Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Every class has its invisible person. They aren't literally invisible, of course, but they are the people that no one really notices, the ones you don't really know anything about.
My name is Blaise Zabini, and I'm that person.
Contrary to what most people think, I am not a girl (I will never forgive my parents for giving me a gender-neutral name), nor am I secretly gay. I was appropriately shocked when I learned through the grapevine that I was having passionate love affairs with Terry Boot, Oliver Wood, and Harry Potter all at once. I hadn't had any idea this was going on, so how others could find out, I haven't the slightest clue.
Unlike many of my Slytherin counterparts, my parents were never Death Eaters. On the other hand, they weren't openly against the Dark Lord, either, so they were automatically sorted into the "no good" category. This always drove my mother crazy because, to her, status was everything. Since they weren't on either side of the war, they couldn't get into either social group, regardless of how much money they had.
It's kind of ironic. My parents were outsiders by fate, while I am an outsider by choice. I'm sure Mother is rolling in her grave.
My name is Blaise Zabini, and I am invisible.
The funny thing about invisible people is how they tend to turn up where you least expect them.
******
"Blaise! Blaise dear, wake up!"
I opened my eyes slowly and squinted at the clock, which read six-thirty. Six-thirty in the bloody morning. Groaning, I rolled over and tried to grab a bit more sleep. Unfortunately, Gran had other plans.
"Blaise! Get up, or we'll miss the train!"
Ah, yes. September first again, my very favorite day of the year. Time to return to the hordes of brainless half-wits who reside in the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. It was a miracle my classmates had lived to see their fifth year, as most have the IQ of a turnip.
"Shut your trap, you old bag," I muttered into my pillow, still unwilling to leave the comfort of my bed. "The train doesn't leave `til eleven."
I lay listening to my grandmother bustle about the house in an obvious panic. Every single year, she woke me up at some ungodly hour to be sure I wouldn't miss the train, and every year, I was the very first person on the platform. It was something of a tradition at our house, but I wasn't about to hurry it along.
At six-forty-five exactly, Gran stomped up the stairs and threw open my door. She was actually quite pretty, as far as grandmothers go. She was barely fifty, but she looked thirty-five. People used to think Gran and Mother were sisters instead of mother and daughter. At the moment, however, she wasn't looking even remotely pretty.
"BLAISE KERRIGOR ZABINI! Get out of bed this instant, or there will be hell to pay!"
I sighed in resignation. I'd been expecting this, of course, but I always hoped that perhaps this year she'd have the decency to let me stay in bed `til seven, or at least refrain from using my middle name. But this year, like every year before it, that hope proved futile.
I scowled at my grandmother, who was still glowering at me from the doorway, and who I knew would refuse to move an inch until I was out of bed. "All right, all right. Keep your hair on," I said peevishly, slowly dragging myself out from under the sheets.
Gran's pursed her lips together in annoyance, but chose to ignore my comment. "I'm sending Sandy up here in fifteen minutes and you'd better be dressed by then or--"
"--or you'll turn me into a toad and sell me to the apothecary," I recited dully, drifting over to my dresser and idly sifting through its contents. "I know, I know."
Gran huffed and rolled her eyes, but finally left, thankfully. Normally, she was much more agreeable, but there was something about September first that stressed her out to an extreme level. It was kind of amusing, really. Well, in retrospect. When it was actually happening, you just wanted to hide `til it was over.
Ten minutes later, I was in front of my bureau, inspecting my reflection in the mirror. I'd gotten a slight tan over the summer and grown maybe an inch, but other than that I looked exactly the same as last year. My pitch black hair, damp from the shower, was still straight and shaggy, and I was still painfully thin. The only feature I liked was my deep blue eyes. I like to think they make me look intellectual, but Draco says they're just creepy.
"I do hope you're not wearing that out in public," the mirror commented haughtily.
I considered what I was wearing (a black jumper and black slacks) before raising and eyebrow at the mirror. "And what, pray tell, is wrong with my clothes?"
"They're so dark, dear," it replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You look like you're off to rob a bank. It just doesn't suit you." I opened my mouth to argue, but the mirror cut me off. "And don't tell me that's what you always wear, because that's precisely the problem. I can't remember when I last saw you in an actual color. Why don't you wear that lovely blue jumper your aunt sent for your birthday?"
I scowled fiercely. "I hate blue," I muttered, deciding not to mention that I wouldn't touch that shirt with a ten-foot pole simply because it was from my aunt. I preferred to forget I had an aunt at all.
"Well, how about green, then? Or maybe--"
"Master Blaise, sir?" The house-elf slipped in the door and bowed apologetically. "Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Mistress Mable wanted me to check on you."
"Don't worry about it, Sandy," I said, for once grateful for Gran's pre- Hogwarts Express stress level. "It wasn't anything important."
With that, I hurried out of the door and down the steps before the mirror could yell anything after me. It wasn't until I'd reached the living room that I realized I was running from an inanimate object, and one that I'd been arguing with for the past five minutes, to boot.
I really am pathetic sometimes, I thought, flopping down on the couch in front of the television.
I'm not especially fond of Muggles, but whichever one invented the TV was a bloody genius. Even ignoring how difficult it must've been to accomplish without magic, the concept of being able to get shows and news and pretty much anything else with just one medium was completely new to wizards. The closest thing we have is the WWN (Wizarding Wireless Network), but that's just a radio station, and an awful one at that. It's mostly those atrociously sappy ballads that witches seem to like so much.
I flipped through the channels with only a vague idea of what I was passing over. I didn't really care either, since we'd be leaving soon anyway.
"Hey, turn it back for a second."
I glanced up to see my grandfather strolling through the doorway, then obligingly went back a few channels, stopping on some sports network. I sighed, watching highlights from last night's soccer game flash across the screen. "Why do you watch this rubbish, Gramp? I know you're a Muggle and all, but Quidditch is much more interesting."
Gramp dropped onto the couch beside me and grinned. "Maybe, but they don't show Quidditch games on TV, do they?"
I smiled slightly. "No, I suppose not."
One thing I never mention to people at school is my grandfather's Muggleness. It's not that I'm embarrassed of him, it's just that I'd be eaten alive if my classmates knew about it. I'd be in it even worse if they found out we had *gasp* Muggle contraptions in our home. My life as a Slytherin would be over. So, no matter how guilty it might make me feel, I keep mum about the whole thing.
Every class has its invisible person. They aren't literally invisible, of course, but they are the people that no one really notices, the ones you don't really know anything about.
My name is Blaise Zabini, and I'm that person.
Contrary to what most people think, I am not a girl (I will never forgive my parents for giving me a gender-neutral name), nor am I secretly gay. I was appropriately shocked when I learned through the grapevine that I was having passionate love affairs with Terry Boot, Oliver Wood, and Harry Potter all at once. I hadn't had any idea this was going on, so how others could find out, I haven't the slightest clue.
Unlike many of my Slytherin counterparts, my parents were never Death Eaters. On the other hand, they weren't openly against the Dark Lord, either, so they were automatically sorted into the "no good" category. This always drove my mother crazy because, to her, status was everything. Since they weren't on either side of the war, they couldn't get into either social group, regardless of how much money they had.
It's kind of ironic. My parents were outsiders by fate, while I am an outsider by choice. I'm sure Mother is rolling in her grave.
My name is Blaise Zabini, and I am invisible.
The funny thing about invisible people is how they tend to turn up where you least expect them.
******
"Blaise! Blaise dear, wake up!"
I opened my eyes slowly and squinted at the clock, which read six-thirty. Six-thirty in the bloody morning. Groaning, I rolled over and tried to grab a bit more sleep. Unfortunately, Gran had other plans.
"Blaise! Get up, or we'll miss the train!"
Ah, yes. September first again, my very favorite day of the year. Time to return to the hordes of brainless half-wits who reside in the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. It was a miracle my classmates had lived to see their fifth year, as most have the IQ of a turnip.
"Shut your trap, you old bag," I muttered into my pillow, still unwilling to leave the comfort of my bed. "The train doesn't leave `til eleven."
I lay listening to my grandmother bustle about the house in an obvious panic. Every single year, she woke me up at some ungodly hour to be sure I wouldn't miss the train, and every year, I was the very first person on the platform. It was something of a tradition at our house, but I wasn't about to hurry it along.
At six-forty-five exactly, Gran stomped up the stairs and threw open my door. She was actually quite pretty, as far as grandmothers go. She was barely fifty, but she looked thirty-five. People used to think Gran and Mother were sisters instead of mother and daughter. At the moment, however, she wasn't looking even remotely pretty.
"BLAISE KERRIGOR ZABINI! Get out of bed this instant, or there will be hell to pay!"
I sighed in resignation. I'd been expecting this, of course, but I always hoped that perhaps this year she'd have the decency to let me stay in bed `til seven, or at least refrain from using my middle name. But this year, like every year before it, that hope proved futile.
I scowled at my grandmother, who was still glowering at me from the doorway, and who I knew would refuse to move an inch until I was out of bed. "All right, all right. Keep your hair on," I said peevishly, slowly dragging myself out from under the sheets.
Gran's pursed her lips together in annoyance, but chose to ignore my comment. "I'm sending Sandy up here in fifteen minutes and you'd better be dressed by then or--"
"--or you'll turn me into a toad and sell me to the apothecary," I recited dully, drifting over to my dresser and idly sifting through its contents. "I know, I know."
Gran huffed and rolled her eyes, but finally left, thankfully. Normally, she was much more agreeable, but there was something about September first that stressed her out to an extreme level. It was kind of amusing, really. Well, in retrospect. When it was actually happening, you just wanted to hide `til it was over.
Ten minutes later, I was in front of my bureau, inspecting my reflection in the mirror. I'd gotten a slight tan over the summer and grown maybe an inch, but other than that I looked exactly the same as last year. My pitch black hair, damp from the shower, was still straight and shaggy, and I was still painfully thin. The only feature I liked was my deep blue eyes. I like to think they make me look intellectual, but Draco says they're just creepy.
"I do hope you're not wearing that out in public," the mirror commented haughtily.
I considered what I was wearing (a black jumper and black slacks) before raising and eyebrow at the mirror. "And what, pray tell, is wrong with my clothes?"
"They're so dark, dear," it replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You look like you're off to rob a bank. It just doesn't suit you." I opened my mouth to argue, but the mirror cut me off. "And don't tell me that's what you always wear, because that's precisely the problem. I can't remember when I last saw you in an actual color. Why don't you wear that lovely blue jumper your aunt sent for your birthday?"
I scowled fiercely. "I hate blue," I muttered, deciding not to mention that I wouldn't touch that shirt with a ten-foot pole simply because it was from my aunt. I preferred to forget I had an aunt at all.
"Well, how about green, then? Or maybe--"
"Master Blaise, sir?" The house-elf slipped in the door and bowed apologetically. "Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Mistress Mable wanted me to check on you."
"Don't worry about it, Sandy," I said, for once grateful for Gran's pre- Hogwarts Express stress level. "It wasn't anything important."
With that, I hurried out of the door and down the steps before the mirror could yell anything after me. It wasn't until I'd reached the living room that I realized I was running from an inanimate object, and one that I'd been arguing with for the past five minutes, to boot.
I really am pathetic sometimes, I thought, flopping down on the couch in front of the television.
I'm not especially fond of Muggles, but whichever one invented the TV was a bloody genius. Even ignoring how difficult it must've been to accomplish without magic, the concept of being able to get shows and news and pretty much anything else with just one medium was completely new to wizards. The closest thing we have is the WWN (Wizarding Wireless Network), but that's just a radio station, and an awful one at that. It's mostly those atrociously sappy ballads that witches seem to like so much.
I flipped through the channels with only a vague idea of what I was passing over. I didn't really care either, since we'd be leaving soon anyway.
"Hey, turn it back for a second."
I glanced up to see my grandfather strolling through the doorway, then obligingly went back a few channels, stopping on some sports network. I sighed, watching highlights from last night's soccer game flash across the screen. "Why do you watch this rubbish, Gramp? I know you're a Muggle and all, but Quidditch is much more interesting."
Gramp dropped onto the couch beside me and grinned. "Maybe, but they don't show Quidditch games on TV, do they?"
I smiled slightly. "No, I suppose not."
One thing I never mention to people at school is my grandfather's Muggleness. It's not that I'm embarrassed of him, it's just that I'd be eaten alive if my classmates knew about it. I'd be in it even worse if they found out we had *gasp* Muggle contraptions in our home. My life as a Slytherin would be over. So, no matter how guilty it might make me feel, I keep mum about the whole thing.