Sleep was not something to be found in the Lucas home that summer.
Frederic nearly drove me into the ground with his wish, no need, to
teach me as much as the six remaining weeks would allow. The techniques
he taught me grew more and more complicated, and at times, when the
mood took him, he would ambush me, just to see if I remembered anything
he had shown me. Invariably I did: one tends to remember things quite
clearly when someone comes at you with intention to hurt you.
That, of course, was after the hex-marks cleared. Vincent had not been forgiving when his brother forcibly cut his hair off. The house had echoed with curses the rest of the afternoon, and I had found Frederic tied up under one of the willows, his hair now a nice shade of blue, and with the words "I shall never curse my brother again" written across his face. Of course, as soon as I had untied him, he went on a hex-hunt for his brother.
Some things never change.
Vincent had arrived the next day with his hair tied back with a red piece of thread, looking everything but happy. He proceeded to teach me that the best way to find out what I was capable of was by trial and error, before slipping back into a thoughtful trance, no doubt imagining the grisly death of his brother. When he finally decided that killing his brother would be killing his last surviving family member, he let it go and helped me instead. It became easier with time to call him Vincent, even in my mind, though I avoided to say his name aloud as much as possible.
The summer passed in a series of lessons and exhausting nights, spent reading through my tiny library. At times, I had confusing dreams: I dreamed my father was alive and happy. While that might not be spectacular in itself, he always greeted me with a smile and congratulated me on finding such good friends, and on memorable occasions, such a wonderful girl. I dreamed my friends turned away from me, I had dream-visions of their dead and bleeding bodies. From those dreams, I woke up sweating and shivering, the fear from the dream carrying on into waking time.
At yet other times, I dreamed of the Forbidden Forest, of the raging Graphorn. But in those dreams, I was never quick enough, and Hermione died, her last words accusations of my guilt. Those dreams left me nauseous and shaking like a tree in a storm, sweating ice and nearly crying. I prided myself on crying very rarely: I could remember only twice since I was twelve. Once when Father died, and once during one of my breakdowns. But, in the middle of those dreams, I woke up choking on my tears. But then I always realised Hermione was still alive and safe in her home, and I could calm down again.
Sleep was a rare commodity, so I took what I could get and used it to the best of my abilities.
''''''''''''''
"Are there any limits to wandless magic?" I asked one day in the beginning of July. "Is there anything I won't be able to do?"
"Of course there are limits," Vincent said, looking up from his book. "You won't ever be able to bring people back from the dead. The will always be a backlash, of course, in proportion to what you do. If you simply light a candle, nothing much but a tiny weariness, but if you set fire to a whole house at once, well, you won't be able to stand up in the morning unless you're made of sterner stuff than most people."
"How come you know so much about wandless magic?"
"I made a study of it, after I left Hogwarts," he said quietly. "It lingers, long, long after the caster has died. I ran into a complicated sealing spell on a tomb in Bulgaria when I was twenty. No matter what we threw at it, it wouldn't break, so I sat down and figured it out in my head. It took me two weeks to realise that there was no magical signature made by a wand that felt like that. It was only then we realised we had run into something old, far older than the construction of Hogwarts: a true seal made by Merlin himself. And of course, everybody knew that Merlin didn't own a wand, that he did all his magic with nothing but his mind. So I set out to learn as much as possible about the condition. Which was how I came to know Linden, at the Department of Mysteries. I read, I listened, I felt and I remembered. I learned, slowly but surely, but I never knew what it would be like in reality."
"And what is it like?" I wondered, silently not believing what was happening: Vincent never talked about his past, between his graduation and his arrival at Hogwarts. For him to do so was a rare treat indeed.
"It frightens me." He said with a frankness that was unusual, even for him. "You're more powerful than I could ever imagine, but then I remind myself that you aren't a drop in the ocean compared to what I have seen so-called normal men and women do. But for all your power, all your danger, there are things you would just not do. Wandless magic is not something required to become dangerous: the vileness accomplished with a wand in hand is far greater than what I have seen of you, of Merlin, of San, or anyone else with your cursed gift."
A weary smile appeared on his face.
"What I have done, even, by far outmatches what you have done, will ever do. Do not be seduced by the promise of power, Zabini. Voldemort is for all his wishes of immortality, only human, and does not share his power readily. And even if he did, you would never be able to control it." Vincent looked so bone-tired that he was ready to fall asleep then and there. "Don't believe what they tell you, Zabini: the snake on your robes does not brand you as evil. There are things I cannot teach you, things no one but life can teach you. Don't let that be one of them."
The silence that followed was so heavy it cancelled out the sounds of our breathing. Rarely, if ever, did Vincent speak so openly about anything, and I planned to remember that conversation for a long time.
''''''''
"´Initiative comes to thems that wait.´"
"A Clockwork Orange. ´Here it is: The Irish Republican Navy.´"
"The Devil's Own. ´We're not sheep.´"
"Edward Scissorhands. That one was so easy: it's your favourite movie. ´It's got a wonderful defence-mechanism: You don't dare kill it.´"
"Alien." Frederic snorted to himself dismissively.
He and his brother were playing place-the-quote in the living room as I attempted to finish Le Feuvre's Compendium. Currently, they were choosing quotes from Muggle movies. I wasn't having much success, since the brothers' knowledge of Muggle popular culture seemed ridiculously extensive. How that came to be was a mystery, since they claimed not to have seen each other in years, yet seemed to have watched the same movies in the meantime. In Frederic, it might be explainable, since he collected quotes like other people collected clothing, but Vincent said he'd become a Dark Wizard upon leaving Hogwarts, and so could not possibly have seen much of Muggle culture.
"´Stupid is as stupid does´" Frederic continued, picking up the game again.
"Forrest Gump. ´You're afraid of our fleet. Well, you should be. Personally, I'd give us one chance in three. More tea?" Vincent followed up.
"The Hunt For Red October. Let's end this before we bore Zabini to tears," Frederic suggested.
"´And I Jack! The pumpkin king, is getting so tired of the same old thing´" I said, before Vincent had time to reply.
Frederic looked surprised for a moment, then puzzled, as did Vincent. I grinned behind my book and let them puzzle for a while. Not many would be able to recognise that quote: it wasn't as if A Nightmare Before Christmas was a movie most Muggles had seen, let alone wizards.
"Puzzle on that for a while. I'm going to finish my book and get some sleep." I said, before heading up the stairs.
'''''''
Using my wandless magic to create lingering spells turned out to be one of the most difficult things I had ever done. Pure force of will, such as deflecting spells and blowing Vincent off his feet (which I enjoyed doing perhaps a bit too much) was easy in comparison. To create a constant deflection shield around me was one of the first things Vincent wanted me to do.
It turned out to be harder than we thought.
If I saw the hex coming, I could deflect it easily after a few early trial runs, but to keep that shield up was difficult, time and power-consuming. However, if I didn't see the hex, it was only if I wore my green, magic- woven cloak that it was possible to soften the blow. If I didn't see it coming, I couldn't stop it. How could I possibly stop an unseen enemy? The answer to that question was hard-gained.
After weeks of trail and error, I found the simple/complex answer: I had to anchor the shield in myself, instead of building it up from thin air, and it had to become a subconscious reaction to have it up at all times. Only long use and habit would make it an unconscious response, but I nearly passed out in relief the day when I managed to even keep it up long enough to deflect ten random hexes Vincent threw at me. Like with all wandless magic, it became easier and easier to hold it up, and after four weeks, I could hold it up for almost a full day, enduring whatever spells Vincent threw at me.
It was far from a mastery of wandless magic: just like all other magic, it was something that grew with time, not stopping until the day of death. But it was a far cry from the uncontrolled bursts of magical energy I had showed while still in school. I felt more in control, more safe now than I had then. For more offensive spells, I still needed my wand. The green fire seemed to have been a one-time a fluke, a loss of control so severe that it had nearly set fire to the forest.
I could unlock locks, hold up a shield for about twelve hours straight before dropping it in exhaustion, do about fourth-year level magic, up to and including the Summoning Charm, Incendio, the Disarming Charm and Impedimenta. For more complicated offensive spells, I still needed my wand, though Vincent claimed it wasn't far off that I could trade in my wand for some new shirts. Frederic said I should scrap the shirts and just go with trousers, since, as he put it, was a crime against womankind to keep myself under clothing.
I kicked him in the ribs.
'''''''''''
Sometimes, when I had had a particularly bad dream, or just plain couldn't sleep, I'd walk the hallways of the Lucas ancestral home. Frederic slept like a child, not always in his bed, and sometimes I stumbled upon him in the living room, the kitchen or even the corridor, curled up in an armchair, on the floor or pillowed by a tapestry, sleeping quietly. He didn't snore, and neither did his brother. Vincent had his door firmly shut, but Frederic claimed it ran in the family not to snore, so I supposed he didn't.
At times, when these nightly walks weren't enough, I'd end up following Frederic's example by sleeping on the floor. Most of the time, I ended up with my back against the wall just outside the library, listening to the books' whispers as they read each other. It was a comforting sound, though both Frederic and Vincent believed me crazy when I told them. I'd scrape by on a couple of hours of sleep every night, comforted by the sound of the books, and wake up as cheerful as I could be in the morning. Frederic would always try to cheer the both of us up, and at times, even Vincent would relax and look amused at his antics.
"We need to be careful with him now," Frederic mock-whispered to his brother, gesturing at me. "Else he might to moon-struck on us."
"What?" Vincent looked confused. "I think you lost even me there, Frederic."
"Who's Hermione?" Frederic asked, turning to me.
"What? How do you – I've never talked about her with you," I stumbled over my words in surprise.
"You talk in your sleep." He informed me with a wide grin. "A lot."
"Oh? What do I say?" I wondered, slightly nervous.
"Well, there's a lot of mumblings about coffee, for some reason, and sometimes you scream. Not very coherently, mind you, but sometimes, you have these long, mumbled monologues to someone named Hermione, talking about how sorry you are." The grin on his face turned feral. "You got a girlfriend, kid?"
I spat out the coffee I had in my mouth, and it sprayed over the table at his question. Hermione – my girlfriend? Preposterous, that's what it was. That was inconceivable. It just did not happen. First off, she was a Gryffindor. Second, she was a Muggleborn: I didn't have a problem with it, but the rest of the world did. Third, she was Potter's best friend, and I couldn't stand Potter. Fourth, up until a few days before the end of term, I hadn't been able to stand her either. Distantly, I could hear Vincent choke on his toast.
"I believe," Vincent said when he finally came up for air again, "That it is immensely difficult to find two individuals more hostile towards each other than Zabini and Ms Hermione Granger. The exception might be Potter and Malfoy, perhaps."
"Seems he made up with her then," Frederic said brightly. "Since he's beggin' for forgiveness."
"I've made a truce with her, that's true," I said, regaining the use of my voice, "But she's not my girlfriend. She's a Gryffindor, for crying out loud: in the worst sense of the word. Sees something good in everyone, even Lucius-bloody-Malfoy if you'd let her. I can't stand her reasoning, so no, she's not my girlfriend."
"That's not what it sounded like to me," he grinned that annoying grin. "You was swearing up and down you'd never hurt her and all, going on and on about how sorry you was."
"Were, Frederic. The word is ´were´" Vincent corrected tiredly, looking every inch the resigned older brother. "Just leave the boy be, alright?"
After a few sniggers, Frederic did leave the topic, though he seemed to have a hard time containing his laughs the rest of the day. I grumbled and threw my coffee-cup at him, which he snatched up without hesitation and threw back. It was slowed down by the shield and fell ineffectually to the floor by my feet. Not bothering to pick it up, I retreated to my room to re- sort my books for the fortieth time. On the small desk, however, was a thick letter with the Hogwarts crest emblazoned on it.
Hesitantly, I picked it up, weighing it in my hands. It seemed so long ago I had gotten my last owl from Hogwarts, the one with my O.W.L-score. So many things had changed since that owl arrived: I was stronger now, older and much wiser than I had been then. I had lost a parent, gained friends, buried the hatchet with a member of a House my own House had hated for centuries. I had gained power, but at the cost of my own comfort, my own sanity to some extent. So it was with righteous hesitation I opened the letter.
Mr Zabini,
Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry hereby welcomes you to your seventh year of schooling. Enclosed in this letter follows a list of books required for the lessons you are to partake in. Please not that as a seventh year student, you are also required to take the Nearly Exhausting Wizarding Tests at the end of the year.
Sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts' Headmaster.
Well, that was the most bland letter I'd ever read. No strange greetings or words about lemon drops, as could be expected by our illustrious Headmaster. Picking up the envelope again, I pulled out the list of books I would be needing. It seemed to be the same as every year: and advanced Transfiguration book, some compendium of Charms, a new Arithmancy book, and, I noticed with an amused smirk, Le Feuvre's Compedium of Curses. Vincent must have been looking at what I had been reading. I put the list back in the envelope again, turning away from the desk and settling down in my bed.
That I spoke in my sleep had been a startling revelation. I had always believed myself to be if not a still sleeper, then at least a quiet one, but apparently I wasn't. The screams I could understand; I'd been screaming a lot in my dreams of people dying because of me. I could even understand the pleas for coffee, since I was addicted to the stuff. But the pleas to Hermione to forgive me? No, I couldn't even remember dreaming about it, much less speaking it aloud. And Frederic had accused me of fancying her. What a ridiculous thought.
She was much too Gryffindor. That noble wish to save everyone that seemed to be the curse Gryffindors were born with ran strong in her as well, though she wasn't as ready to reject authority as Potter was. She was bright enough to be a Ravenclaw, but chose to waste it on people who would never know what they got. And she wasn't beautiful, at least not in the sense Cho Chang, or that redhead in Diagon Alley had been. But then again, she wasn't trying most of the time: I could still remember clearly the Yule Ball in our fourth year, when she had walked through the doors on Krum's arm, looking as beautiful as I ever saw her. But she wasn't trying. I'd heard her tell someone it had taken her four hours to straighten out her hair, and I could remember wondering why. If Krum had thought her beautiful enough to go to the Ball with when she had hair like a scarecrow, what was the reason to change it?
Besides, she looked fine as she was. The bushy hair was just her, in a way. Just like over-zealous studying was, and the fact that she still had my hat and my book, and that she hadn't told her friends on me when we were fighting, she'd thanked me in the hospital wing after the Defence exam, even though I had been the reason she ended up there. She'd smiled and thanked me and I hadn't had the heart to tell her Vincent only sent me in there to test how strong I was, and that if she hadn't been with me, she'd be alright. I just couldn't tell her the cold truth, but it had been damn nigh impossible to lie to her.
It seemed wrong, somehow, to lie to her, and lying had been my modus operandi for over a year: in fact, she knew more of what had happened than my best friends did. If Millicent trusted me at all once the truth came out, I'd be lucky: It hurt like her to lie to people who would lay down their lives for me if I asked them to, but just as much as it hurt, I realised there was no choice. If they found out, if Hermione found out, it would, despite their wish, be all over Hogwarts, and then Voldemort would know, and I'd become a target in the sick game he played. And if I became one, so would they, and Hermione would be doubly in danger.
It wasn't until I had almost fallen asleep that I realised exactly what I had been thinking. Then, on the heels of that realisation came another, arriving with the same quiet terror the knowledge of Voldemort's resurrection had. In the past few weeks, I had thought and dreamt more about Hermione than about anyone else. And I had spent the last half hour trying to think of reasons not to like her, and hadn't come up with many valid ones. Staring at my pillow in misery, wondering if it was possible to smother oneself to death with it, I acknowledged what my mind had been keeping from me for months.
I liked, fancied, Hermione Granger.
Without further ado, any fatigue I had previously possessed fled in terror before this revelation. Giving up on getting any sleep for the rest of my miserable life, I got up and headed out of my room. It seemed the insanity had come around the corner too fast for me to even see it, but perhaps I could walk it off, logic it away, as it were. There had to be a way out of such a delusional state of mind. Poisoning came to mind quite readily. As did jumping off the roof of a particularly tall building.
My pacing brought me, like most other nights, the the doors of the library. In the absolute silence, I could hear the spidery whispers as the books read each other. I hoped to myself that none of the books was about the art of opening doors, because then who knew what would come out of that library. Turning my thoughts to more pressing matters, such as the fact that I fancied a girl who had more or less been a pre-destined enemy for six years.
"Why aren't you sleeping, Zabini?" Vincent appeared from the general direction of the kitchen.
"Because I'm trying to surgically remove some of my delusional thoughts," I replied truthfully. "And that doesn't make for very good sleeping material."
"It's been quite obvious that you're delusional for a while," Vincent pointed out, looking amused in his very own Vincent-way. "After all, you've been staying here without too many protests. What's the specifics this time?"
"Frederic was right." I responded, staring at the library doors as if they were the most fascinating thing I'd ever seen.
"Now that's something that doesn't occur often. Shall we celebrate the occasion?" He asked drily. "As soon as I know what the occasion is, if course."
"Remember breakfast?"
"I am not in the habit of forgetting meals, so yes, I do."
"He said I talk in my sleep about Hermione. Half an hour ago, or thereabouts, by deranged mind informed of the reason," I said, still not looking at him. It was hard enough to talk about these things with anyone, let alone with him.
"Ah. Girl-trouble. I wondered when it would strike you," he nodded thoughtfully. "The girl you chose to fancy might be a bit strange, when considering the circumstances, but all in all, not unexpected."
"It isn't?" I was surprised: we had been fighting on and off for almost a year, and it hadn't been lover's quarrels either. It had been full-scale, hurtful shouting-matches.
"Zabini, she has you hat." He pointed out, one eyebrow raised. "And you spent one whole week last year spying on her in the library. Don't tell me you thought no one noticed. I was just counting down the hours, really."
"I don't think she noticed." I said, feeling childish.
"Yes, but she's a Gryffindor, and in matters of the heart, they're a bit dense." He shrugged. "Come to think of it, most girls have a hard time believing someone fancies them. I spent a year and a half staring at Eos like an idiot, but she didn't notice more than to ask me if I needed help to the hospital wing."
"Eos? Please tell me you're not talking about Sinistra!" I exclaimed, trying my very best not to think about the implications. Teachers with love- lives, even failed ones, should be illegal.
"Don't sound so shocked," the eyebrow rose once more. "She was in my year when we went to school, and you're not the only one in the house with girl- trouble. Though in Frederic's case, it's more the ladies that have a problem with him."
"I'll go an poison myself now, if you don't mind." I said in a small voice, beating away thoughts of Vincent and Sinistra with a mental broomstick.
"Don't be silly, Zabini. I've worked too hard to let you die now." A smile, something that did not often grace his face, appeared. "And how do you know that Ms Granger isn't pacing through her house, debating her sanity because of you?"
"Because she's a genius," I snapped moodily, "And I'm a freak."
"Frederic's a freak. You're just moderately strange."
I did the only thing I could think of.
I stuck out my tongue at him.
''''''''
Ending Notes: Next chapter is probably going to be the last of SV2, though there's nothing certain when it comes to this fic. There are parts of this chapter that I don't like, but I'll have to suffer them since I can't seem to make them any better. I apologise in advance for any inconsistencies, time-line-wise, when it comes to the Muggle movie-quotes. I just pulled out the most obscure quotes I could find on the net, and ended up with those. And if that part seems strange, it's just to illustrate the schizophrenia that is Frederic.
That, of course, was after the hex-marks cleared. Vincent had not been forgiving when his brother forcibly cut his hair off. The house had echoed with curses the rest of the afternoon, and I had found Frederic tied up under one of the willows, his hair now a nice shade of blue, and with the words "I shall never curse my brother again" written across his face. Of course, as soon as I had untied him, he went on a hex-hunt for his brother.
Some things never change.
Vincent had arrived the next day with his hair tied back with a red piece of thread, looking everything but happy. He proceeded to teach me that the best way to find out what I was capable of was by trial and error, before slipping back into a thoughtful trance, no doubt imagining the grisly death of his brother. When he finally decided that killing his brother would be killing his last surviving family member, he let it go and helped me instead. It became easier with time to call him Vincent, even in my mind, though I avoided to say his name aloud as much as possible.
The summer passed in a series of lessons and exhausting nights, spent reading through my tiny library. At times, I had confusing dreams: I dreamed my father was alive and happy. While that might not be spectacular in itself, he always greeted me with a smile and congratulated me on finding such good friends, and on memorable occasions, such a wonderful girl. I dreamed my friends turned away from me, I had dream-visions of their dead and bleeding bodies. From those dreams, I woke up sweating and shivering, the fear from the dream carrying on into waking time.
At yet other times, I dreamed of the Forbidden Forest, of the raging Graphorn. But in those dreams, I was never quick enough, and Hermione died, her last words accusations of my guilt. Those dreams left me nauseous and shaking like a tree in a storm, sweating ice and nearly crying. I prided myself on crying very rarely: I could remember only twice since I was twelve. Once when Father died, and once during one of my breakdowns. But, in the middle of those dreams, I woke up choking on my tears. But then I always realised Hermione was still alive and safe in her home, and I could calm down again.
Sleep was a rare commodity, so I took what I could get and used it to the best of my abilities.
''''''''''''''
"Are there any limits to wandless magic?" I asked one day in the beginning of July. "Is there anything I won't be able to do?"
"Of course there are limits," Vincent said, looking up from his book. "You won't ever be able to bring people back from the dead. The will always be a backlash, of course, in proportion to what you do. If you simply light a candle, nothing much but a tiny weariness, but if you set fire to a whole house at once, well, you won't be able to stand up in the morning unless you're made of sterner stuff than most people."
"How come you know so much about wandless magic?"
"I made a study of it, after I left Hogwarts," he said quietly. "It lingers, long, long after the caster has died. I ran into a complicated sealing spell on a tomb in Bulgaria when I was twenty. No matter what we threw at it, it wouldn't break, so I sat down and figured it out in my head. It took me two weeks to realise that there was no magical signature made by a wand that felt like that. It was only then we realised we had run into something old, far older than the construction of Hogwarts: a true seal made by Merlin himself. And of course, everybody knew that Merlin didn't own a wand, that he did all his magic with nothing but his mind. So I set out to learn as much as possible about the condition. Which was how I came to know Linden, at the Department of Mysteries. I read, I listened, I felt and I remembered. I learned, slowly but surely, but I never knew what it would be like in reality."
"And what is it like?" I wondered, silently not believing what was happening: Vincent never talked about his past, between his graduation and his arrival at Hogwarts. For him to do so was a rare treat indeed.
"It frightens me." He said with a frankness that was unusual, even for him. "You're more powerful than I could ever imagine, but then I remind myself that you aren't a drop in the ocean compared to what I have seen so-called normal men and women do. But for all your power, all your danger, there are things you would just not do. Wandless magic is not something required to become dangerous: the vileness accomplished with a wand in hand is far greater than what I have seen of you, of Merlin, of San, or anyone else with your cursed gift."
A weary smile appeared on his face.
"What I have done, even, by far outmatches what you have done, will ever do. Do not be seduced by the promise of power, Zabini. Voldemort is for all his wishes of immortality, only human, and does not share his power readily. And even if he did, you would never be able to control it." Vincent looked so bone-tired that he was ready to fall asleep then and there. "Don't believe what they tell you, Zabini: the snake on your robes does not brand you as evil. There are things I cannot teach you, things no one but life can teach you. Don't let that be one of them."
The silence that followed was so heavy it cancelled out the sounds of our breathing. Rarely, if ever, did Vincent speak so openly about anything, and I planned to remember that conversation for a long time.
''''''''
"´Initiative comes to thems that wait.´"
"A Clockwork Orange. ´Here it is: The Irish Republican Navy.´"
"The Devil's Own. ´We're not sheep.´"
"Edward Scissorhands. That one was so easy: it's your favourite movie. ´It's got a wonderful defence-mechanism: You don't dare kill it.´"
"Alien." Frederic snorted to himself dismissively.
He and his brother were playing place-the-quote in the living room as I attempted to finish Le Feuvre's Compendium. Currently, they were choosing quotes from Muggle movies. I wasn't having much success, since the brothers' knowledge of Muggle popular culture seemed ridiculously extensive. How that came to be was a mystery, since they claimed not to have seen each other in years, yet seemed to have watched the same movies in the meantime. In Frederic, it might be explainable, since he collected quotes like other people collected clothing, but Vincent said he'd become a Dark Wizard upon leaving Hogwarts, and so could not possibly have seen much of Muggle culture.
"´Stupid is as stupid does´" Frederic continued, picking up the game again.
"Forrest Gump. ´You're afraid of our fleet. Well, you should be. Personally, I'd give us one chance in three. More tea?" Vincent followed up.
"The Hunt For Red October. Let's end this before we bore Zabini to tears," Frederic suggested.
"´And I Jack! The pumpkin king, is getting so tired of the same old thing´" I said, before Vincent had time to reply.
Frederic looked surprised for a moment, then puzzled, as did Vincent. I grinned behind my book and let them puzzle for a while. Not many would be able to recognise that quote: it wasn't as if A Nightmare Before Christmas was a movie most Muggles had seen, let alone wizards.
"Puzzle on that for a while. I'm going to finish my book and get some sleep." I said, before heading up the stairs.
'''''''
Using my wandless magic to create lingering spells turned out to be one of the most difficult things I had ever done. Pure force of will, such as deflecting spells and blowing Vincent off his feet (which I enjoyed doing perhaps a bit too much) was easy in comparison. To create a constant deflection shield around me was one of the first things Vincent wanted me to do.
It turned out to be harder than we thought.
If I saw the hex coming, I could deflect it easily after a few early trial runs, but to keep that shield up was difficult, time and power-consuming. However, if I didn't see the hex, it was only if I wore my green, magic- woven cloak that it was possible to soften the blow. If I didn't see it coming, I couldn't stop it. How could I possibly stop an unseen enemy? The answer to that question was hard-gained.
After weeks of trail and error, I found the simple/complex answer: I had to anchor the shield in myself, instead of building it up from thin air, and it had to become a subconscious reaction to have it up at all times. Only long use and habit would make it an unconscious response, but I nearly passed out in relief the day when I managed to even keep it up long enough to deflect ten random hexes Vincent threw at me. Like with all wandless magic, it became easier and easier to hold it up, and after four weeks, I could hold it up for almost a full day, enduring whatever spells Vincent threw at me.
It was far from a mastery of wandless magic: just like all other magic, it was something that grew with time, not stopping until the day of death. But it was a far cry from the uncontrolled bursts of magical energy I had showed while still in school. I felt more in control, more safe now than I had then. For more offensive spells, I still needed my wand. The green fire seemed to have been a one-time a fluke, a loss of control so severe that it had nearly set fire to the forest.
I could unlock locks, hold up a shield for about twelve hours straight before dropping it in exhaustion, do about fourth-year level magic, up to and including the Summoning Charm, Incendio, the Disarming Charm and Impedimenta. For more complicated offensive spells, I still needed my wand, though Vincent claimed it wasn't far off that I could trade in my wand for some new shirts. Frederic said I should scrap the shirts and just go with trousers, since, as he put it, was a crime against womankind to keep myself under clothing.
I kicked him in the ribs.
'''''''''''
Sometimes, when I had had a particularly bad dream, or just plain couldn't sleep, I'd walk the hallways of the Lucas ancestral home. Frederic slept like a child, not always in his bed, and sometimes I stumbled upon him in the living room, the kitchen or even the corridor, curled up in an armchair, on the floor or pillowed by a tapestry, sleeping quietly. He didn't snore, and neither did his brother. Vincent had his door firmly shut, but Frederic claimed it ran in the family not to snore, so I supposed he didn't.
At times, when these nightly walks weren't enough, I'd end up following Frederic's example by sleeping on the floor. Most of the time, I ended up with my back against the wall just outside the library, listening to the books' whispers as they read each other. It was a comforting sound, though both Frederic and Vincent believed me crazy when I told them. I'd scrape by on a couple of hours of sleep every night, comforted by the sound of the books, and wake up as cheerful as I could be in the morning. Frederic would always try to cheer the both of us up, and at times, even Vincent would relax and look amused at his antics.
"We need to be careful with him now," Frederic mock-whispered to his brother, gesturing at me. "Else he might to moon-struck on us."
"What?" Vincent looked confused. "I think you lost even me there, Frederic."
"Who's Hermione?" Frederic asked, turning to me.
"What? How do you – I've never talked about her with you," I stumbled over my words in surprise.
"You talk in your sleep." He informed me with a wide grin. "A lot."
"Oh? What do I say?" I wondered, slightly nervous.
"Well, there's a lot of mumblings about coffee, for some reason, and sometimes you scream. Not very coherently, mind you, but sometimes, you have these long, mumbled monologues to someone named Hermione, talking about how sorry you are." The grin on his face turned feral. "You got a girlfriend, kid?"
I spat out the coffee I had in my mouth, and it sprayed over the table at his question. Hermione – my girlfriend? Preposterous, that's what it was. That was inconceivable. It just did not happen. First off, she was a Gryffindor. Second, she was a Muggleborn: I didn't have a problem with it, but the rest of the world did. Third, she was Potter's best friend, and I couldn't stand Potter. Fourth, up until a few days before the end of term, I hadn't been able to stand her either. Distantly, I could hear Vincent choke on his toast.
"I believe," Vincent said when he finally came up for air again, "That it is immensely difficult to find two individuals more hostile towards each other than Zabini and Ms Hermione Granger. The exception might be Potter and Malfoy, perhaps."
"Seems he made up with her then," Frederic said brightly. "Since he's beggin' for forgiveness."
"I've made a truce with her, that's true," I said, regaining the use of my voice, "But she's not my girlfriend. She's a Gryffindor, for crying out loud: in the worst sense of the word. Sees something good in everyone, even Lucius-bloody-Malfoy if you'd let her. I can't stand her reasoning, so no, she's not my girlfriend."
"That's not what it sounded like to me," he grinned that annoying grin. "You was swearing up and down you'd never hurt her and all, going on and on about how sorry you was."
"Were, Frederic. The word is ´were´" Vincent corrected tiredly, looking every inch the resigned older brother. "Just leave the boy be, alright?"
After a few sniggers, Frederic did leave the topic, though he seemed to have a hard time containing his laughs the rest of the day. I grumbled and threw my coffee-cup at him, which he snatched up without hesitation and threw back. It was slowed down by the shield and fell ineffectually to the floor by my feet. Not bothering to pick it up, I retreated to my room to re- sort my books for the fortieth time. On the small desk, however, was a thick letter with the Hogwarts crest emblazoned on it.
Hesitantly, I picked it up, weighing it in my hands. It seemed so long ago I had gotten my last owl from Hogwarts, the one with my O.W.L-score. So many things had changed since that owl arrived: I was stronger now, older and much wiser than I had been then. I had lost a parent, gained friends, buried the hatchet with a member of a House my own House had hated for centuries. I had gained power, but at the cost of my own comfort, my own sanity to some extent. So it was with righteous hesitation I opened the letter.
Mr Zabini,
Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry hereby welcomes you to your seventh year of schooling. Enclosed in this letter follows a list of books required for the lessons you are to partake in. Please not that as a seventh year student, you are also required to take the Nearly Exhausting Wizarding Tests at the end of the year.
Sincerely,
Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts' Headmaster.
Well, that was the most bland letter I'd ever read. No strange greetings or words about lemon drops, as could be expected by our illustrious Headmaster. Picking up the envelope again, I pulled out the list of books I would be needing. It seemed to be the same as every year: and advanced Transfiguration book, some compendium of Charms, a new Arithmancy book, and, I noticed with an amused smirk, Le Feuvre's Compedium of Curses. Vincent must have been looking at what I had been reading. I put the list back in the envelope again, turning away from the desk and settling down in my bed.
That I spoke in my sleep had been a startling revelation. I had always believed myself to be if not a still sleeper, then at least a quiet one, but apparently I wasn't. The screams I could understand; I'd been screaming a lot in my dreams of people dying because of me. I could even understand the pleas for coffee, since I was addicted to the stuff. But the pleas to Hermione to forgive me? No, I couldn't even remember dreaming about it, much less speaking it aloud. And Frederic had accused me of fancying her. What a ridiculous thought.
She was much too Gryffindor. That noble wish to save everyone that seemed to be the curse Gryffindors were born with ran strong in her as well, though she wasn't as ready to reject authority as Potter was. She was bright enough to be a Ravenclaw, but chose to waste it on people who would never know what they got. And she wasn't beautiful, at least not in the sense Cho Chang, or that redhead in Diagon Alley had been. But then again, she wasn't trying most of the time: I could still remember clearly the Yule Ball in our fourth year, when she had walked through the doors on Krum's arm, looking as beautiful as I ever saw her. But she wasn't trying. I'd heard her tell someone it had taken her four hours to straighten out her hair, and I could remember wondering why. If Krum had thought her beautiful enough to go to the Ball with when she had hair like a scarecrow, what was the reason to change it?
Besides, she looked fine as she was. The bushy hair was just her, in a way. Just like over-zealous studying was, and the fact that she still had my hat and my book, and that she hadn't told her friends on me when we were fighting, she'd thanked me in the hospital wing after the Defence exam, even though I had been the reason she ended up there. She'd smiled and thanked me and I hadn't had the heart to tell her Vincent only sent me in there to test how strong I was, and that if she hadn't been with me, she'd be alright. I just couldn't tell her the cold truth, but it had been damn nigh impossible to lie to her.
It seemed wrong, somehow, to lie to her, and lying had been my modus operandi for over a year: in fact, she knew more of what had happened than my best friends did. If Millicent trusted me at all once the truth came out, I'd be lucky: It hurt like her to lie to people who would lay down their lives for me if I asked them to, but just as much as it hurt, I realised there was no choice. If they found out, if Hermione found out, it would, despite their wish, be all over Hogwarts, and then Voldemort would know, and I'd become a target in the sick game he played. And if I became one, so would they, and Hermione would be doubly in danger.
It wasn't until I had almost fallen asleep that I realised exactly what I had been thinking. Then, on the heels of that realisation came another, arriving with the same quiet terror the knowledge of Voldemort's resurrection had. In the past few weeks, I had thought and dreamt more about Hermione than about anyone else. And I had spent the last half hour trying to think of reasons not to like her, and hadn't come up with many valid ones. Staring at my pillow in misery, wondering if it was possible to smother oneself to death with it, I acknowledged what my mind had been keeping from me for months.
I liked, fancied, Hermione Granger.
Without further ado, any fatigue I had previously possessed fled in terror before this revelation. Giving up on getting any sleep for the rest of my miserable life, I got up and headed out of my room. It seemed the insanity had come around the corner too fast for me to even see it, but perhaps I could walk it off, logic it away, as it were. There had to be a way out of such a delusional state of mind. Poisoning came to mind quite readily. As did jumping off the roof of a particularly tall building.
My pacing brought me, like most other nights, the the doors of the library. In the absolute silence, I could hear the spidery whispers as the books read each other. I hoped to myself that none of the books was about the art of opening doors, because then who knew what would come out of that library. Turning my thoughts to more pressing matters, such as the fact that I fancied a girl who had more or less been a pre-destined enemy for six years.
"Why aren't you sleeping, Zabini?" Vincent appeared from the general direction of the kitchen.
"Because I'm trying to surgically remove some of my delusional thoughts," I replied truthfully. "And that doesn't make for very good sleeping material."
"It's been quite obvious that you're delusional for a while," Vincent pointed out, looking amused in his very own Vincent-way. "After all, you've been staying here without too many protests. What's the specifics this time?"
"Frederic was right." I responded, staring at the library doors as if they were the most fascinating thing I'd ever seen.
"Now that's something that doesn't occur often. Shall we celebrate the occasion?" He asked drily. "As soon as I know what the occasion is, if course."
"Remember breakfast?"
"I am not in the habit of forgetting meals, so yes, I do."
"He said I talk in my sleep about Hermione. Half an hour ago, or thereabouts, by deranged mind informed of the reason," I said, still not looking at him. It was hard enough to talk about these things with anyone, let alone with him.
"Ah. Girl-trouble. I wondered when it would strike you," he nodded thoughtfully. "The girl you chose to fancy might be a bit strange, when considering the circumstances, but all in all, not unexpected."
"It isn't?" I was surprised: we had been fighting on and off for almost a year, and it hadn't been lover's quarrels either. It had been full-scale, hurtful shouting-matches.
"Zabini, she has you hat." He pointed out, one eyebrow raised. "And you spent one whole week last year spying on her in the library. Don't tell me you thought no one noticed. I was just counting down the hours, really."
"I don't think she noticed." I said, feeling childish.
"Yes, but she's a Gryffindor, and in matters of the heart, they're a bit dense." He shrugged. "Come to think of it, most girls have a hard time believing someone fancies them. I spent a year and a half staring at Eos like an idiot, but she didn't notice more than to ask me if I needed help to the hospital wing."
"Eos? Please tell me you're not talking about Sinistra!" I exclaimed, trying my very best not to think about the implications. Teachers with love- lives, even failed ones, should be illegal.
"Don't sound so shocked," the eyebrow rose once more. "She was in my year when we went to school, and you're not the only one in the house with girl- trouble. Though in Frederic's case, it's more the ladies that have a problem with him."
"I'll go an poison myself now, if you don't mind." I said in a small voice, beating away thoughts of Vincent and Sinistra with a mental broomstick.
"Don't be silly, Zabini. I've worked too hard to let you die now." A smile, something that did not often grace his face, appeared. "And how do you know that Ms Granger isn't pacing through her house, debating her sanity because of you?"
"Because she's a genius," I snapped moodily, "And I'm a freak."
"Frederic's a freak. You're just moderately strange."
I did the only thing I could think of.
I stuck out my tongue at him.
''''''''
Ending Notes: Next chapter is probably going to be the last of SV2, though there's nothing certain when it comes to this fic. There are parts of this chapter that I don't like, but I'll have to suffer them since I can't seem to make them any better. I apologise in advance for any inconsistencies, time-line-wise, when it comes to the Muggle movie-quotes. I just pulled out the most obscure quotes I could find on the net, and ended up with those. And if that part seems strange, it's just to illustrate the schizophrenia that is Frederic.