Light in the Darkness
. o .
I have become accustomed to living in darkness, although it is not my choice. In all honesty, perhaps, it makes sense that I should move with grace and elegance through something that would throw most others off their guard, or at the very least hinder their thoughts. That does not mean, however, that I truly enjoy this talent. And all this because of the words some bedraggled piece of fabric spoke six long years ago, as well as a few hundred years of so-called distinguished family history. I, Blaise Zabini, am destined to be preferential to places and people - if not motives and actions - that belong more to the realm of shadows than the bright, cheery, and ever-so-Gryffindor-esque light.
Don't get me wrong; I wouldn't want to be part of that merry band of fools if Harry Potter himself begged for me to join them. I'm no Slytherin; that much I know. I have ambition, I hold a desire for power... power enough to control my own life, at least... more so than ever at the time that the Sorting Hat was plunked on my head. But I'm no Gryffindor. In any case, I suppose things could be worse; I could have been placed into Hufflepuff.
In retrospect, I guess that my desperate desire to be wanted by my parents and not just seen as a future marriage pawn was the first emotion to be picked up by that decrepit piece of headwear, and hence, his fateful decision was made. Why am I sure of this, you ask? The louse-riddled chapeau couldn't have been on my head for more than a Muggle nanosecond before it potentially damaged my ears permanently with a definite shout of "Slytherin!"
I remember that as it yelled to the entire hall my place for the next seven years that my frantic, eleven-year-old brain fought with itself. One side of me felt immediately queasy; there was no way I belonged in Slytherin, but who was I to argue with the notorious talking hat? (Even if, I was sure, it was somewhat senile by this point.) My immediate thoughts were those of panic, thinking 'What about Ravenclaw? Please? I have brains too, not just ambition. But you're just a hat. You can't hear me.' To my surprise, I could feel the hat shake slightly atop my head as it chuckled. Fortunately, the next words the hat spoke were quietly uttered, so I was their sole listener.
"So you do have brains, Miss Zabini, and a quick wit. Good. And notably? I can hear you very well, and am nowhere as senile as you may think. I find you to be a Slytherin, but I do not judge you as 'evil;' I cannot determine that; only your actions can do so. Remember that with courage, one may dwell in darkness, and yet be the light within it. Now go..."
As Professor McGonagall removed the Sorting Hat from my head, with a puzzled glance in my direction - as I learned in later years, watching the ceremony from the Slytherin table, the enchanted hat would rarely stop to chat with a first year as it did for me - another side of me was relieved. Both my parents were stereotypical Slytherins to the core; this news would be a definite way to avoid their wrath when I returned home over Christmas.
In all fairness, have they ever laid a hand on me, or used spells that would leave me neurologically or physically damaged? Never. But there are many ways to hurt a young child, and with knowledge from both realms, the number of ways to do so is staggering. In retrospect, this is rather ironic, for it was only in their cruelty that my hypocrite parents did not differentiate between 'pureblood' or 'mudblood' classes. Emotional scars, you know? Muggle words, wizarding words... either way, the marks their words left were invisible to the naked eye, but the sting remains, searing the soul resting under my skin.
Outwardly though, I'm perfect enough, I suppose. Long, mildly wavy, almost- black hair, alternately biting or dreaming green eyes, a decent build, and despite the fact that I have a sight more brains than the average future Slytherin consort, living with Parkinson for six years has made me a very, very good actor in the 'dumb blonde' category.
And this is all expected of me. I'm my parents' future 'means of income,' if you weren't listening earlier. Also known as a proxy for an arranged, and undoubtedly profitable marriage. For them, anyways, and preferably to Draco Malfoy, which I'm sure Mummie and Dahdie would like very, very much. Too bad it's never happening. Which brings us back to the present, and the topic of Draco Malfoy. True, he is the mass-acclaimed 'Slytherin Prince,' and the scourge of all righteous Gryffindors... but he is also my best friend.
What's that you say? Draco Malfoy is capable of human emotion - capable of friendship? I remind you as you read that while both Draco and I are Slytherin, we are still human. (With exceptional talents, naturally, but the statement remains...)
As friends do, he and I drifted apart for a while in fifth year, but then, when his prat of a father died, Draco and I seemed to regain each other's friendship. He's an enigma, that boy, with his pale hair, and eyes that glint at some ethereal mixture of silver and gray; at once very like me, and very different. We've talked about nearly everything under the sun, sharing our dislike of our parents' closed-mindedness and blind alliances to some old, decrepit wizard who Harry Potter - little Harry Potter - has bested, not once but twice. More often than not, though, Draco and I talk simply of our love for music, or hold an occasional session of Potions research over a glass or two of smuggled Butterbeer from the kitchens, or sit out on the school lawn by the lake, and just coexist.
Interestingly, it was he that took me up to the Astronomy Tower for the first time, midway through our fourth year. I remember we were both caught in the maelstrom of mistaken adolescent attraction, and journeyed there one Saturday night to resolve our pent-up emotions. But as we fumbled through the door, Draco's trademark glare evicting the tower's previous occupants, our eyes were caught, not by each other, but by the sight outside the window.
Forgetting our original purpose for being in the tower, we rushed to its opposite wall; Draco, to the large Muggle telescope, and myself to the balcony. For as we watched, transfixed, a dazzling ballet of shooting stars danced across the midnight sky. Looking at their brief flare as they tumbled to Earth, I think I realized for the first time what the old hat had meant when it spoke to me. These stars dared to be brilliant, to shine - even if for bare seconds - amidst the endless darkness that surrounded them.
"The light within the darkness," I whispered, a touch reverently.
"What?" came a voice from my right elbow. Draco. I hadn't even heard him come outside.
You're getting slow, Zabini, I told myself as I turned to Draco. "It... this reminded me of something the Sorting Hat said four years ago."
"So, the batty old hat told you about shooting stars and gorgeous, brilliant, and humble blonde Slytherins?" Lips quirked into a sardonic grin, Draco responded.
Chuckling, I punched him playfully on the arm. "Of course not. You, humble, Draco? That's like saying Longbottom is a Potions expert." Raising an eyebrow at the mock expression of hurt that flashed across his face, I continued. "It basically told me to stay true to who I was; to be, as you heard, the light within the darkness."
To my surprise, Draco's expression sobered. "I hate to say this, Blaise, but you're nuts."
I knew that Draco caught the shock and hurt that was clear on my face when he immediately followed that statement up by "...but that's what the hat meant, I figure. I mean, you're crazy, sure. But you're a sight prettier than Parkinson, and you can actually hold your own in a discussion that's about something other than cosmetics. You're that 'light in the darkness,' simply because you choose to follow your own path. Simply put, Blaise? You're not a sheep."
"A sheep, Draco?"
"Sure. Look at the rest of our year. Our House, if you will. Stereotypical sheep, minions, whatever, all too caught up in themselves, and what mantras their parents have installed within them to really notice that they're on a sinking ship. Voldemort's failing, Blaise, and I'm going to face him down when he does."
Looking back, I remember how, our romantic tensions forgotten, we proceeded to talk all of that night, ensconced in the Astronomy Tower, watching the stars burn out against the night. Draco's words of standing against Voldemort might have seemed mildly precocious, coming from a fourth year, but I believed him then, and I do now, two years later, more than ever.
He was always special, that boy. Not in the same way as Potter was; not at all. But the two boys are far more similar than either of them will ever admit - they are both survivors.
And not long after our first journey to the Astronomy Tower, Draco showed me that he found me worthy to join that elite grouping of survivors. After a particularly grueling day, he found me after classes and placed a deep green leather-bound scrapbook into my hands. My eyes must have formed a question, because he replied quickly, "For drawing, or writing, or whatever. Merlin help me, Blaise, but you have spirit, and I will personally blame myself if you lose that and become a Parkinson clone." Although his word choice was somewhat unusual, I remind you of the identity of the speaker, and assure you instead that the look of compassion - somewhat unusual, but very welcome - in his eyes said more than his words did.
"Thank you, Draco, I will."
He nodded brusquely. "Good."
And so began our tradition of meeting in the Astronomy Tower every so often to talk of life, to indulge our muses - Draco became quite a competent artist over the years, while I found my talents ran more to poetry and other forms of writing - and sometimes, just to sit and soak in each other's company.
In the end, I suppose it's true; I do move in darkness, as do we all in these uncertain times. But my experiences, as well as the compassion of one close friend who sits beside me now in the Astronomy Towr, his head bent, with his trademark silver-blond hair streaming across his forehead as he dozes, have prepared me, and continue to steel me for whatever that darkness can throw at me - parents and decrepit old half-snake wizards with massive egos be damned.
In a strange sort of way, this is his fault. I am Draco's voice of reason, and he is my guardian spirit; we temper each other, and due to this, have the mutual strength to survive.
. o .
...finis...
. o .
Disclaimer: Blaise and Draco are not my characters in the slightest; I just borrow them. (As a belated note, yes, I am aware that Blaise's gender has been decided otherwise, but because this piece was written previous to that revelation, just consider this a sort of twisted AU/AR.)