AU: Blaise Zabini was the Black King, just as his mother had been the Black Widow; behind his back they called him Black Death. But he may have finally met his match. Warnings for slash. Blaise/Harry.

NOTE: NO VOLDEMORT, SLTHERIN!HARRY, BLAISE/HARRY, WARNINGS FOR SLASH

Rating: M


Chapter One

Six months after his graduation from Hogwarts, Blaise Zabini had not only inherited his mother's fortune (she had died, most unfortunately, just two days after her eleventh husband) but also his mother's reputation. He was better known in wizarding society as the Black King to his mother's Black Widow, just as beautiful and just as unattainable. Aside from his dark colouring, Blaise had never once been seen in anything other than black. He had worn it for his first wedding, and then his mother's funeral, and then for her period of mourning. Just eleven months later, his first wife was dead, killed by a stray Bludger (she had been a Quidditch enthusiast and the owner of the Wimbourne Wasps), and he was once again stoic and untouchable in the jet of mourning.

Eight months later, he met his second wife, the daughter of what had been the head of a South American trading tycoon. Five months after their first meeting they were married. Eight months later she was dead. She had been the sole heir of the entire trade monopoly. How fortunate for Blaise that he stood to inherit it all.

And the trend just continued. He was never single for a period of more than two years. By the time of he was twenty-three, he'd had four ex-wives- four dead wives, and four family fortunes equivalent to the GDP of a small country for his trouble.

Blaise didn't quite care about the women, just as he had known his mother hadn't cared about the men. They just kept coming, and coming, and coming, all with a single damning intent. Some said it was his face that drew them in; others his wealth. Blaise paid no attention to any of it. He was above it, and he alone knew his heritage.

There would only ever be one Zabini at a time. So had the Fates decreed, and so had the Zabini obeyed. That had been the Fates' price to his ancestor, the first Zabini, who had once been of the Erinýes, now called the Eumenídes, the Dirae, or the ever-popular Furies. That had been their price, for turning her human. Certainly, she had seen the horrors that rent families apart; mother from son, father from daughter, but she couldn't staunch the want for a babe in her arms. She had longed for it so much that she had traded the Fates her immortality and her wings, all in a bid for motherhood. And still they wouldn't permit her little half-Furies to run around about the globe. Instead they had her line breed true every generation, and as soon as the new was ready, the old would fall.

That had happened to his mother, and in time, that would happen to him. He wondered if he would look into a son's eyes, or a daughter's, and see his death in them. There would only ever be one Zabini child.

Till then, he kept these flittering birds on his arm like mere decorations. Like his mother before him, and her ancestors before her, he had amassed huge amounts of wealth this way. But it was amassed, in the tradition of the Zabini and his mother, solely for his child. He thought little of his own comfort, much as how his mother had showered him to the point of nearly neglecting her own self. For all his riches, Blaise was still inevitably haunted by the spirit of the first Zabini, intent even after death to preserve her line. No amount of money would rid him of her, nor would it buy him his life. She would see no harm come to him, and swore vengeance on all who came to her line with malicious intent. But in return she demanded an heir, and she would be cruelly uncaring of him once that came to pass.

It was convenient, Blaise thought, as someone tried to chat him up. He didn't even have to do any of the dirty work himself. It almost made putting up with these airheads worth it.

Then he sighed. Of course it wasn't worth it; it never was. The one thing Blaise wanted above all else was true companionship. That was why he was even more vigorous than his mother in pursuit of new partners. He wanted his child, someone he could treasure and reveal all the secrets of their line. He didn't believe that it was possible for there to be such a companion already out there; the Fates hated his family too much to have things made that easy for him. His only alternative was to mould one from the very beginning. His father had been the closest his mother had come to finding her companion, having lived for a miraculous seven years, before his greed finally won over the love he bore for his family. He'd been killed the very next day.

Blaise remembered the blankness in his mother's eyes at times when the loneliness got to be too much. She'd had him; he knew that, and so did she, but a son could only be so much. He had tried, though, inasmuch as his youth and inexperience had allowed him to. It was almost cruel, that the moment he finally became a companion worthy of her, she had passed on, as in turn would the relationship develop between him and his child.

Blaise didn't even hope for the seven years his mother had. She had spoken of Zabinis before who had spent decades in desolate loneliness. He had been preparing his entire life for something similar.

He turned away from the girl in front of him with an irritable sigh. Was it just him, or were they more of a nuisance than usual today? He feared somewhat for the intelligence of his child.

Strolling down Diagon Alley, he cut a black swath through the crowd as young girls stared up at him in love and lust while older woman stared at him in hunger and fear. They all knew his reputation, of course, but the thrill of danger only sent the rush of desire pumping faster through their veins. Ignoring the lot of them, he slipped into Twilfitt and Tatting's to pick up a new set of coats, and nearly ran into the person standing beside the door.

"I'm sorry," he apologised, brushing his fingers briefly over a navy-clad shoulder. A dark head turned and viridian eyes caught his soul.

Their owner smiled wryly. "It's fine, Zabini. No harm done."

Blaise frowned. He would have thought he'd remember a wizard like this, with unbelievable power coiling under his very skin just waiting to snap forth and conquer. It hung about him in a nearly audible thrum. "I'm sorry," he said again, "but I don't believe I've had the pleasure of your acquaintance."

The man' lips twisted deprecatingly. "The pleasure, no. There is hardly anything pleasurable about my acquaintance, Zabini." There was danger in his smile, the danger Blaise knew he himself exuded, only on a much deeper, more ingrained level. He hadn't thought there could've been anything more seductively dangerous than a Fury's descendant, but apparently, he'd just met his match.

"Will you not tell me your name?" he asked.

The man laughed, and it was warm and slid about his senses like basset bell. "You already know it, Zabini, you and everyone else in this godforsaken world."

At that moment, the cashier returned, holding a shrunken package. "My Lord," he said to the man, bowing low as he presented the package to him. The man took it with an indolent smile. "My thanks, Smithers. The usual tip, of course."

Blaise hadn't thought the man could bow any lower, but apparently he was wrong. "You honour me, My Lord." Then he straightened, and his eye alighted on Blaise's dark form. "Ah, Mr. Zabini. Your coats are ready, right this way, if you please."

Blaise turned his dark gaze upon the man still standing adjacent to him. He favoured him with a smile, and leaned casually against the counter, his package secured under one arm.

"Tell me, Zabini, what exactly do you want?"

For the first time in many, many years, Blaise was at a loss for words. His bewilderment must have shown somehow through his usually stoic face, for the man relaxed somewhat, and took Blaise's elbow to guide him in the direction Smithers had indicated. "Come along then, Zabini, let's see what you've got picked out."

Smithers's work was exquisite, as usual. He had ordered three coats, one in jet black with gold brocade; a deep burgundy coat with cream trimmings; and a charcoal piece, with black embroidery at the collar, hem, and sleeves. They all fell to the knee, and were of the double-breasted, military-styling kind. He slipped out of the coat he'd been wearing over his black turtleneck and trousers and tried them on. They fit perfectly, although he asked for a change in the style of his pockets. He kept the flaps on his black one, but had Smithers eliminate them on the burgundy and charcoal, leaving just the slits.

"Excellent taste," the man said from his seat in a reclining chair.

Blaise glanced at him, fingers on the lapel of his charcoal coat. "I do not expect anything less," he said, although he wasn't quite sure if he was referring to the man or himself.

He received a warm chuckle in reply. "I'd be disappointed in you if you did," he said. "Join me for lunch?"

The invitation startled him. "Join me for lunch," the man repeated, his smile growing to reveal impeccable teeth, "and wear the black coat. It's a lovely day outside."

Smithers gathered his remaining coats together unobtrusively as Blaise and the man just watched each other. "Who are you?" Blaise asked bluntly.

The man laughed, and it made him think of dark chocolate on moonlit nights, and a balm on his soul. "Zabini, you only had to ask." He took Blaise's package from Smithers, and then gestured for him to precede him out the store. "Surely you can't remember your old roommate, Harry Potter?"


And there you have it (o: Cheers.