Edited 20th February 2014 to remove review responses and superfluous author's notes.

6. Without Wings

Draco might not have wondered further about the enigma that was Blaise were it not for the fast approaching Quidditch match; the traditional season-starter between Slytherin and Gryffindor. As Seeker and Captain, the responsibility fell heavily upon his shoulders; if they did not win, it would be his fault. He was nervous, too, though he wouldn't have admitted it for the world. They hadn't won against Gryffindor for too long, and he knew it. It was all because of Potter; they could win if it wasn't for him and his precious Firebolt…

He had a sudden flash of inspiration. He saw, in his mind's eye, that fateful game in second year, when Potter had lunged towards him and he had thought he was being attacked. A plan began to formulate in his mind, a plan that revolved around a single fact: in Quidditch, there could be no substitutes.

He found Blaise Zabini where he expected to find him; in the common room, alone, idly levitating scraps of paper. He felt a twinge of fear; last time he had spoken to the boy, he had ended up inches from death. Although he was certain that Zabini was insane, he needed him. Thoughts of lifting the Quidditch and House Cups flashed across his mind, strengthening his resolve and giving him the courage he needed to approach the lone figure.

He moved quietly, but Blaise sensed his approach, and looked up. A glare from the dark, fathomless eyes was enough to stop Draco in his tracks at five yards. If his mission hadn't seemed so important to him, he would have got away as quickly as possible. Blaise had neither forgiven nor forgotten, one look was enough to tell him that. He could read a terrible murderous intent in those eyes, laying dormant, flickering just beneath the brittle, civilised façade.

"Malfoy." Blaise made the word sound like an insult. "What do you want with me?"

Draco couldn't think of any way that he could say it that would make Blaise any more likely to listen, so he just said: "I need you for the Quidditch team, Zabini."

The dark boy looked away and resumed his paper charming. "I don't fly, Malfoy. You know that. You know why, too. You can't possibly be that desperate for players that you'd ask me."

Draco did indeed know why Blaise refused to fly. Ever since their third year he had developed a hatred for flying. He was good; he might, with practice, have been better than Draco himself, but since that night in the rainstorm, it would be easier to get Hogwarts itself to fly than to get Blaise Zabini on a broom. Another thing that was his own fault, thought Draco, groaning inwardly. He had ruined his own plan three years ago. There was no chance now. He looked at Blaise's face, curiously, and saw that his left cheek still bore the old scar. Another thing unforgotten, rearing its ugly head in the face of Draco's enthusiasm.

But this was important to him, so he persisted, "You're good, and you know you are. Our new Chasers haven't got a hope. Besides," he lowered his voice, "in a Quidditch player, your temper might not be a disadvantage. Particularly against Gryffindor."

Blaise looked up sharply. "I know what you mean," he said, bluntly. "You won't say it, but I know. You want me to get Potter out of the air, just so that you can win. I won't do it, Malfoy. Winning isn't important to me. Not important enough to conquer my fear – yes, fear, Malfoy – of flying, not important enough to injure someone who's never hurt me, just so you can parade around with the Quidditch Cup. No one likes me, I know. I just don't want to give them a reason to hate me."

Draco knew determination when he saw it. He was about to admit defeat, and had half turned away, when a thought hit him squarely between the eyes. He cursed himself for a fool for never having seen it before.

He spun back round again. "You will fly, Blaise," he hissed. "You'll fly, else the whole school will find out."

Blaise merely snorted. "Find out what, Malfoy?" he threw out the words as a challenge. Draco began to doubt himself. Zabini did not look as if he were harbouring a secret at all. But it was far too good a chance to miss.

"You know what I mean." He saw a flicker of fear, hastily suppressed, which gave him the conviction to continue. "If you don't fly, Zabini, everyone will know"- he lowered his voice – "that you are in love with Ginny Weasley."

There was no doubt about it now. The shocked gasping inrush of air, the stricken look on Blaise's face, though gone in an instant, left no room for denial.

"That's blackmail, Malfoy," Blaise said, stunned.

Draco smiled to himself. He had been right. He was always right. He looked up, expecting to see Zabini ready to beg him, expecting to be able to sneer, to tell his hapless victim that he'd brought it all on himself… And then he met Blaise's gaze, and he quailed. There was no pleading there, nor would there ever be. He ought to have realised that giving in to blackmail was not going to be the obvious choice for Blaise. He could feel the enmity and violent intent pouring from the other boy in waves. He was nervous; it seemed he could never get the upper hand.

"You wouldn't dare." It was a statement. Blaise Zabini didn't beg anymore. Malfoy was scared. But he steeled himself. He needed to win that Cup, and for that he needed Blaise.

"I would," he replied, silkily. "You wouldn't dare kill me, Blaise. You wouldn't want to end up in your own private cell, chained to the wall, surrounded by Dementors… and that's assuming the Ministry don't get you first."

Blaise gave in. There was no other way out. He didn't want to become a murderer. He tried one last appeal. "Okay, I'll fly. I'm not about to cripple Potter for you, though. You can do that yourself. I'm not a violent man, Draco. When I attacked you the other day… it took three years to build that much resentment up. I wouldn't be able to hurt Potter. I just wouldn't be able to get angry enough."

"You don't have to get angry, Blaise, just knock him off his bloody broom!" Draco snapped, more loudly than he had intended. It was a good job that the common room was nearly empty. Before the other could reply, he got up, and swept out, pausing once in the doorway to swing round and say, "Think about it, Blaise. What would you rather be: a disgrace, or a hero?" He left and shut the door behind him before Blaise could react.

Not that he could even move. Blaise was rooted to the spot by the stark choice afforded him: face exposure, or commit an act alien to his normally quiet temperament. For he had spoken the truth to Malfoy; he was not a violent man. And he had sworn that he would never fly again after he had been left, broomless and bleeding, fifty feet from the ground, clutching a tree branch. He had known what Malfoy was then, when he had left the Quidditch field with Blaise's broom, laughing. He had known, but like a fool he had not done anything about it. He was frightened, now. He would almost rather face exposure than take part in Malfoy's cheating plans.

Almost.

Ginny Weasley was a pureblood, and he had never been treated with any emotion more friendly than scorn by any pureblood he'd ever met. Added to his association with Malfoy (even if they no longer spoke), he was sure that the Gryffindor would never welcome his attentions, even if she could get over his physical imperfections. There was only one thing for it; Ginny could never know. If it became known… he would die of embarrassment. Not to mention that all those people who had been perfectly happy all these years not to know that he existed would discover him. Blaise didn't mind not being liked. It was being ridiculed that he just couldn't stand.

He sat, frozen, for some time, oblivious to movement around him. No one bothered him. They were used to his strange moods, and his trance-like states which could last for hours. He was brought back to himself by Daniel Fletcher, the only one, seemingly, who cared enough to check that he was still alive.

"What's up, Blaise? You haven't moved since I saw you last," there was concern written all over his face, most probably genuine.

"I have to fly in the match on Saturday," Blaise croaked.

"You? Fly?" Daniel snorted. "I'd like to see the person who tries to make you!"

"Malfoy came to me today," said Blaise, so quietly that Daniel had to lower his ear slightly to catch the words. "He threatened me. If I don't play, and if I don't somehow disable Potter, he'll tell everyone how I feel about…her." He couldn't say her name. Somehow it seemed like an insult to her. And you could never tell who might be listening to your conversation in the Slytherin common room.

"So?" Daniel was nothing if not practical. "Blaise, you're overreacting. Let Malfoy say what he wants. It's his fault that you're scared of flying, so it's hard luck if he needs you. It doesn't matter if he does tell everyone. He's going to anyway; he just wants to dangle it over your head for a few weeks more. And once it's out in the open you can always deny it."

Relief flooded Blaise's troubled mind. He was not good at thinking in an emotional crisis. He was better at dealing with bigger problems. Malfoy's blackmail had been enough to throw him into a panic. Now Daniel was here, it was all going to be alright. Except…

"If she asks me, I won't be able to deny it, Dan."

Daniel was suddenly seized by an idea, and a large grin was creeping over his tanned face. "Maybe Malfoy won't be telling everyone after all," he said, in a wickedly innocent tone.

"What's on your mind?" Blaise asked, suspicion creeping in.

"Don't worry your pretty head about it," smirked Daniel. "If I get you out of flying, promise you'll ask no questions?"

"Promise," Blaise muttered, reluctantly.

He never did find out exactly how his friend charmed (or threatened) Draco into dropping the blackmail. All he knew was that, later that day, Malfoy sidled up, and said:

"Forget what I said earlier, Blaise. I'm sorry."

And if Blaise hadn't known better, he would have thought that the silver-haired snob actually meant it. Added to the satisfaction of an apology from Draco, and the relief at his secret remaining a secret, Blaise had the considerable perverse pleasure of seeing Gryffindor steamroller Slytherin, by three hundred and fifty points to ninety.