(BZ) Tristitia
It went as well as it could've been expected.
Blaise's mother and Hermione's father had exchanged pleasantries while stealing not-so-casual glances at what their spouses were doing. Dr. Granger had looked more out of sorts than Mrs Zabini, which, now that Blaise reflected upon it, was probably due to the fact he had been the sole Muggle at their table. Mrs. Granger, on the other hand, had been positively glowing. The moment her hand had brushed the knuckles of Mr Zabini's hand something had been ignited inside her.
The days leading up to that meeting had been uneventful to say the least, but Blaise was proud of his progress in his training. His father hadn't given him any respite, pushing him to the extreme every morning. It had taken all of his mother's to persuade him to let Blaise off the hook at least on Christmas Day, though it had been the timely entrance of his paternal grandparents that had really done the trick. Grandma Maria had enveloped her grandson in one of her customary breathtaking hugs while Grandpa Francesco had retired to the study almost at once; a few hours later, the multitude of cousins that was Blaise's family had filled the house. The dining and living rooms had been magically enlarged, but it felt crowded anyway and Blaise could only curse his luck that it was their turn to host the Christmas dinner.
He had graciously conversed with his closest relatives, basking in the attention that him finally meeting his heir brought, but he had kept as far as possible from his distant relations; he had never bothered to learn their names, and they had never taken the time to pronounce his properly. One of his aunt, in particular, would not be dissuaded from calling him Biagio and Giulia was all but encouraging her to approach him. She had winked at him from the other side of the living room, and Blaise had distinctly heard a subdued snicker behind him; turning around, he had seen a friendly face.
Mémé Aude had smiled at him and nodded towards the kitchen, where he knew his mother was busying herself making dinner. They had walked into the small room to find her engaged in a fierce discussion about house elves with her sister; it wasn't a novel occurrence, and Mémé Aude had been quick in cutting short Aunt Juliette's rant on how disgraceful it was for the lady of the house to do all the work. Juliette Lestrange was a pure-blood spinster of the worst kind, dishing out her pearls of wisdom even when nobody cared to listen anymore.
The days following the meeting... Well.
Blaise remembered going back to his training and seeing a renewed vigour in his father. Mémé Aude had remarked upon how much younger Blaise's father looked; they could almost be brothers, she'd said. Almost.
The resemblance between Annabeth Granger and her daughter was faint, but undeniably there. Behind her square rimmed glasses, her brown eyes had shone with the same light he had seen in Hermione's when she was particularly pleased about something. Her dark hair had reminded him of her ancestry and more than once he could have sworn she showed the same mannerly countenance he had witnessed in Rowena Ravenclaw; one thing was certain, her upbringing was beyond reproach.
Hermione had looked paler than he remembered. His first instinct had been to rush to her side, hug her tight and kiss her until her colour rose again; but he couldn't do that, not with their parents flanking them both.
Yes, all in all, it went as well as, if not more, any of them could've anticipated.
A smile threatened to burst on Blaise's lips, but at the last second he remembered that not all was well. The meeting between Annabeth and his father had done wonders for the two of them, whereas it had done nothing for the cause of Blaise and Hermione. Mr Zabini was nowhere close to seeing eye to eye with his son on the matter of forceful vow-breaking. Not that the subject had been openly discussed in the household, but Blaise had dropped hints here and there during the long hours of training.
"There is one way around it," Alberto Zabini had said mid-attack.
He was panting from the exertion; Blaise was getting better by the hour.
"I knew it."
"The stipulation was very clear: if we fail to produce a son, the vow would be broken," he said. "Something along those lines. So you see, it is quite easy to shake off the burden of protecting the heir." He smirked. "Get married, make a baby girl and just like that you'd be free."
He swung at Blaise, who failed to dodge the blow and hit the roof with a resounding thump.
"Though I'm confused why you'd want to get rid of Hermione," he continued. "I thought you liked the girl."
"Maybe I just don't want to be bound to her forever."
"Ah, well, there's the rub."
Indeed, had thought Blaise. He had further pushed his father on the matter, but no more leeway seemed to be embedded in the pact between Zabinis and Ravenclaws. He had promised Hermione he would seek alternative routes to the almost certainly painful ordeal they had planned. This he had done, with his parents, his grandparents, and some of the older portraits in their family home. Unless Blaise suddenly turned out to be a girl, or Hermione a boy, the vow was there to stay. Forever.
It didn't bear thinking about.
Something his training taught him was to withstand pain. Unbearable pain. And as time went by during the holidays, Blaise found he'd use the tricks he's learnt to block it out and apply them to the longing dull ache he felt at being separated from Hermione for so long.
What else could he do, when confiding in his family would mean possibly giving away their plans to free them both of that bond. So, he suffered, mostly in silence. He knew he wasn't being as careful in his sleep because his sister had begun to watch him – Blaise, who had spent a lifetime watching other people, recognised the feeling of someone's eyes boring into him. He started to wonder what Giulia had heard, yet it couldn't have been anything too revealing or instead of staring at him, she'd have said something about it. To him, or to their parents.
Blaise hid in the training. His routine shifted until it was no longer recognisable and it became the routine of an athlete: up before the crack of dawn to exploit the last hours of darkness and train outside (in the cold London winter, because freezing temperatures harden the body), close combat with his father after each meal (because to relax is to fail). Though all Hogwarts-related work was confined to the spare hours between sessions, Blaise still found his brain hard to silence in the evening.
Had they managed to gather all the ingredients for the Wiggenweld Potion? Had they read the instructions carefully enough? Did the quasi-mortal sleep the Draught of Living Death induce really qualify as 'a magically-induced sleep', which the antidote could supposedly awaken someone from? Was all this training going to bear its fruit when Blaise would need it most? Or had Shakespeare got it right all those centuries ago and the operation was doomed to kill them both.
It was enough to make one toss and turn all night.
To sum his worry to his longing turned Blaise into a ghost, alive only because there was no alternative. He felt as if he was losing a fight he wasn't even aware of fighting. It drained him to think, to feel, to be. Though his fingers itched to write to Hermione, he viewed the act as a quick and ephemeral fix that wouldn't help in the long run. It was her, flesh and blood, that he needed to see; a letter would never do.
From unbearable, the pain became bearable, though perhaps Blaise had only reached a certain point of numbness. His muscles had gotten used to his training regime and his body to the unvarying schedule of his days. In this, his brain took refuge. He took pleasure in sleep and food again, having learnt to ignore the ache in his soul, and a semblance of life seemed to resurge in him. Giulia stopped fussing about him; just as well, with her return to school being imminent.
"You'll write to me," she said on her way out.
Blaise promised he would.
She hugged him, whispered something in his ear that he didn't quite catch. He nodded, unsure whether he wanted to know anyway. Would he see his sister again? Was this goodbye? Did she know, or should she know?
Giulia waved at their family, then her Portkey was activated and she vanished.
From Richmond, there were several options to get to King's Cross railway station via public transport. The more direct route would take him through Victoria Station, yet he'd run the risk of rubbing shoulders with other returning Hogwarts students coming from all over the South. Blaise knew by now to steer clear of the Piccadilly line: his trunk made him stick out like a sore thumb on one of the busiest line on the Tube. Similarly, buses were to be avoided altogether.
"You're of age, dear, you could just Apparate."
There was no way to say to his mother that he didn't feel in the right state of mind to attempt the most dangerous, if fast, means of transport known to wizards.
"I'll just get on the Hammersmith and City," he said. "I might run into Theo on the last leg of his journey, that'd be nice."
His mother sighed. "All right then."
A clever lie. Coming from Paddington, Theodore Nott would probably hop on the Hammersmith and City line and get himself to King's Cross St. Pancras, but Circle trains passed just as often. Moreover, his fellow Slytherin couldn't be relied on to regularly partake in the use of Muggle transportation.
Indeed, when Blaise's train stopped at Paddington Station, only a cluster of frowning businessman joined his carriage and there was no sign on the platform of anyone else carrying a trunk.
There was a second reason he had chosen to avoid the Victoria route: Hermione.
He could almost picture her, perhaps accompanied by her family; they'd have climbed down from their South West train at Vauxhall, only to step into a possibly packed Victoria line train with her trunk in tow. No, knowing her, she would've disguised the trunk as a common Muggle sort of luggage to look no more bizarre than a tourist. He imagined she would've seen familiar faces throughout her journey, exchanged smiles and hugs with friends and acquaintances. The passengers around them would've nodded; ah, so she wasn't a tourist, but a student, poor doll, off to boarding school, parents really don't know how to get rid of children these days.
"The next station is King's Cross St. Pancras. Change for the Northern, Piccadilly and Victoria lines. National and international rail services. Exit for the Royal National Institute for Blind People."
Trudging his trunk along, Blaise made his way to the platform gateway. A sort of queue had formed in front of it, with rowdy first and second-years stretching the limits of Muggles' innate suspension of disbelief. He was about to pull his best Head Boy Draco Malfoy impersonation, when his eyes caught sight of Hermione.
A few groups of students ahead of him, she nattered away with Lavender Brown while the queue went nowhere.
And all of a sudden, a conflict arose deep within him: Blaise wanted to stride forward, bow his head and say, pardon me, Your Grace, but as your humble servant I would point out how unsafe this environment is and would you please allow me to escort you to the platform? But Blaise also wanted to stay put, out of sight, let her get on with her life, her friends, her carefree laughter that made him feel happier than he had felt since the start of the holidays. The pull of the vow was strong, it grabbed at his ankles and pushed his feet forward even as his whole body pushed back. Brute force was not the answer though, so he closed his eyes and retreated into his mind; his duty as her Defender was to shield her from harm, but no harm was to come to Hermione in the queue to Platform 9 3/4, they were safe, she was safe, her Muggle heritage kept her safe. To many, she was still the Mudblood his best friend had made fun of for years.
When he opened his eyes, the invisible ropes around his ankles were gone. Reason had won.
He had decided not to tell Hermione. She'd think it a bad omen or something along those lines, and instead he wanted her full support on Operation Sleeping Beauty.
"That is a stupid name and we are changing it."
Blaise made a face. "It's a covert Operation, I will be Sleeping and, excuse me, I'm a Beauty." He smirked. "The name fits."
"I don't care what you call it," Draco said. "Though I agree with Granger: it is inane." He pointed at the clock behind them. "Let's focus on the actual logistics before both of us have to chair the Prefect meeting."
Hermione clearly wanted to argue against Blaise's chosen name, but she shook her head and sat at the desk with Draco. Blaise remained perched on the arm of the sofa and started listing off his fingers.
"We already have most of the ingredients for the two potions," he said.
"Right," Draco said. "What are we missing? Granger?"
"The obvious ones," she said. "About a dozen lionfish spines and some mucus from a flobberworm for the Wiggenweld Potion, and the brain of a sloth for the Draught."
"You meant to say the disgusting ingredients then."
Blaise looked over his list. "Which we need to get by the day after tomorrow at the latest if we want to get it done this month."
"And we do," Hermione said. "Right?"
You haven't changed your mind, have you?
He looked up at her worried face and fought the desire to embrace to make it all better.
This is our best option... Your Grace.
They both winced.
"I'd feel better if the ingredients were safely stored in our kitchen," Draco was saying. "Instead of scattered in our separate rooms." And with that he produced a pouch and set it on the desk. "Sopophorous beans, which I was in charge of."
Blaise grabbed the wooden box he had in his bag. "Valerian roots, honeywater, moondew, one stewed Mandrake, a vial of salamander blood, fangs from a snake and a Chizpurfle, and a bottle of Dittany."
Draco ticked the ingredients off his list while Hermione grabbed her share in her room.
"Wormwood, root of asphodel, bark from the Wiggentree, sprigs of mint."
Blaise smiled. "You can tell I'm the one with easy access to the apothecary." He had reached his middle finger in his listing. "Third thing on the list is location."
"All in favour of the Heads quarters, say aye."
"Draco, we've talked about this…"
"Yes, yes, and I haven't heard a better suggestion." He pointed at Blaise. "Your place in Italy is out of the question, if anything happens we don't have a way out." He pointed at Hermione. "The library is not ideal, sorry, Granger." He pointed back at himself. "My idea is the clear winner."
"I was actually going to suggest Moaning Myrtle's bathroom."
Draco's response came immediate and peremptory. "No."
"Heads quarters it is," Blaise said.
Don't push him.
Sorry, I forgot.
"When we've got everything, I'll hang the moondew from my windowsill overnight and that'll give us the thirty-six-hour window we need to brew the potion, and use it too."
Hermione nodded. "Thanks, Blaise," she said. "Draco, we need to go."
"I hate Prefects."
"We still need to go."
Blaise stood up. "I'll pack everything up in the kitchen," he said. "You two go be grown-ups."
In spite of her insistence, when Draco was halfway out of the door, Hermione lingered behind.
"Granger, come on."
"Yes," she said after a pause. "I have to talk to you about something else too."
"More Head duties?" Draco huffed. "Okay, but walk and talk." He held the opening for her. "Cheers, Pascal," he called, and then they were out.
Why anyone would keep a sloth brain in brine in their bedroom was beyond him.
"What do you need it for?"
Blaise stared. "What do you need it for, Tracey?"
She shrugged. "They teach you how to eat anything in Camden," she said. "Sloth brains happen to marry very well with Scandinavian food. And cheap too."
"But not often found in run-of-the-mill apothecaries..."
It was her turn to stare. "As I said, Camden will teach you anything." She handed him the jar. "You making a potion then?"
He nodded.
"Something... to relax you?"
Her tone was suspicious, but Blaise had no other option besides nodding again.
Tracey gave him the hint of a smirk. "Have fun with your brain, Zabini."
As he walked out of the Slytherin dungeons and climbed the steps of the tower, Blaise juggled the jar from one hand to the other, his thoughts on the finer details of the plan. Because this was it; they had all the ingredients now. It had taken all the hours they had reckoned, but they were still in time to make it happen – a slither of the moon still shone high in the sky. He would hang the moondew, they'd brew the two potions, he'd drink the one, fall like dead, Draco would slip him the antidote...
And they'd be free.
"I have it!" he called upon reaching the Heads quarters.
"Grand!" Draco punched the air. "I told you Davis would have it," he said. "She's into weird stuff that girl."
"It's a Camden delicacy, apparently."
Draco made a face. "Whatever."
The jar took its place on the kitchen counter, along with all the other ingredients. Blaise gingerly lifted the mason jar containing the moondew and looked at the opaque liquid.
"Remember to unscrew the top when you hang it," Draco said. "The moon needs to reflect on the surface."
"I know," Blaise replied. "I've done this before."
"I hate to remind you, but before none of our lives were at stake."
Blaise pocketed the jar. "I will make sure the dew is mooned properly."
He was already making for the way out, but Draco cleared his throat behind him.
"You've thought this through, yes?"
He didn't turn around. "Yes," he said. "Why?"
"Granger told me about this play, and I'll be honest, it sounded a lot like the worst case scenario."
Again with Romeo and Juliet, Blaise thought.
"First of all, that is a play advertised as a tragedy, ergo it is meant to end with a piteous cry." He turned to face his friend. "Secondly, no one had all the information, which resulted in one party being unaware that the other party was only faking it." He sighed. "We have all the information, all of us, you included, and I'm willing to bet Ginny Weasley knows about this as well, even if Hermione has failed to mention it." He paused. "So, no, we don't have a second option, our families made sure of that by shutting down every suggestion we made about breaking this vow. I'll be damned if we prove them right and botch this. So, yes, I've thought this through."
He was being uncharacteristically emphatic and direct, something Draco was not accustomed to in his friend. Blaise was not surprised when he took a step back. Draco Malfoy played the part of the arrogant prick very well, but his cowardice lurked under the surface, making sure he avoided confrontations he couldn't hope to triumph in. His default mode was to defer to the strongest authority in the room.
"I believe you," he said. "I thought what Granger said was a bit over the top dramatic," he continued, "and now I can see you've got this under control."
"Hermione is rightfully nervous," Blaise said. "But she trusts me to know what's best for us, and this scheme is our solution." He rewarded Draco with a small smile. "You'll see."
The exchange, however, had irked Blaise. It was bad enough that Hermione wasn't fully sold on the idea, but it went against common sense to instil her own doubts into his best friend. The feeling followed him through the following twenty-four hours, so that when Hermione summoned him to the circular hall leading to the Portrait Gallery, he strode there with the contemptuous pace of a vexed Banshee.
"In a few hours," he began as he walked down the corridor, "this summoning thing won't work on me anymore."
Hermione seemed perplexed. "Did I impel you to come? I didn't realise."
"No..." Blaise's tone softened. "I was pulling your leg, Head Girl."
Her mouth formed a perfect circle. "Oh," she said. "In that case, I'm glad you willingly submitted to my summoning." She smiled. "How's that?"
"Nicely done," he said. "Why are we here?"
"There was something I wanted to do– to tell you, before it all begins." She clasped his hands in hers. "Just us."
"Hermione, we can be together and alone all we like once we get rid of the impending headache this little stunt of yours is gonna cause." And still he enveloped her in a hug. "Couldn't you wait?" he whispered in her hair.
He felt her hands trace the spot in his back where his wings would be.
"I'm sorry," she said.
Several things happened at once, all the while Blaise was still fairly certain she was apologising for being greedy and wanting a moment with him while they were still cursed. Instead, Hermione was wrenched from him – or was it him from her? – and he heard the clasp of metal, then the feel of metal on his wrists and ankles, though his senses were overloaded with noise. When his sight caught up with his hearing, he saw what had happened.
He was strapped to the wooden door with intricate carvings, strung up by a series of heavy metal chains that allowed little to no movement. And down on the ground, teary eyed and frightened, Hermione was staring up at him – flanked by Harry Potter, Ron and Ginny Weasley.
And near the door, still pulling at the mechanical contraption that held Blaise up, Draco Malfoy was avoiding eye contact with him.
"I'm sorry!" Hermione walked closer. "You would've never agreed to this."
"What is this?"
"It's your plan," she said. "With a few minor improvements."
Blaise tugged at his chains. "Improvements, Hermione?!"
"You were going to drink the Draught and hope for the best with the Wiggenweld Potion, but you failed to account for something important, Blaise."
"Pray tell," he spat back.
"The role of the Defender was created to keep my family safe," she said. "It was never meant to test me, it was meant to keep your side in check." She sighed. "I managed to get in contact with..." She shook her head. "A family member in Scotland, someone less keen on all the tradition surrounding Ravenclaw, and he told me Rowena was afraid of your ancestor. She tied him to her, so he wouldn't be able to harm her."
"We know all this!"
"I gave you the abridged version, yes." A strangled sob. "But David told me something else." She was clutching at Ginny Weasley's hand. "Heirs, separated from their Defender, needed to be able to get on with their lives; Rowena cared not very much for Stefano and therefore she imbued the vow with a clause that would mean a dull ache in the case of his demise, but excruciating pain for him were she to pass before her time."
Blaise struggled against his restraints. "Got it," he said. "I die, you live, you die, I want to kill myself."
"Yes!" Hermione's eyes glistened with tears. "So don't you see? If we follow your plan, you drink the Draught of Living Death and I will feel nothing, or I will feel so little that we might not be sure whether it is my feelings for you that have been hurt or the pull of the vow that's slackening." She freed herself from her friend's grasp and advanced underneath Blaise. "But if I'm in harm's way, as close to death without being dead, you will be torn apart." She choked on the last part. "And then, and then when the pain subsides, we, we'll know it worked."
"NO! What if the vow outlasts the window to drink the antidote? What then?!"
Hermione stood tall and steeled herself. "I am willing to take that risk more than I am willing to go through all this in reverse, with the very real possibility that it won't break the vow."
A jolt of pain mixed with frustration cursed through Blaise and his wings tore at his clothes, yet the chains were strong; when he tried to fly away, the jerk pulling him backwards knocked the wind out of him.
[1] tristitia, ae: sadness, despair, or grief, in Latin.
