Harry Potter does not belong to me (if it did everything would be different).
This is in honor of Mother's Day. And yes, it is a twisted type of celebration.
I would like to thank Pnin for the translation corrections. I feel totally stupid for getting only one out of five translations correct the first go-round. -.-'
Sie Esattamente Come Lui
By BriiDream
"Mr. Zabini, please stay behind." Snape's voice droned over the bustle of the class cleaning up their individual stations. Several of the fifth years glanced curiously at the dark boy in the back of the classroom, but quickly scurried off. Blaise walked up to Snape's desk.
"Yes, Professor?" Blaise asked quietly. He couldn't name a reason why he had been held back. He never meddled with others and his work was as perfect as it was going to get anytime soon.
"Have you communicated with your mother since Christmas holidays," Snape stood up and stared Blaise in the eye. Blaise always suspected that he could read minds; he didn't break eye contact.
"No, sir. I haven't," He replied truthfully.
"Your stepfather has died," Snape informed him quietly. His face was the usual blank whenever he communicated with one of his own. There was no sympathy, pity. He wasn't fooled like the rest of the world. "The headmaster has made arrangements for you to return home."
"Sir," Blaise inhaled sharply. Two of his previous stepfathers had also died while he was at Hogwarts, but he was never summoned home. Then again, his mother had always informed him that she was a widow, minutes before it hit Witch Weekly or The Daily Prophet.
"Your mother has not taken this one's death well," Snape said slowly and carefully. Blaise finally broke eye contact as he looked away. "They believe she needs the comforting of a close one."
"Sir, the O.W.L.'s-"
"Your mother already knows that you will only be given a weekend leave. I don't think much harm will come to your studies within two days. You'll leave by Floo Saturday morning."
The whirling sensation slowed, and Blaise stepped out the Floo into the parlor of his mother's mansion. The parlor was empty. The drapes were pulled over the windows, blocking the sunlight. He dropped his schoolbag on the carpet. A house-elf popped in, grabbed it, and popped out. Blaise walked down the empty halls. It was dark and lonely like death.
"Mama," Blaise said softly as he pushed her bedroom door open. She sat in front of her vanity mirror, her back to him. He slipped into the room, and walked across the lush carpet until he stood behind her.
Blaise finally realized that something had definitely gone awry this time around. His mother stared dazedly into the mirror. Her wavy dark brown hair looked like it hadn't seen a comb in weeks. There were dark circles under her eyes. Her dead, haunted eyes. This was not the mother he remembered, who laughed after killing each and every man that was foolish enough to marry her. He glanced at the half-full glass on the edge of the dresser. There were several empty wine bottles on the floor.
"Mama?"
She stirred this time when he placed his hand on her shoulder. Her eyes lost the glassy look of death and she looked at him through the mirror. She placed her hand over his. "Il mio bambino." (1)
"Si, mama," Blaise let go of her shoulder when her hand moved to the glass of wine. She stared at herself again, barely paying attention the glass she sipped from. She didn't acknowledge him again, so he slipped out of the bedroom.
As Blaise slipped into a steaming bath, he wished he was in Hogwarts. The silence, the gloom-it was like an actual mourning. He feared she might have finally torn her soul into one too many pieces. He didn't want to fix those pieces.
Blaise had spent all of Saturday, studying for his O.W.L.'s. It was quieter than even the library at Hogwarts, and his mother had a large collection of books in their personal library. Most of them, of course, were from her dead husbands.
The next morning was Mother's Day. Blaise had never celebrated the holiday before (mostly because he was at Hogwarts and not in contact with the woman he called Mother). Draco and the girls made a big deal out of buying and sending precious gifts to their mothers. He and Theodore often scoffed at Draco doing such a girly thing as buying gifts. Now, he was home with his mother on Mother's Day.
Blaise ate breakfast in his room after the house-elf informed him that his mother was still in bed. She would likely have a hangover for the rest of the day. He wasn't sure what everyone expected him to do. He was never close to his mother. Her depressed attitude confused him as she had gotten everything she ever wanted-like she always did.
Did she love him?
His hand stopped above the corner of a page. He was laidback in a comfortable chair in the library. The question caught him off guard, and he stared at the fireplace. His mother, capable of love? Blaise scoffed at the notion. She didn't love him, the child she carried in her body for nine full months. What love could have developed from a short, twenty-month relationship?
It was noon when Blaise went into his mother's bedroom. She was sitting at her vanity mirror (he wondered if she had been sitting there since yesterday). He walked over and gagged when the smell of wine hit him. His mother wasn't any better.
"Happy Mother's Day, mama," Blaise said quickly, holding his breath the best he could. He couldn't keep the scorn off his face at how low she had gone. Unfortunately, she wasn't as stoned drunk as he thought.
"Sie esattamente come lui," (2) his mother brought a glass tipsily to her lips. She didn't sip this time; the glass slipped from between her fingers and crashed to the ground. Her words were barely a slur. She was a strong drinker.
"Like who," Blaise inquired, although he nearly kicked himself for acting like a Gryffindor. He should have remained silent, instead of provoking her drunken wrath. He lost one stepfather to that.
"Like your father," she spat, standing up and swirling around to face him. Blaise stepped back as a wall of the alcohol scent attempted to smother him. His mother didn't look exactly sane either-her eyes were red and puffy, the bags beneath even more noticeable. She wasn't a beauty now. "Your scorn, your contempt! Exactly like his! You are the reminder of what he did to me. How he destroyed my life!"
The mirror shattered behind her. Blaise took several steps back this time. He didn't say anything; he hoped her wrath would burn out before she decided to lash at him. He could feel the magical vibes coming off of her. She had finally lost it.
"Avrei potuto avere una figlia dolce e bella," (3) she moaned. "A husband who loved me! My life could be great now! Instead I was branded, destroyed beyond recognition. And you were the finality of his curse…you are the reason I will never let go!"
Blaise closed his eyes for just a brief second. He already knew this story. One of his stepfathers when he was a child thought it would be funny to tell Blaise that he was a bastard. How his father had forced himself onto his mother. That one died such a brutal death. Blaise had enjoyed it; he refused to believe that man's drunken lies.
"Every single one of them," his mother continued in her rant, "reminds me of him! Every time I look at you, I see him. He's dead, but he made certain I would never forget him! He cursed me! My hands are stained in blood because of him!"
She collapsed upon the ground. Inhuman wails wracked her body and echoed through the house. Blaise stared at her. This was what murder did to its perpetrators. It made them into soulless creatures beyond healing. Blaise turned to leave, but hesitated at the door.
(4) "Esci! Esci da casa mia!" His mother screamed. Blaise heard things shattering and shredding behind him. He quickly left the room.
He didn't think. He had long ago trained his body to autopilot itself. He grabbed his schoolbag and his wand. He didn't remember going down the hall to the parlor or throwing Floo powder into the fireplace. All he heard were the screams-hers, past and present; and theirs, every single man she killed. The fire burned green. He stepped into it and stated Professor Snape's private quarters. He didn't expect it to work. All of the fireplaces were closed until a designated time. The Headmaster had told him to return after three in the afternoon today.
He stumbled into Professor Snape's sitting room. He caught himself, just in time as well. He looked up at Professor Snape. The older man made no notice of his early arrival. He waved his hand in dismissal. Blaise, tired, headed for the door.
"Your mother?"
Blaise stared at the door handle. He then replied quietly, "Nessuno la puo salvare ora." (5)
Blaise dropped into his bed. He buried his face into his pillow. He wondered how long it would take her to get over this minor fit. By the end of the summer, he decided. He turned and looked over at Theodore Nott, studying in the corner.
"Mother's Day is a bloody hell."
"What are you doing this summer?" Theodore looked up from his textbook. A brief smile flitted across his thin facial features.
"Escaping hell."
These are the translations of the Italian phrases of above (although most are easy to guess, and the last wasn't meant for Snape to understand):
(1) My baby
(2) You're exactly like him.
(3) A sweet, beautiful daughter
(4) Get out! Get out of my house!
(5) Nobody can save her now.
I hope this was good. Please review to let me know your thoughts or simply to correct one of my translations.
Happy Mother's Day!