Guys, I'm so sorry for disappearing. I was travelling for work and running on no sleep, so this chapter took forever. Sending all my love to Lara1221 (I hear your comments about James, my dear!), zizzic797, hpdude-4life, knottedroses, rossiex, scorpiusrose, macrosmaticwinklepicker, syranzra, LilyJean630, meowmeow, isamartinez28, emeraldhead-crimsonheart, Dani Prongs, jacqueline, Connected-by-a-Semicolon, catwomannnnnn1, HPDWTWD, LillyMay77, ChanceToBeImmortal, Weasleyred91, yeyeyee, silverbow, and the many guests/anons who reviewed! I get really shy about reviewing too, so I appreciate every word from those of you who do. Also, I appreciate the Wilkins-hate. We all know that guy.

New year at school will be a ride, I'm excited. Please enjoy this one :)

Chapter 23: The Affair

When school resumed, reality finally set in. The trepidation was becoming palpable amongst the increasingly peevish seventh-years; it was no longer possible for them to shrug off the impending NEWTs.

Until now, most of them had let the boisterous Christmas and New Year celebrations cloud out the fact that they would soon be held accountable for every missed reading and failed essay in the last six and a half years. In a matter of months, the lot of them would be released into the wild to fend for themselves.

Exciting times, certainly.

Tarquin, however, was already bored.

This evening, he had arrived on time for his appointment with Crossley, but found himself in no hurry to meet the professor. Instead, he chose to meander along the poorly-lit doorway for a good few minutes, idly spinning his wand between his fingers as he studiously ignored the surly stone gargoyles sniffing at him from either side of the heavy oak doors.

Tarquin didn't like to admit it, but one-on-ones made him uncomfortable. Contrary to popular belief, he had always found the game of getting-to-know-you a rather hellish thing. Unless some measure of fooling around was involved.

Now that was a language Tarquin could understand.

It was, otherwise, quite a fruitless exercise to discuss matters of the heart.

Or, in this case, matters to do with the future. Career counselling, they called it.

Tarquin scoffed under his breath. Talk about a waste of time, really. Most traditional Pureblood families didn't have jobs—at least not the typical 9-to-5, deskbound type of nonsense. That sort of thing was beneath them.

Moreover, it wasn't as though Tarquin had a hand in his own fates.

He might as well get this over and done with.

The doors to Crossley's chambers sat slightly ajar. The moment he stepped past the threshold, Tarquin's senses were instantly assaulted by the most putrid of odours… quite possibly some foul concoction of rancid animal bits and crushed plant parts.

The unforgiving stench punched the top of his throat and made him want to gag.

Thanks to a certain Invisibility Cloak, he had wrecked plenty of havoc in these quarters with Albus and Scorpius. It had been one of their favorite things to do in their younger years, to prank and pillage at Crossley's expense. Even so, Tarquin had never quite gotten used to the stink that permeated these walls.

Professor Crossley was tucked away behind a large teak desk laden with parchment essays and open reference books, his full head of greying hair glinting in the firelight. If not for the pinched severity of his features, Crossley could almost pass for a scholarly, father-like figure. Almost.

There was no invitation to sit when Tarquin approached, so he made himself comfortable in the nearest armchair. "Good evening, Professor."

"Zabini."

The man might be Head of Slytherin, but there was nothing friendly in the way he received Tarquin. He had always been markedly less interested in his male students. Girls simply did better in his classes—it was a known thing.

The shorter the skirt, the cuter the grade, was Scorpius' sardonic observation.

Not that Tarquin cared anyhow. He frankly didn't give a Doxy's arse about his Potions scores.

"We don't have a lot of time, as you're late," Crossley said sharply, tapping the top of his inverted hourglass, where grains of sand were already streaming downwards. "It will be Potter's turn in about fifteen minutes."

"I was on time, sir. I was just getting acquainted with your gargoyles. Not too friendly, are they?"

There was an unpleasant downturn in the corners of Crossley's mouth.

"Why don't you spare me the suspense, Zabini—and tell me your plans post-graduation."

"Well, sir, I'm moving to Paris." When Crossley said nothing, Tarquin added mock earnestly, "Maybe I'll paint a French girl or two."

"You paint?"

"Well, now's a good time as any to learn."

"It may be a good time to remind you, Zabini, that Miss Nott was just awarded one of the most prestigious Mediwitch scholarships in Europe."

"You don't say. Why, I must have missed the news from my darling betrothed."

"And you're telling me you want to be an artist."

"I might be an artist," Tarquin corrected smoothly. "Whatever it is, I go where Emery goes. I'm sure you understand how a marriage works."

Crossley leaned forward and steepled his fingers, now regarding Tarquin with barely veiled contempt. "How far we've come as a society… that young wizards these days look forward to being a husband and absolutely nothing else. I'll be candid with you, Zabini. I've always wondered why you bothered returning for the NEWTs when you obviously have no plans to further yourself—"

"My family is indebted to the Notts," Tarquin interrupted curtly. "You can see why I'm at their disposal."

"That certainly does not excuse your utter lack of ambition—"

"Well then. Allow me to be candid with you, sir. Ambition is a luxury I can't afford, and my decisions are hardly mine alone. I answer to my grandfather, and to Emery's. My family has made it quite clear that they prefer for me to sit pretty until all our assets are merged. At this point, I'm barely allowed to take a piss without writing for permission. You can't blame me for focusing on life's simpler pleasures."

"Like painting French girls."

"Exactement."

Crossley snorted. There was a mocking glint in his eye now. "You certainly need the marriage more than Miss Nott does, Zabini. Although perhaps if you take yourself half as seriously as she does, you'll find a way to deserve her eventually."

Sticks and stones. The opinions of others rarely made a difference to him; Crossley's least of all.

Across from Tarquin, the sands of time had whittled into nothing.

"I do not need to deserve her," he said shortly, shooting Crossley a cool smile. "I only need to marry her."

He got to his feet with a cursory nod, then swiftly strode out of Crossley's foul-smelling quarters.

As far as he was concerned, career counselling could fuck right off.

To his surprise, it was not Albus he found waiting outside, but Poppy. Langdon was leaning against the stone wall with an oddly pensive look on her face, startled out of her reverie by his abrupt exit from Crossley's room.

Her presence puzzled Tarquin. He could barely think of why for she'd be waiting outside a professor's quarters at this time of the evening.

Heck, scratch that. Certainly there was one reason. Tarquin tilted his head ever so slightly, suddenly intrigued by the plain-faced girl standing before him.

Of all people…

"Langdon," Tarquin said. "What brings you here? Hoping for a bit of career counselling?"

"Oh. No. We have ours with Headmistress McGonagall." Langdon had schooled her expression now, once more the too-serious Head Girl he was better acquainted with. "I—just have a few questions about our assigned reading."

The statement rang hollow, but Tarquin was hardly the sort to judge someone for concealing their motives. Rather than questioning Langdon further, he chanced a second look at her. Poppy was never any great beauty… but he had always admired her remarkable ability to mask her feelings. A prized quality in a Pureblooded wife, surely. Any proper wizard would be delighted to have her on his arm, he once declared, if she were of nobler origins.

The statement had outraged Albus, who shared his father's views on blood equality and wizarding meritocracy. It had amused Tarquin that he had defended Poppy in that instance, despite his ingrained dislike for the girl.

Her blood status notwithstanding, Tarquin had always been careful with Poppy. Though he would never admit it, he recognised something of himself in her… an inexplicable despondence that lurked beneath the surface of their being.

Though, of course, he knew none of Langdon's secrets.

He had his own skeletons to deal with.

"You best hurry, then," he said at length. "Al is up next."

A knot formed between Langdon's eyebrows. She nodded at him in thanks before slipping deftly into Crossley's room, the heavy doors groaning shut behind her.

The session with Crossley had left an unpleasant taste in Tarquin's mouth. Rather than return to the common room, he found himself wandering aimlessly through the maze of torch-lit hallways. Since the start of the new year, he had felt trapped and bothered for reasons he couldn't quite fathom.

The daytime was tedious enough. But now the nights were beginning to feel the same.

Perhaps he'd gone too long without a shag. Well—barely three weeks now, but it still felt like a bloody lifetime.

Briefly, he wondered how the hell Scorpius survived his self-imposed celibacy as long as he had.

He allowed his thoughts to wander to Rose Weasley then… the funny little redhead his friend had grown rather fond of. Tarquin, of course, had guessed from the start that Scorpius would eventually be attracted to Rose. But even he was surprised by how much Scorpius seemed to genuinely like her.

Not to mention he was behaving a lot less like a prick lately.

Most telling of all, they were holding hands the other day.

Which was—something.

Scorpius and Georgia had fucked and fought the entirety of their relationship. But Tarquin couldn't recall a single instance where they held hands.

Huh. Figures that the person to drag Scorpius out his self-dug hellhole would be the creature-crazy witch with a scandal-ridden past.

The more pressing question, however, was when the hell Albus was going to notice.

Tarquin had been so deep in thought that it startled him to look up and realise where he was. Without noticing, he had arrived at a familiar classroom at the end of a darkened hallway.

Was he looking for trouble?

But the classroom was empty. Tarquin shuffled through the silence, coming to rest by one of the towering windows. He still felt glum as fuck, which pissed him off.

Yeah, he definitely needed a smoke.

He was in the midst of rolling a cigarette when he heard a set of footsteps clambering from outside the classroom. Funny how he guessed who it was before even looking up.

And sure enough, Hugo burst in.

When Julienne Taft broke it off with Tarquin a few weeks ago, nobody cried.

That was generally the case with Tarquin and his flings. Neither of them cared that they were done and dusted. They dated, they fucked, they moved on. Of course, some of the girls he dated got emotional about ending it, sweet creatures that they were—but they were, for most part, glad to be rid of him.

Some of them knew of his engagement, of course. But it didn't matter if they didn't, because nobody that Tarquin dated wanted him either way. He would go as far as to say he was fond of one or two of his previous girlfriends—but he wasn't about to fight for any of them the same way Scorpius had for Georgia.

That kind of behavior was senseless, in Tarquin's opinion.

Especially since, at the end of it all, he was meant for Emery.

Do you care about nothing? Julienne asked the last time they met, a terrible frown marring her pretty face. You're quite literally an emotional void, Tarquin. It's like you have a heart of tin... if you have a bloody heart at all. Maybe I'll find myself a more sensitive bloke, someone who gives some sort of a shit—

"Tarquin," Hugo blurted out, a relieved smile flickering past his face.

And just like that, the suffocating silence of the evening seemed to wane. Perhaps because Hugo's presence was so damn loud. There was nothing remotely subtle about him—not his hair or freckles, nor his expressions or movements… He had a natural radiance about him that always seemed to set his surroundings alight.

A wild, inescapable thing.

Hugo's warm brown eyes had lit up behind the oversized glasses sitting askew on his nose. There was a breathless quality about him, as though he had decided last minute that he was going to turn up, then bumbled helter-skelter the entire way here. His lanky, awkward frame knocked against desk corners and chair legs as he ambled through the classroom towards Tarquin.

Not that he noticed his own clumsiness, of course.

"Hi," Hugo said, catching his breath as he joined Tarquin by the window ledge. "I, um, thought you'd be here tonight. Had to beat Carrick at chess in record time—"

"Who's Carrick?"

"Finnigan. Good at Gobstones, shit at chess." Hugo fixed his owlish gaze on Tarquin as he sealed the edge of his cigarette roll with the tip of his tongue. "…What are you doing?"

"I need a smoke. Do you mind?"

Hugo shrugged, watching with some fascination as Tarquin lit the end of the roll with the tip of his wand. As he took his first drag of Drunklark, the dull frustration from earlier seemed to go up in smoke. Every breath felt like a sigh of relief… and Tarquin felt his mood lift once more.

Then, and only then, did Tarquin allow himself to look at Hugo, their eyes meeting through the powder veil of smoke. Hugo's vivid colouring had washed out against the pallor of the moon. Even so, Tarquin could spot a telling blush creeping up Hugo's neck as he glanced—not so covertly—at his mouth.

Not for the first time, Tarquin had to wonder at their unlikely rendezvous.

Why the hell was he here, hanging out with Hugo Weasley again?

"Rough day?" Hugo asked, his voice unnaturally low. He was usually far more boisterous, but he seemed to sense the same peculiar moodiness Tarquin felt, its presence weighing down the air between them. As much as Tarquin despised personal conversations of any sort, Hugo's tentative concern was somewhat touching.

"I don't want to talk about it," Tarquin said smoothly, shooting him the briefest of smiles before returning to his cigarette.

Hugo's face fell. Tarquin could tell it took everything in him not to pursue the topic. He couldn't bring himself to care. A few kisses shared didn't mean they were privy to each other's private miseries.

"I went back to the cinema, by the way," Tarquin said, after a few minutes of silence. "The next day. To watch Star Wars."

"Did you really?" Hugo said, barely keeping the excitement out of his voice. It was endearing how animated he was, whenever they talked about something he was passionate about. When he noticed Tarquin's amused expression, he cleared his throat and said, in a more measured tone—"So, um. What do you think?"

"Eh, they're basically space wizards." Hugo cracked up at Tarquin's matter-of-fact assessment. "It was hard for me to understand why the Force was a big deal, seeing as I started lifting things when I was three… But I must admit I enjoyed the explosions."

"Sucks that we didn't get to watch it the first time."

"Yeah, well. I was busy. Weren't you?"

Hugo ducked his head in embarrassment, his adam's apple bobbing as his blush intensified. Tarquin had to smirk as he recalled their pathetic attempt to watch Star Wars on Boxing Day. Hugo had been excited to introduce Tarquin to the series, but the cinema had been close to empty… and they spent more time making out than watching the film. Hugo made valiant attempts to follow the story, but Tarquin had sabotaged every effort with unrelenting kisses that had Hugo coming undone against him.

It was a good thing they managed to keep their clothes on, for the lights came on rather abruptly. Needless to say, neither Tarquin or Hugo were able to explain the plot.

He had been unable to resist Hugo that afternoon, for some reason. Tarquin hadn't known it before… but apparently a skinny, bespectacled boy decked in leather simply did things to him.

Perhaps the massive hangover from drinking Scorpius under the table at the Verbekes' had done something to his brain.

He and Hugo had an ordinary afternoon by his standards. Barely a date, really. Just two blokes at the arcade, chatting shit and having a laugh. Of course, Tarquin had few reasons to visit muggle London, but now he thought he might return more often. Even looking at Hugo now, Tarquin found himself missing that afternoon of mild winter sunshine, moving freely in a crowded place where he was a nobody. No expectations to live up to, and no one to please but a bright-eyed boy with a darling smile.

Somehow, Hugo liked him so much. And so desperately.

Tarquin leaned back against the stone wall as Hugo pressed his nose against the window, squinting through the blurred glass. Tarquin couldn't stop staring at the doe-like eyes behind the smudge of his spectacles, the explosion of freckles splashed generously across his cherubic cheeks, the untamed red curls falling over his forehead…

Fucking hell.

Tarquin didn't quite know what to do with the fact that he wanted to kiss him again.

As always, Hugo seemed uncomfortable with the silence. He was beginning to fidget, his fingers began tapping rapidly to a mystery beat on his knee as he sought for a topic of conversation. "So, um," he said, clearing his throat, "my sister had lunch at the Malfoys' on Boxing Day."

Tarquin forced his gaze from Hugo's mouth, arching an eyebrow at this information. "What?"

"You didn't know? She told me she met his grandfather, too." Hugo snorted. "Thought she wouldn't make it out alive."

Tarquin put out his cigarette on the ledge, the wheels turning in his head. It was one thing to date the daughter of a supposed blood traitor. But to bring her to meet the family patriarch?

That was… a hell of a flex. Or a death wish.

The old man must have been paralysed with rage.

A slow grin stretched across Tarquin's face. What he would have given to be a fly on the wall at the Malfoys' that afternoon.

"I had to call her name three times before she'd pass me the potatoes at dinner," Hugo went on, an irresistible mischief in his grin now. "She didn't pester the gnomes as often over Christmas, either. My dad was worried she'd caught a bug, he kept trying to send her to bed." He paused with a sudden frown, as though something had just occurred to him. "You don't think Malfoy tried to get fresh with her, do you?"

"Er…"

"Holy shit. Did he say something to you?"

"I doubt he's shagged her." Yet. "Unless the papers were right about her?"

Hugo gave him an outraged look. Tarquin raised his hands in mock surrender. "Look, you know better than I do. What I will say, though, is that she's the opposite of everything his grandfather wanted for him—hey, I'm not finished."

Hugo narrowed his eyes, but held his tongue.

"As I was saying… She's the opposite of everything his grandfather wanted for him. But maybe she's the kind of girl he needs."

"You do know the deal was for him to dump her at graduation."

"Indeed I do," Tarquin murmured, reaching into his pocket for his cigarette case. "Shall we make a bet of it?"

He recognised the confidence in Hugo's expression—it was the same glint he got in his eye whenever they started a chess game. "Well, I just bet he'll find a thousand excuses not to."

"For what it's worth," Tarquin said wryly, "I bet he won't, either."

"Merlin and God combined… you think he fancies her, then?"

"Give it time."

Hugo made an adorably squeaky sound at the back of his throat. Tarquin made to roll his next cigarette, tapping the leaves evenly across the square sheet in his palm before rolling it deftly between his fingers.

Minutes trickled by without a word between them. Like Tarquin had come to expect, Hugo was starting to fidget again. Despite how uncomfortable he seemed around Tarquin… Hugo never looked like he wanted to leave at any point. Even when he humoured Tarquin's request for a few rounds of Wizard's Chess—Hugo probably went easy on him, too—he had been inordinately patient as Tarquin tried to figure out his next move.

He never made Tarquin feel like he had somewhere else to be.

"Why did you ask me to play chess with you?" Hugo asked then, so quietly that Tarquin almost missed his words.

"I was bored." The casual way he said it put a strange brokenness in Hugo's eyes. How many times are you allowed to hurt someone? he wondered. But lying was the easiest damn thing to Tarquin, and—he didn't want to play games with Hugo.

He was running out of time for games.

"That's all, then?"

"That's all it can be." Tarquin glanced at the other boy. "I'm no different from Vance. But at least I don't promise you shit."

"He never promised me anything."

"Oh? Was that why you were following him around Hogsmeade the other time, upsetting yourself whenever he kissed his girlfriend?"

The words were harsh, but they were right on the mark. Hugo looked away from him, visibly stung.

"You didn't have to let me win," Tarquin said, his voice coming out gruffer than he intended.

Hugo pushed his spectacles up his nose, his ears slowly turning pink under his shock of red hair. Between them, the smoke from Tarquin's cigarette curled languidly into the air.

After a long moment, he spoke.

"I knew what my strategy was from the start," Hugo said haltingly. "I played because I wanted to be close to you. And if losing means getting the prize, then…"

If I win this round, I want a kiss.

Tarquin would never forget the look on Hugo's face at the words.

You're on.

And when Hugo forced him back against the wall, desperately seeking friction between them, Tarquin had gone half-blind from lust. They had kissed like it was the last time they ever would… chess pieces scattered behind them, the game completely forgotten.

"I can win matches for the rest of my life." Hugo sounded as though he was talking to himself now. "That's—easy, you know? The game's always come easy to me. But not someone like you." He shot Tarquin a wry smile. "Someone like you may never look at me again."

Tarquin stared wordlessly at him, the tip of his cigarette burning red between them. He didn't particularly know why he picked Hugo to while away his time. It was risky business, in the first place, for someone like him to fool around with a boy.

Was it out of pity for Hugo's situation with Vance, perhaps?

Or was it because he'd sensed the fact that Hugo adored him?

Tarquin didn't even have to think about it to know the answer.

He had always been remarkably selfish.

"Sorry." Hugo's gaze flicked back towards the window. "I know you hate getting personal."

They sat there in silence for a long moment before Tarquin held up his cigarette. "Wanna share?"

Hugo's freckled face lit up in surprise. And there was that silly, darling smile again. A sickening despondence rose in Tarquin's chest, threatening to drown out the euphoria that lingered from the Drunklark. Fuck, he was so tired of this ennui, of living a life that wasn't his, of playing by the damn rules. Tarquin took a long, slow drag of his cigarette before dropping it to the floor. Hugo's eyes widened as Tarquin crushed it beneath his foot.

"Hey, wait, I haven't—"

He never got to finish, because Tarquin had reached out to grab Hugo by the collar, their mouths meeting in a violent kiss. Hugo gasped, the smoke from Tarquin's mouth filling his senses as his eyes fluttered shut, and then he was kissing Tarquin back like there was nobody else, like there would never be anybody else for him—

And Tarquin forgot what it was like to feel nothing at all.