A/N: This was written for a challenge on Fawkes' Ashes, a fabulous forum devoted to Harry Potter and all things to do with it.

The challenge was to write a fic centering on Blaise Zabini. Other than that, it was pretty open. My entry turned out...well...I'm still recovering from this fic, actually (as is Blaise). Do tell me your thoughts.

Blaise stared at the parchment.

The parchment stared back at Blaise.

Blaise sighed.

The parchment glared.

Blaise narrowed his eyes. Then, finally, he lifted his hand, picked up his quill, dipped it ceremoniously in the ink, and carefully wiped off any stray drops. Leaning forward, he lightly touched the quill to the paper, and wrote:

Blaise Zabini.

Grinning smugly at the parchment, he sat back in his seat and wiped the excess ink off his quill, using the end of his sleeve, and placed the quill carefully beside the parchment. After a few seconds, his hand darted back to the table to nudge the quill into a perfectly parallel position with the edge of the parchment.

Blaise stared at the parchment.

In a quick movement, he flipped open his Transfigurations notes and ran his finger neatly down the page until it reached today's homework assignment. He tapped the assignment once, twice, then sat back in his seat again.

The parchment stared at Blaise.

Suddenly, Blaise leaned forward once again, pulled the parchment from the table, and tore a neat strip off the top, effectively removing his name. Then he once more dipped his quill into the ink, wiped off the extra droplets, and touched the quill to the parchment. He wrote:

Blaise Balthazar Zabini.

This warranted another smug smile as he sat back, and once again performed the ritual with his quill.

For a few long moments, Blaise went into another silent standoff with the parchment. His smug smile slowly drooped.

"Sod it," snarled Blaise at last, seizing the parchment and rolling it up. He began to stuff the parchment into his bag, dislodging several other scraps of the thick paper. Gathering these up, he glanced through their contents…here was a doodle of McGonagall's head exploding, there was the (supposed) password to the Ravenclaw common room—now, if only Blaise could find the common room (Nah. Too much effort)—and—what was this? Blaise flipped the slip of parchment over, and stared again.

Don't forget, it read. Career Advisory Meeting, it read. Professor Snape, it read. It said that he had to be there at…

Blaise checked the time on the parchment against the library timepiece.

…ten minutes ago.

Picking up his bag carelessly, Blaise strolled unconcernedly out of the library. On the way to Professor Snape's office, when Blaise bent to take a drink from a water fountain, his never-to-be-finished Transfiguration homework fell from his still-open bag to the floor before the boys' lavatory. Ten minutes later, just as Snape was asking Blaise if he had any ideals, Peeves the Poltergeist, having just come from knocking the heads of two "ickle firsties" into a pot of manure in the greenhouse, passed by the boys' lavatory, snatching up Blaise's homework as he went. When he read the three words on the parchment, gleeful cackling began to echo after him down the hallway.

Professor Snape was not a man easily downtrodden, having been put down so many times before. However, there were special cases, special circumstances in which he found himself quite…depressed. Not that he ever showed these emotions on the surface. And it had to be a truly special circumstance: death of a close friend (not that he had many), the triumph of the Dark Lord (not about to happen if Snape could help it), and—

Fifth Year Career Advisory Meetings.

It was doubtful that any of the other Heads of House had such trouble advising their students; for it was true that Slytherin House was the most easily overtaken by darker feelings. It was not often you met with a Hufflepuff, for instance, that could truly plummet to the depths of dejection that a Slytherin could.

It was bad enough that he had to help teenagers decide their future careers (teenagers? Caring about the future? Hah!), but it was even worse that he had to help teenagers eager to join the forces of darkness decide their future careers. Especially since, for most of them, their careers had been decided for them. These pre-determined careers generally involved marrying into a good family and becoming a Death Eater.

This was why Snape was almost always depressed at That Time Of Year.

This was why Snape was on edge when his last interviewee, Blaise Zabini, kept him waiting for fifteen minutes.

This was why—

Knock, knock.

Shifting Zabini's file once again on his desk, the teacher said, coolly, "Enter."

The boy seemed almost bored as he meandered slowly into the office, finally plopping himself down in the seat before the desk.

"Would you care to explain your tardiness, Mr. Zabini?" queried Snape.

"Not particularly," said Blaise, pushing some of his thick, brown hair out of his face and staring intently at the wall behind his professor.

"I would like you to explain your tardiness, Mr. Zabini," said Snape, in no mood to play games.

Blaise shrugged. "Forgot. 'Till the last minute. Sorry," he added, half-heartedly.

"Right," said Snape dangerously. Lifting the cover of Blaise's file, he peered over the documents again—he'd already spent twenty minutes reviewing this information. "What are you interested in doing with your life, Mr. Zabini?"

"Dunno."

"You don't know?" asked Snape incredulously. At least the other students had come up with some decent cover-ups. Malfoy, for instance, claimed to want to be a MediWizard. The Wonder Twins—excuse the mistake, Crabbe and Goyle—both maintained, for some odd reason, that they wanted to test brooms at Nimbus Headquarters. Snape had found no tactful way through these excuses to question the children's real motives—surely Zabini wouldn't be so stupid as to—

"Nope. No idea. I was hoping you had some suggestions. Professor."

"Hmm," the professor remarked after a moment. He pretended, again, to look over Zabini's transcripts. "Well. Your marks are…shall we say…not up to snuff. You seem to be doing relatively well in Potions, however."

"Yeah."

"Perhaps you would like to be a Potions Researcher?"

"Sure. That sounds good. I'll do that."

Oh, this was just too much. The boy hadn't even had the decency to come prepared, and now he couldn't even act interested in his supposed career? "What do you really want to do with your life, Zabini?" Snape pressed.

"Dunno."

"For Merlin's sake, boy!" snapped the teacher, before he could help himself.

At long last, Blaise focused his gaze on his Head of House, confused. "Sir?"

For a long moment, Snape stared down his nose at the boy, their eyes locked. Then he made a decision. "What are you really interested in, Blaise?" He didn't even notice that he'd called the boy by his first name. "What are your hobbies?"

Blaise, shocked out of his stupor, answered truthfully. "I don't have any, sir. Hobbies, I mean. Interests."

"Come now, boy, everyone has interests," hissed the teacher.

"I don't," Blaise maintained. "I'm just…normal."

"Normal?" questioned Snape, and something in him snapped. "Does that mean you're just going to follow in whatever your classmates decide to do?"

Shrugging, Blaise said, "I guess so."

Again, Snape stared down his nose at the boy. Pale skin, almost untouched by the sun, brown hair, brown eyes, average face—he was almost inclined to agree with his student, that Blaise was 'normal.' Snape said intensely, "So does that mean that if your classmates decide to become Death Eaters," Blaise's expression narrowed sharply at the words, "that you'll become a Death Eater, too?"

Something in Snape's eyes told Blaise to be truthful, once again. "Yes."

"Yes," said Snape, considering, as if he'd never heard the word before. "Yes. Do you have any ideals, Blaise?" he asked suddenly.

"What?"

"Ideals. Do you have any strongly-held personal beliefs?"

Snape's gaze was getting a bit too intense for Blaise. He shrunk a little in his seat, shrugging. "I dunno."

"You said you're 'normal,'" Snape said, pushing his seat away from the desk and standing up, beginning to pace, hands clasped behind his back. "Does that mean that there's nothing different about you, Blaise? That you fit in with the crowd?"

"No."

"No? What does it mean?"

"It means that no one ever notices me."

"Don't they?" Snape shot him a curious glance. "Why not?"

"Like I said, sir. I'm normal."

"Normal like how?"

"Like—standard. I fade into the background." Blaise disappeared into his thoughts for a second, really putting some effort into this. "Did you know, I've never been made fun of, sir? No one's ever picked me out of a crowd and said, 'Look at that kid! He's weird.'"

"One would think," said Snape, "that it would be a good thing, not to be picked on."

"Well, yeah, but—I've never done anything outstanding, is what I mean, good or bad, and it's easier to do something bad than to do something good, see what I mean?"

The professor thought of Neville Longbottom. "Yes, I see."

"So…I'm average," finished Blaise lamely.

"So you're following the crowd."

"Yes."

Snape's eyes hardened suddenly, and he stopped his pacing. "Well, what if someone expected better than average, Blaise? What if I told you that I expected better?"

"I don't think I could do any better, sir," said Blaise honestly.

"Really?" asked Snape, almost lightly. "You don't think that you could try handing in some homework for a change?"

"Well…I guess…"

"Putting in some real work, would that be possible?"

"Well…"

"Don't you parents expect better, Blaise?"

"Not really…they expect better from my brother, maybe…"

"What are you interested in, Blaise?" asked Snape again.

"Nothing. There's really nothing special about me, sir."

"Yes, there is, Blaise, blast it!" exploded Snape, slamming the tip of a single finger onto his desk. "You're just not trying hard enough! You're not thinking hard enough! You don't have to be like everyone else, don't you understand?! You can be different! I'm not losing another one!"

Blaise jumped at the force of the professor's outburst, and by the end of it he had the idea that his teacher was no longer speaking simply about Blaise's normality. "W-what should I think about, Professor?"

"Where are you going to be when you graduate?" shot off Snape, beginning to pace again.

"Here, sir."

"You know what I meant, child. Don't be a smartarse!"

"Dunno, sir," amended Blaise.

"Picture it. When everyone throws their hats in the air, at the end of the ceremony, what bright future are you going to be picturing in your mind?"

Blaise concentrated hard. Finally, he said, "I don't…know, sir."

"DAMMIT, boy!" Snape exploded again. "There's got to be something special about you—and, by Merlin, before the end of this interview, we are going to dig it out!"

Blaise wondered vaguely if there was a silencing charm over the office, or if anyone wandering by could hear the teacher shouting.

"Now," said Snape, putting a palm down on his desk, "let's get right down to it. Do you want to be a Death Eater?"

"S—sir?" How could Blaise possibly answer honestly, here?

"Everything said now, Blaise, will stay inside this room. Do you want to be a Death Eater?"

"Y—yes, sir."

"So you want to serve the Dark Lord?" asked Snape intensely, pacing faster this time.

"Y—yes, sir."

"You want him to rule Wizarding Britain? Is that a fact?"

"I g—guess, sir."

"You guess? Do you want to kill people, Blaise?"

"S—sir?"

"Do you want to kill Muggles and Muggle-borns?"

"I—I—"

"Do you want to say the killing curse and mean it?! Do you want to torture innocent people to death simply because of their birthright?! Do you want to take the Dark Mark and wear it proudly and feel it burn when the Dark Lord calls you?!"

"I—"

"Would you give your life for the Dark Lord, Blaise?!"

"What?!"

"That's what he'll ask of you!" Snape was truly yelling, now, at the top of his voice, arms clasped so tightly behind his back that his knuckles were turning white. "Are you willing to make that sacrifice?! You told me you didn't have your own beliefs, Blaise! Are you willing to die for another's?! Are you going to lay down your life for something you simply went along with?!" Snape was coming out from behind his desk now, approaching Blaise where he sat on his chair. "Are you ready to do that?! Because I can tell you, that when you're killed, no one is going to mourn, Blaise!" Snape was inches from Blaise's face, now, and he was oddly still, extraordinarily fervent. "Your Death Eater friends won't CARE, BLAISE! WILL YOU LAY DOWN YOUR LIFE FOR THE DARK LORD, BLAISE?!"

"NO!" cried Blaise, near tears.

"Good," said Snape, eerily quiet again. Hands still clasped behind his back, he retreated behind his desk once more, sitting himself silently in his seat, and folding his hands primly on the desk in front of him. Blaise sat, shocked, and stared at him. Then, as if nothing had happened, Snape lifted the corner of Blaise's folder again, peering down at the grades within. "What are your interests, Blaise?"

"I s—suppose th—that I'm int—int'rested in being i—i—int'resting, sir," stuttered Blaise, still recovering.

Professor Snape made a note of this, calmly. "Anything else?" he glanced up from the parchment.

"Er—I—sir—that was—"

"Are you any good at writing things down?"

"Erm—not really…"

"Are you at all interested in music?"

"Listening to it?"

"Playing it."

"Er…"

"Can you sing, at all?"

This gave Blaise pause. He was calming down, now. "My brother always said I had a fine tenor, sir."

"Fine, fine," said Snape, and made a note of this, as well. "Is there any subject you are particularly interested in?"

"I—I really rather like Charms, sir," said Blaise, and realized that this was true. Charms had always come a bit more easily to him than anything else, so he used them more often, did the homework more often (more often than never was easy to manage).

Snape glanced up at him, with a tiny twitch at the corners of his lips. "Quite," he said, and made a note of this, too. "Well, then," he said, putting down his quill. "I suggest that you find a way to make yourself famous."

Finding no words, Blaise just looked utterly confused.

The corners of Snape's lips quirked again. "Join a rock band. Invent a charm. Write an astonishing book. Something to get yourself in the limelight. Once you're noticed, people will start to form opinions about you. I assure you that you will no longer feel 'normal.' After all, everyone is a critic."

Ten minutes later, Blaise slipped into the Slytherin common room, feeling a bit shell-shocked and clutching the name and address of a recommended singing teacher in Hogsmeade. Delicately, as if his head might explode if he jostled it, he sat down in one of the exquisitely decorated sofas, and set his bag down at his feet. Slowly, his eyes went from the wall in front of him to the name of the teacher, to the wall in front of him, to the name of the teacher, and so on. After a few minutes, one of the third-years who always sat in the corner, nudged by her friends, came cautiously over and sat beside him.

"We heard something," she said.

"Hmm?" asked Blaise, eyes still going from the wall to the paper and back.

"We heard something about you," she elaborated.

"You did?"

"Is it true?"

"Don't know what it is, yet."

"Is your middle name 'Balthazar'?"

"Huh? Oh. Yes."

"HA!" said the girl. "I didn't believe it," she giggled. "That is the dumbest middle name I've ever heard!" Laughing senselessly, she went quickly back to her friends, "It's true!" They all started laughing as well.

"Balthazar?"

"That's so weird!"

"How embarrassing!" they chorused, laughing.

Haltingly, Blaise tore his attention away from the parchment in his hands, and looked at the group of girls out of the corner of his eyes. A grin slowly grew across his face.

He'd been made fun of.

Well. It was a start.

THE END