about how lucky you all are." His eyes lifted to fix on hers. "Please. Do."

Hermione felt her lip tremble. She couldn't help it. The tone of his voice, the blatantly offensive, angry and protective tone... what he must think of her, standing in his doorway, tearing up over something he was sure she'd forget...

"No," she whispered, and the tremble in her lip increased. "No, I... I can't. Go home."

He continued staring at her. Waiting, oddly patient. Oh, she knew that feeling. That thought – I have nowhere I need to be, in any case.

"Home is gone," she told him."Half a year now, I... there's been no home."

She saw it in him – the change. The moment of connection, of understanding and empathizing, in spite of all other things that could get in the way on any other day. His posture declined – just slightly. Just enough. His eyes became more pained.

"I was going to visit," he said softly. "For Christmas. I was going to go home."

Hermione nodded, slowly, not quite able to speak. There was silence, long and protracted. The door stayed open, with his hand near the hinge. It echoed, empty, like a moment of grief.

Zabini raised his eyes again, to hers. An oddly personal gesture. "They're bastards, up at the Ministry," he commented finally. "Sending you to do it."

"Maybe..." She swallowed half-heartedly. "Maybe they just wanted... someone who knew... I..."

He shook his head. The moment ended. "Apologist," he muttered darkly. "Always an apologist." He turned back toward his shadowed doorway, apparently intending to go back inside. But she caught the moment of hesitation – the uncomfortable glance at a place that was no longer safe, no longer loved. Just... a place to live. Or a place to survive, as it might be.

"Come with me."

He turned, openly surprised.

"You shouldn't have to go back in there," she managed, feeling that horrible squeeze on her heart as she thought of it, remembered it herself. "You could come back with me. You could stay – for a while, I mean- and you wouldn't have to-"

Hermione felt her mouth open helplessly. She wasn't entirely sure what had prompted the words – in fact, they'd almost seemed to leap out, with a life and intention all their own. I don't like him, she thought again. I never liked him. He never liked me. A second of... whatever that was... it doesn't change things. It's momentary. It goes away.

She saw him smile, oddly, after a moment. "You're insane," he said. His voice had a hint of that desperate warmth to it this time, though – the kind that leaps out without your knowledge when you're speaking to someone – anyone – of any sort of affability, when you so desperately need the comfort. "Some... some other time, perhaps."

Hermione wanted, suddenly, to have that. To use that tiny crack in his armor, to widen it brutally and force her way inside him – to clear away everything inside, slowly and inevitably, with terrible efficiency, until there was no more bitterness for him to draw on. She wanted to make him smile, at least that torn up smile, but perhaps something better, and she wanted to do it more often.

But he was moving back through the door now, without so much as a goodbye. And the door was closing, slowly and quietly, and all opportunities were gone.

Hermione found herself staring at a closed door; small and elegant, warded at the edges. Her spirits sunk, abruptly, to a place they hadn't been in months. And tightly, she thought to herself: something nearly happened. Something good nearly happened, but it didn't.

It made her hurt. And when she turned away herself, finally, to go back to her own little place in the country... that didn't feel like going home either.

0-0-0-0-0

Monday evening, it was raining. It was appropriate for her spirits, which was good – it meant the melancholia would pass more quickly, after a good indulgence by the sky. She had a fire, and some hot chocolate. But no friends. Friends made things cheerful, and stressful, and she didn't want them there.

When there was a knock at her door, Hermione almost didn't answer. She almost thought at the person beyond: Go away. You had better not be anything good, today. It's not a day for good things.

But she got up, because sometimes there were important things at her door, and she was feeling just unsocial enough that she thought she might be able to turn them away if they weren't important. She set her mug down, and tapped her feet over the cold wood floor, and found her way to the door, tugging her housecoat a little closer around the collar. Her hand closed on the metal knob – pulled, with a gesture soft and vulnerable as she felt.

She wasn't expecting to see him there, by any means. Certainly not dripping wet, dark and bleary, stretched a little too tall and thin in her view as he leaned into the doorframe for support.

Hermione's surprise was genuine. He must have taken it as a bad sign.

"You didn't mean it," Zabini said. He lifted his eyes a bit. "...do you mind if I come in anyway?"

Hermione forgot her surprise. She shook her head, slowly, and pulled the housecoat closer still. "No," she said. "...I meant it. And you can."

And he did.

She dried him out – sat him by the fire, and gave him some of her hot chocolate. But they didn't talk, not for a moment; he filled the room up with his sombre presence, so that there was no room for words.

He hadn't brought anything with him. But she didn't comment when he ended up stretched out on the futon, drowsing slowly and breathing lightly. Instead, she pulled a blanket from the closet in her room, and padded out quietly to tuck it over his chest. It made her feel sadly relieved, just for a moment. As though she were fixing some outward version of her own imperative child. And she knew, as her fingers brushed his hair back, that she really had meant every word.

He could stay. He could stay as long as he wanted. Forever, if that.

"I could make this home," she whispered quietly, as her fingertips lingered slightly, gingerly, near his closed and slanted eyes.

Blaise stirred quietly. He brushed his skin up against her fingers, just enough to find a little more comfort in the gesture. "Yes," he murmured vaguely. "I believe that you could."