A/N Hello patient readers. It's been too long… truly. This last year has been quite a whirlwind for me, transitioning from the life of a grad student to a professional career. It has come with more highs and lows than I ever thought possible. Through it all I have continued to keep SS with me in the back of my mind. One of the reasons I've not moved forward with the story is because it's taken me a long while to get to know a new character. We don't know much about him from JKR's oeuvre, so nearly all of the details must be created and filled in. His inclusion is necessary for the plot to move along as more players get spun into Hermione's arithmancy calculations. Once more I thank all of you who have read, commented, PMed, and shared this story. I am ever grateful for your support. As per the usual disclaimer, everything recognizable belongs to JKRowling; I'm just getting my creative writing on.
"Thank you for joining us, Miss Granger. We've been waiting so patiently for your arrival." Professor Snape's eerily calm voice cut through the classroom. No one dared shuffle a piece of parchment, drop a quill, or so much as breathe. Although she knew he was an ally, it was so easy to slip into those early feelings from First Year of intimidation and fear. Ice froze her spine straight just inside the classroom door. She hesitated a moment, but the thaw came quickly and she made her way to her seat.
"I apologize, Professor. I stopped at the Gorgon Tapestry to roust some students in collusion."
"Be that as it may, your Head duties still do not permit you to be late to class. Twenty points from Gryffindor!" he snapped and turned in a great billow toward the chalkboard. That was the end of it. The loss of house points was a regrettable side effect of needing to maintain the pretense. Her chair scraped a bit as she shuffled into place to snug her body against the well-worn soapstone tabletop. As she settled herself, the professor safely engaged in magically putting the day's lesson on the board, she scanned the room. Of course she specifically avoided glancing anywhere near Draco's usual seat and focused her covert attention on spotting Harry and Ron.
To her surprise and relief, they were both present and sitting in their usual places. Ron was staring vacantly toward the front of the classroom, but Harry directly met her gaze. When he knew he had her attention, his eyebrows raised in a question. She assumed he was asking if she had really been late because of her Head duties. The best lies were those laced with truth. She certainly had been to the alcove and certainly had been unexpectedly detained. A sharp nod in the affirmative seemed to appease him as he smiled and turned his attention toward the board. Maybe he really had come around.
"Given our disastrous brewing on Friday, including the marginally acceptable potion produced by Mister Malfoy and Miss Granger, it seems to me that you require a deeper engagement with the theory that underpins the praxis. Therefore, you shall write for me no less than sixty centimeters of parchment detailing the complex intertwining of the spellwork and brewing procedure. Begin!" Professor Snape's usual barked order rang through the classroom, and students began feverishly digging through satchels and cases for the appropriate materials.
"Bless you," thought Hermione as she too arranged her parchment and ever-inked quill to begin her essay. It was exactly what she needed. She could throw herself into the writing, making strict organized sense of the potion and its spellwork with very little need to look around the room, let alone speak to anyone. Most importantly, she could channel all of her energy into the assignment, leaving none for agonizing about how to get back at Draco. There would be no distraction, hence no opportunity to let the kneazle out of the bag. Who did he think he was, yanking her into that alcove and then just casually walking out on her? Even if his intent was to make her mad—and she was—it was still a completely foolish thing to do.
The familiar scratching of the nib against the paper calmed her and the magical interaction between potion and spell materialized in the ink left behind. She did her best to make it last, drawing each word with care instead of racing to get her ideas on the page. Hermione knew that the assignment would not take up the entire class period, but she hoped it would be at least a solid third of it. The longer it took her (and her classmates) to write, the less time she had to dwell on and steal glances at the person she was supposed to hate.
**SS**
Severus Snape returned to his seat behind his desk, giving one final glower to the general assembly before shuffling a stack of papers in need of grading. It struck his sense of humor that even with the Dark Lord on the rampage, he still had to grade all of the bloody papers. "We must keep up the façade," Albus had told him uncountable times.
**SS**
Ginny turned the last corner to the charms classroom. She didn't really want to go. Instead, she imagined herself down on the quidditch pitch practicing her dives and feints. It was freezing cold and the wind would bite through her winter practice robes as easily as she bit into trifle, but zipping through the sky would have given her time to better examine her unexpected run-in with Blaise. Instead she had to go to class, and Professor Flitwick was one of the few professors who did little recitation. Especially at the advanced levels it was all practical work, so there would be no time for daydreaming.
Taking her usual seat in the fourth row, she arranged her things in their usual way as well. Wand, placed neatly in the well-worn cradle at the head of the table. A fresh parchment roll under her wand and just to the left. An ever-inked quill (with a riotously colored peacock feather attached to the quill shaft) placed just to the right. The objects occupied the same position, more or less, for the last six years. Not for the first time did Ginny wonder how many more times these items would sit in just this way. Most people tried to carry on as if it was all as per usual, but there were some moments when it was nearly impossible. "The solstice is approaching," Blaise had said very early this morning. "And if many of us are left alive after the shortest day, including myself, I'll be very much surprised."
She had backed into the kitchens with her wandtip still touching his throat. At any moment, he could've tackled her or drawn his own wand. She was quick, but it would've been tough to fire off a spell if he had moved to attack her. Instead, he followed her passively into the kitchens with his hands held in front of his chest and palms facing her in the universal signal for "I'm unarmed." She could hear the house elves scurry behind her as they moved further into the room. Though they had become accustomed to many students coming to the kitchens—Fred and George particularly—she was sure the elves rarely saw this kind of aggressive display in that space.
"Prepared to take that oath now?" she sternly questioned.
"Absolutely," Blaise immediately responded without a hint of hesitation.
"Do you swear that you will truthfully speak with me about your political allegiances in this war between Voldemort and the Light?"
"I swear that I will truthfully and completely tell you about my political allegiances concerning Voldemort and the Light."
The familiar magic swirled around them and settled into their bodies, making the oath effective. Ginny slowly lowered her wand and placed it back in the usual concealed (but quickly accessible!) pocket. They both took a step back, putting some much needed space between them. They stared at each other for a long time as neither was prepared to speak. Oaths could be tricky. Blaise added "completely" to his part of the binding. It could mean that once he started talking about the war, he could have to continue talking until he had no more to say without repeating himself. It might mean that he would be compelled to talk about the war with Ginny every time he saw her. They wouldn't know how the magic interpreted the words of the oath until one of them dared to break the silence.
She blinked hard as the peripheral edges of her vision began to prickle. Oaths also took a lot out of a person, especially the caster. She lifted her hands to rub her knuckles into her eyes, but the simple movement only exacerbated the issue and her sight clouded more. She needed to sit down, but moving did not seem like a good idea.
"Would someone please bring Miss Weasley a chair?" The question was polite, but had an edge of urgency and concern.
There was a pop noise and Blaise stepped forward to help lower her into the plush chair that had appeared just behind her. Ginny was cursing herself. Not two minutes ago she had been ready to hex Blaise into next week. Now here she was feeling weak and vulnerable in the hands of the enemy. Moody would not be impressed. Still, there was no denying it felt good to sit. It occurred to her that although she had taken lots of oaths over the last six months or so, this was the first one she had enacted. "Damn," she thought, "Hermione always made it look so easy."
"Here, drink this." A cold, sweated glass was placed between her hands and held there until she gripped it tightly on her own. "It's pumpkin juice. It will help."
"In for a knut, in for a galleon," she mumbled and took a swig of the juice. The effect was immediate and refreshing in her mouth, which she suddenly realized had gone dry like the winter swamp brush surrounding The Burrow.
"I gave my first oath over the summer. You fared better than I did. I actually blacked out." Blaise had also been given a seat, and he was now sitting opposite her with his elbows perched on his knees, fingers lightly steepled together. He grinned.
She smirked in response briefly before downing the rest of her juice. An elf immediately dashed to her side to retrieve the empty glass. "Is there anything else Tipton can get for Miss Weasley or Mr. Zabini?"
"If there's any around, it would be great if we could have some of the tiramisu," supplied Blaise. A quick positive nod and Tipton scampered away to another part of the kitchen to fetch the dessert.
"Tiramisu?"
"It's comfort food for me. You do know my parents are Italian, right? I mean, my last name surely gives it away." He grinned through his gentle sarcasm, and Tipton returned with two forks and plates, each adorned with a perfectly sliced square of the dessert. "Thank you," said Blaise as he accepted the plate handed to him.
"Thank you," echoed Ginny as Tipton bowed and once more, flitted away. Not yet prepared to start her interrogation, she used the edge of the fork to dissect one of the corners from the square, leaving a distinct downward drag to the layers of lady fingers and cream. She savored the morsel, slowly pulling the fork from her lips and allowing the taste and texture of the coffee soaked biscuit to pervade her mouth before starting to chew. It was earthy and sweet and divine.
"See. Just the thing the mediwitch ordered. It feels decadent because the flavors are so rich, but it's so light to eat and not overly sweet. The perfect thing for a midnight snack." She watched as he removed bite after bite with the tines of his fork, sometimes twisting the laden utensil 180 degrees just as it reached his mouth. It seemed a perilous business eating in that way; if she had tried it, she was sure she would've ended up with a glop of it on her robes. They both cleared their plates, sharing satisfied smiles. Blaise licked his lips and said, "Don't tell my mum, but the tiramisu here at Hogwarts is loads better than hers."
"Fair enough, so long as you don't tell my mum the same about the bangers and mash."
"Deal." They sat for a long moment as Ginny prepared to dive into the intended conversation. To her relief, Blaise beat her to the finish line.
"My parents came to England in the late 1980s. You might know that they're in finance, working with witches and wizards in all kinds of investments, liaising with the goblins at Gringotts, helping people organize their money. After the war ended, a lot of people needed to rebuild their lives, and my mum and dad saw an opportunity to help people while also changing their own circumstances. Course when they first got to London, things were pretty tough. Even with good translation charms, they didn't speak the language so that was a thing. People were pretty mistrusting because of that.
It also didn't help that we were black. Let's face it, we stuck out like a sore thumb to a lot of wizarding society. But, my parents are purebloods, so that—even after the turmoil of the war—was a way for them to build favor. It took time, but eventually they became pretty successful, and when I received my letter to Hogwarts, that was more confirmation for them, and some other people, that we really belonged here." He paused.
It occurred to Ginny that in about a minute's time, Zabini told her more about himself than she had ever cared to know. He had always just been another member of Draco's goon squad; as a death eater groupie, she wrote him off in the same way as Crabbe or Goyle. Though he had never said or done much in any of the interactions she had ever been in or watched, Blaise was a fixture in that group always standing in the margins. Now that she quickly thought back on those memories, she could only recall that Blaise had maintained some kind of blasé boredom while Draco frequently instigated the situation.
"My parents worked out pretty early how savvy they needed to be in order to build their clientele to get their business going. I was young, but I watched as they tried to emphasize their commonalities with other witches and wizards while downplaying other things that were sometimes blatantly held against them. For example, once they really learned how to speak English well, they presented speaking Italian as a segue way to international business opportunities, that they could use their native language to benefit clients that had interest in investing in Italian markets or properties. Who doesn't want a holiday home in the Mediterranean?" His delivery of the question sounded a little like a sales pitch. For measured effect, he winked at her.
"I wasn't surprised when I was sorted into Slytherin. It made complete sense to me, given the education I received in watching mum and dad. And of course within the first few days, it became pretty clear who positioned themselves as important. Even First Year, Draco was one to watch. Even the older kids sometimes casually ignored him instead of reprimanding him despite being a spoiled, annoying little shit. I didn't know much about his homelife or his father, but I understood he would be advantageous to get to know.
In the beginning, he really was just a spoiled brat. He talked a lot of nonsense and threatened his father at the drop of a hat. For a lot of our housemates, that was enough to either keep out of his way or suck up to him. At 11, I saw him for what he was, a scared kid trying to live up to the expectations of his father. And that was me as well. The weight of responsibility to not fuck up was immense. I mean, here I am, an immigrant kid living amongst the other kids of people who my own parents worked for. I also felt a lot of pressure to make friends so that those new relationships could potentially become social or business connections for my parents. He and I, we were both trying to live up to the shadow, albeit in different ways."
It struck Ginny that this was what Ron had been coping with his whole life. With so many older brothers, he was always in their shadows, always "ickle Ronnikins" as the youngest boy. And after he came to Hogwarts, he not only had to contend with his brothers' reputations, but after he became friends with Harry, that added straw to the camel's back. Where Draco became a world class prat, Ron became class clown and second fiddle, deciding that he would never reach the bars set ahead of him. Still, for as tough as that was for Ron, he was demonstrably loved by his family and friends. That clearly counted for something. She mentally resolved to find Ron in the morning and give him a pep talk as Blaise continued his story.
"You know how it is, living in the dormitories. Even in Slytherin, where we're sizing each other up all of the bloody time, there are moments of vulnerability, moments where we bond with each other, particularly in the earlier years. In Second Year herbology, Draco and I became study partners. Turns out that we're both really good at the subject, and we worked well together and became mates. Well, as close to mates as you can be in Slytherin House. Then of course the basilisk thing happened, and the low level hum that had always been in the dungeons about Voldemort got a little louder.
By the end of Third Year, the hum was whispered talk and Draco got more and more sullen and tried harder to emulate his father. My housemates started taking sides for things that they didn't really understand except through parroting their parents. I hung back and took it in, remaining neutral as much as possible. From there it got progressively worse. It got harder for me to stay out of the conversations, and I took every opportunity to stay near Draco so I could let the other hangers-on like Parkinson or Goyle take up all of the oxygen.
I am, by birth, a pureblood. There's no mistaking that. I can trace my family lineage back damn near eight hundred years. But I've read plenty of books about the war, and I know that my blood is not nearly enough to save me or my parents when Voldemort comes to power." Here Ginny cut him off.
"What exactly do you mean by 'when Voldemort comes to power'? Are you projecting that future because you support him? Or, because you need to figure out how to sneak by?"
"Ginny, the solstice is approaching," he said gently. "And if many of us are left alive after the shortest day, including myself, I'll be very much surprised. But if my family survives, we might last a few years as the death eaters weed out the halfbloods and muggleborns first, but soon that won't be enough in the quest for a supreme and pure wizarding race. Our heritage and our skin visibly mark us as different…"
At the last, Blaise clamped his mouth shut and tightly pressed his lips together. Immediately, Ginny understood that he was fighting the oath. He clearly had told her loads, but there was something else that he desperately wanted to keep concealed. Sooner or later, the oath would compel him to tell her his secret. His lips began to turn pale from the force of keeping them together while his cheeks tinged red. A few more seconds and he closed his eyes, taking steady breaths. She wondered if he was bargaining with himself, if he could mentally promise to tell her at another time or to only tell her just enough. There had never been a situation when she felt this compulsion; she would have to ask Hermione about it later.
Blaise's face began to relax and the tension of his white grimace faded when he opened his eyes and continued. "Also, if blood was the only consideration for maintaining racial superiority, sooner or later Voldemort would start to persecute people who either never intended to or could not have children. I also fall into this category."
Ginny's eyes went wide. This was not something she had ever considered. Coming from such a big family, she decided years ago that she absolutely did not want children. When she was having sex, it was never enough for her to be on the Potion. Oh, she completely trusted Hermione's brewing skills, but she wanted absolutely no possibility of an accident. So, she also used the charm and both herself and her partner as well. She wasn't taking any chances. If she didn't want any kids and Voldy came to power, would she somehow be forced to have them? The thought made her sick to her stomach. The idea that she would be like a broodmare for the sake of carrying on her bloodline was almost more than she could handle.
"I've never wanted children," she whispered. It was the first time she had ever told anyone that. Her mum, of course, expected that she would meet a nice wizard and settle down to raise a family. Her dreams of becoming a quidditch star and traveling the world as the UK's ambassador were preposterous to Molly. Why would she want that? Why would she want to be so far from The Burrow? They hardly saw Charlie or Bill, just a few times a year really, and Molly took every opportunity to remind her of that when she started to talk about her dream adult life.
Blaise's face softened, and he sympathetically smiled and nodded. "And I'm not particularly likely to have them," he replied. She scrunched her eyebrows together, still unsure about what he was saying. Was there something wrong with him? Had there been some kind of accident that made it difficult or impossible for him to father children? She was about to ask when he rose from the chair and stretched, his torso curving backward into a C with his arms extended tautly above his head. "It seems I've fulfilled the oath to satisfaction. I don't know about you, but I'm beat. Time to head for Bedfordshire. Let's do this again. Next time you can pick the snack and tell me some of your story." He was already hefting open the heavy door to the kitchens as she stood, rooted to the spot, still unable to put the pieces together.
"But Blaise, what do you mean you're unlikely to have kids? Is there something wrong?" Given that he was able to break away from their conversation, it seemed true that the oath had run its course. She knew he didn't have to answer her question; he could just walk away. Still, he paused in the doorway and then turned around to face her, propping the door with his right hand.
"Typically, a man needs a woman to have a child. Let's just say that's not my bite of tiramisu."
And then he was gone.
"Miss Weasley. Oh, Miss Weasley." Ginny jolted in her seat. Professor Flitwick was standing directly in front of her desk. "There you are, Miss Weasley. Would you kindly come back down from the clouds and demonstrate the protego charm on the mannequin?"
"Yes, of course professor." And, like she had a hundred or more times before, Ginny rose from her seat, swished her wand to articulate the charm's movement, and cast her magic.
"Very good, Miss Weasley, as always!" Professor Flitwick complimented. "Now, who shall try to break through her charm?" He excitedly questioned, seeking one of her classmates for a further demonstration. There would be no more time to consider all she had learnt about Blaise Zabini.