—CHAPTER SIXTEEN—
Three days. Three nights. They stayed entombed in their crevice, in airless warmth. Rose wanted to move on, but, without a Blood Replenishing Potion, they had to wait until she was strong enough for the remainder of their trek.
Romnuk received the occasional restoration to consciousness so that he could be fed. Otherwise, he remained Stunned and unstirring. The boys slept between Rose and Romnuk, forming a human wall, and one always stayed awake to keep watch. It was a tedious hibernation.
At Albus' advice, Rose tried to pass the time by sleeping. It turned out to be her least favourite way to pass the time. She would have a string of nightmares that borrowed too much from reality to have the distance of dreams even when she woke from them.
In the nightmares, Romnuk stood on her neck with his boot, or he slit her throat, as she laid immobilised in her sleeping bag. In others, she watched a Mountain Troll crunch down Albus and Scorpius as if they were a snack, picking them apart limb by limb and dropping the pieces down its gullet. In these dreams, she was never able to move. Her body was locked up rigidly as if someone had put her under a Full Body-Bind Curse.
The worst nightmare differed from these and occurred most frequently.
She would be running through the snow after Romnuk as he escaped with the Sword, her shoulder aching and wet. She carried a dead weight on her back like a backpack full of heavy stones, and it slowed her down. In the dream, she didn't have a wand, but the snow directly before her feet lit up with each step. Otherwise, darkness pressed in on all sides. She ran and ran, often for what felt like hours, her body aching, her heart pounding. Only when she reached Romnuk, leering at her from between the trees, did she realise that the pressure on her back was a child's.
She would wake up from these dreams distraught, sometimes crying, other times lunging towards the unconscious goblin slumped against the jagged stone wall. The boys held her or held her back, depending on the reaction.
Scorpius would stroke her hair and hum gently, like a lullaby. Albus brooded in silence after she would describe these dreams. He watched Rose the way he watched Romnuk. In the moments where she wasn't pulsing with rage, his wariness frightened her.
Late into the second night, after a less than pleasant dream had woken her from the stretch of sleep, she dug through her beaded bag to retrieve the Little Black Book.
When it was Scorpius' turn to sleep, she used it as a source of comfort. It was her prefered way to pass the time. Albus didn't question her on it much. She said it was a journal that she had written notes in about the Goblin Kingdom. It's black leather covers were innocuous and the space too cramped for Albus to come and peer over her shoulder. She wrote in it with a muggle pen, not having quill or ink, although it worked all the same.
It was not spells or magic she sought from the previous Serpent Bearers who had left their imprint between the pages. Sometimes, it was comforting advice. At other times, it was a philosophical conversation. The kind she couldn't engage with Albus on.
Do the Dark Arts damage the soul? she asked, thinking of Scorpius torturing Romnuk and her use of the Imperius Curse. The question plagued her ever since Albus had voiced his concerns.
From there, the conversation would ensue—rowdy conversation, with lots of opinions.
Shall mull'd wine sendeth thee to thy grave? The weakness of thy soul shall be the measure of the cup. Become drunk on the Dark Arts and perish.
I think Dark Magic is about control. It's used to control others. If you cannot control yourself, it will control you.
It is not the spell, but the intent behind it. Most men are too simple to understand this. Using the Killing Curse with good intentions will not damage the soul. Using a simple and mundane charm to kill another with murderous intent will tear the soul apart.
On and on, it went for pages—all of these seventeen-year-old Serpent Bearers, sharing their opinions and wisdom. The little book felt like Devil's Snare, pulling her down deeper, wrapping around her thoughts, until it was difficult to spend time thinking or doing anything else.
So the Killing Curse doesn't always damage the soul?
It will damage the soul, to some degree, no matter what. They say killing goes against the oldest laws of magic.
Let us explore some hypotheticals. Say you killed in self-defence, in a duel. Or you killed someone who was already dying of a mortal wound to put him out of his misery. The act would stain your soul, but it would not tear it in half.
She read the different handwriting in different voices as if she could hear their timbre through the texture and style of their scrawl. Sometimes, she would be so involved in the conversation that it was as if it were happening out loud, and she would forget that no one but her could hear it in their little cave. She jumped now, looking around to check that Scorpius remained asleep and Albus was still occupied.
He was nicking the tips of his fingers and then healing the skin with magic. He spent most of his time in the cave doing this sort of thing. It made Rose's stomach turn. She sometimes felt like picking a fight with him, accusing him of being just as morbid as she was, but if it weren't for his practised healing skills both she and Scorpius would have been dead in the last few weeks.
She returned to the page.
What if it's killing for revenge?
She waited for answers to appear on the page. It didn't take long at all.
Rational revenge will rebalance the scales of justice. It must not be born of enmity or odium, but of a desire for restoration.
It's all about motive. To restore or to get even?
Rubbish. Sure, killing in revenge might reset the scales but at a personal cost. It will take its toll on you. All killing does.
Stop being weak by asking these stupid questions. I've killed. I've killed four people, and I am only sixteen. They say it is difficult and damning...I say it is a small price to pay to get what you want.
Rose slowly closed the book. When she opened it again, the pages were wiped clean. Her heart hammered hard. She glanced up at Albus, who was still absorbed with his healing spells and hadn't noticed her uneasiness. Then, she glanced over at Romnuk. His unconsciousness looked different from sleeping. There was no peace in his expression, only a slack blankness. She thought of what it would feel like to take a knife and trace the intricate tattoos in his face, to gouge out his eyes and tongue. But could she do the same to his heart? Could she kill him?
She knew the answer to that question. Her preserved penpals were a distraction. She reached for her beaded bag and slipped the notebook back inside.
"I think we should get moving tomorrow," she said.
Albus sucked the blood off his fingertip.
"Do you feel ready?"
"I feel like I can't wait a moment longer."
Teddy had tucked a folded note into Victoire's compact mirror, which rested like a closed clam on the ornate vanity that belonged to his Nan. He had left by the time she had woken up, and she only found the note after she had showered and dressed for the day. It said: We need to talk about 'big things' tonight. Meet me at Grimmauld Place straight after you clock off? X
She snapped the compact shut and fanned herself with the note. Teddy had been in a melancholy mood, uncharacteristically quiet, although he lit up as soon as he had company. She wondered what he was ruminating on when he wasn't switching it on for her. She wondered what 'big things' meant.
As she rinsed her cereal bowl in the sink, Victoire was too lost in thought to hear Andromeda enter the room.
"Are you alright, darling?"
She jumped and then turned, smiling graciously as Teddy's grandmother.
"Just fine. Did you hear Teddy leave this morning?"
"Mm, very early," she replied absently.
Teddy wasn't working at the moment. He had assisted the Ministry with those children who had been orphaned, but that was more or less wrapped up.
Since she had started back at the Prophet, Victoire was getting paid a decent salary and they had minimised living expenses while staying with Andromeda. Still, it couldn't last forever. They would need a second income. Maybe 'big things' had something to do with a job.
The idea filled her with dread. She was distracted all morning, delaying herself from filing a story about the charity Quidditch match that her editor was expecting by midday. Teddy had worked at the Welfare Centre for a long time, in a role that was largely advocacy. Then, he had worked at an ice-cream store. This had been while she was away in Romania, so she didn't have much sense of his application there. Truthfully, she knew that Teddy struggled to stick with work unless he felt he had a purpose in it.
Victoire wasn't enamoured with journalism, especially the sort she was doing now, but it paid decently and gave her day structure. She couldn't imagine Teddy doing work for the sake of work. Not for long, in any case. There would easily be a role for him in the Ministry, and strings could be pulled, but he would never be a marionette. The nepotism and the public servant perks would repulse him, especially when so many were unable to find jobs.
"How's the assignment going?" her editor asked, tapping Victoire' desk with her wand. She jerked out of her reverie, fingers flinching on the typewriter keys in front of her.
"It's almost done."
"Right. Scratch that for now. You didn't mention your cousins are missing."
"Which? I have a lot of them," she said tersely. Victoire pressed her lips together. She knew exactly which cousins. The knot in her stomach tightened.
"Albus Potter and Rose Weasley. Off with Scorpius Malfoy. The children of sworn enemies and powerful public figures. This might just land you above the fold."
"I really don't think I'm the person to write that story."
"You're exactly the person to write it. Give me something by tomorrow."
When Victoire entered Grimmauld Place, she was greeted by a change in the atmosphere. The scent of lavender hung in the air, even from the hallway. The oil lamps were glowing warmly.
"Teddy?" she called out tentatively.
She grimaced, remembering too late, expecting the portrait of Mrs Black to erupt to life. No sound came. The curtains remained drawn around her portrait.
"Upstairs," Teddy called.
She made her way up the creaking stairs. Her stomach hadn't stopped churning all day. Writing a story on Albus, Rose and Scorpius was the last thing she wanted to do. If she refused the assignment, would she lose her job? They couldn't afford it. Whatever news Teddy wanted to discuss, she was sure that this would eclipse it.
The drawing-room door stood open. As she entered, she realised they were not alone. Teddy's godfather sat on the loveseat, his beard unkempt and streaked with grey, his long, dark hair tied back in a loose knot. Even under his glasses, she could see his tired eyes were laden with sagging bags. The same eyes he had given to his son.
"What a surprise."
"Apparently it was vital that I'm here," Harry said, raising his eyebrows. How could he still be so good humoured under the circumstances?
Victoire couldn't stand to look at Harry, not after the assignment she had accepted. She appraised Teddy instead, standing by the fireplace. There was an air of formality and apprehensiveness about him that reminded her of a job interview. His shirt was pressed.
"It looks like your stakeholders have arrived," Harry said. He gestured for Victoire to join him on the seat. She nervously settled in beside him. She felt guilty, the way a prized student might if they had betrayed their professor's trust during an exam.
"Yes, well," Teddy ran his hands nervously through his cobalt hair. "I sort of had a proposition."
He walked over to the bookshelf and slipped out two dark green binders. He handed one to Harry and one to Victoire. Each cover was engraved in silver script: Black Dog House.
"The battle at Hogsmeade got me thinking. So many kids become orphans because of war."
He was fidgeting. So was Harry. He crossed and uncrossed his legs as he waited for Teddy to find the words. Teddy tugged the corner of his shirt. They were both evidence of the statement Teddy had made, relics from wars belonging to previous generations.
Victoire pretended she didn't notice, taking the pause as an opportunity to thumb through the binder. The glossy pages contained blueprints of each floor of the house, with a detailed summary of the room's use.
"It isn't just war. There can be loads of reasons why a kid may end up without a home. Abusive parents, for a start," Teddy said, gesturing towards the faded Black family tapestry with its singed faces. "Or neglect. Usually, they just become wards of the state. If they're lucky, the Ministry will find them a relative to take them in or a family to foster them. The worst-case scenario, they may end up in a muggle orphanage or on the streets. Too often, they fall through the cracks."
"Your proposal?" Harry prompted, not needing to be sold on this part of the narrative.
"I want to establish a charity that looks after orphans and runaways. Young witches or wizards who need a home - for however long they need it. Grimmauld Place would be perfect. It's already unplottable, so it's perfectly safe. And...I'd like to run it," He took a very deep breath and exhaled sharply. "What do you think?"
Victoire closed the binder and looked at Harry. He was studying his godson, eyes glittering like emeralds.
"I think that's brilliant."
He stood, slowly walking towards the dusty tapestry on the wall before placing his hand over the burnt hole above his own godfather's name. "Sirius would want that."
"You think so?"
Harry turned around, his circular spectacles flashing silver in the light.
"You didn't need to do all this to convince me. I'm in. I'll give you whatever funding you need."
"W-well I'd need to get registered as a proper charity –"
"Whatever you need, Teddy. The house is yours. Get yourself a team together and as soon as you've set up, I'll sign it over."
Teddy now turned to his wife, his eyes apprehensive.
"What do you think?"
"I hope you're not looking to me for seed funding," she joked.
"No, don't be daft. I just mean...it's a big project."
"It's a great idea. It makes perfect sense."
Harry clapped Teddy on his back, smiling proudly. The smile reserved for a father to his son. Victoire's stomach was churning worse than it had all day. This had been Teddy's news all along. She wasn't sure what exactly she had been expecting.
She slowly leaned forward, sniffing at the air.
"Can you...smell something burning?"
"Shit," Teddy muttered, the expression of pride sliding off his face. "Shit, shit, shit."
He dashed out of the room. His boots could be heard pounding down the stairs. Although Victoire would loathe admitting it, the remark had been a ploy to get some time alone with Harry.
Salacious stories of Harry Potter had long swarmed the ant-sized print of gossip columns, and another now would be no surprise to anybody. Victoire and Teddy had been on the receiving end of that kind of attention as well, a virtue of their inherited fame, caught kissing in gritty moving images on wood pulp pages.
It was different being the one fishing for information. She felt sick and greasy, like the scrunched up fish and chips packaging that had concealed her picked over lunch. She had been the one to break the story on the goblin's dragon trapping and had been a whistleblower on the government. How was she now hunting for miserable stories about her own family?
"Any news about Rose and Albus?" she asked, despite herself.
Harry's lips, half hidden behind his unruly beard, pressed into a frown.
"And Scorpius," he added, which surprised her. "And no. We haven't heard a thing. I'm beginning to think that whatever they're doing had more behind it than just going after Romnuk."
"What makes you think that?"
"They already had him," Harry shrugged. "When we arrived, they let him go. They pretended he escaped. I don't think Ron's accepted it, but Hermione and I are quite sure."
"How are you managing it?"
Harry chuckled softly, bitterly. "I'm not. Ginny's poured all the alcohol out. You don't know how badly I need a distraction."
There was no way she could print that.
"Are you okay? You look a little green," Harry commented, concerned.
"Just worried," she answered, which was not entirely untrue.
Harry joined her once more on the loveseat. He kicked his feet out in front of him and stared at the dishevelled tapestry opposite them, as if watching a film she couldn't see.
"I was their age when I left with your uncle and aunt, hunting down Horcruxes. I didn't have any parents to worry. But now I think about what I must've put your grandparents through...you don't really understand worry until you have a child. The love you have for your friends or family or partner just isn't the same as the love you have for a child. That love means living in constant worry."
Victoire swallowed heavily. Harry gave her a short, sidelong look and smiled.
"We better get you downstairs. I think Teddy has something planned for you."
Harry left shortly after, without Victoire prying any further. He took the green binder with him, cradling it like an infant in the crook of his arm. She could think of only one thing worse than losing a parent, and that was losing a child. Grief like that didn't belong in gossip columns.
Teddy had indeed made plans for Victoire. This was the real reason for her invitation. A large dish of vegetarian paella filled the basement kitchen with the smell of sautéed onions and garlic. He had charmed a couple dozen candles to float above the dinner table, bobbing peacefully beneath the dark ceiling.
Maybe he had sensed that a conversation was required. Maybe this was his grand gesture.
"This smells amazing."
"I burnt the garlic bread," he huffed, grabbing a bottle of mulled wine and pouring two glasses.
Victoire attempted a smile that looked more like she had a toothache.
"Has Harry left?" Teddy frowned.
"Yes. He seemed to think you wanted me on my own."
"I did. Still, I'm worried about him. I don't think he's coping very well with Albus missing."
Victoire said nothing, biting the inside of her lip to keep her mouth shut. She slid into a seat at the thick, dark wooden table. Teddy had put a handful of daffodils into an old stout bottle, maybe from Ogden's but the label had been peeled off.
"You think this is a good idea, right? You're not just humouring me?" Teddy asked, anxious.
"I think it's a brilliant idea."
There was a false note in her voice but she didn't think he noticed.
"It's just that I've been thinking a lot about my own father. About being orphaned."
Teddy had become lost in thought, his eyes seeing past the basement kitchen. It was as if he was reliving a memory.
"I don't know whether I'd make a good dad," he finally sighed, running his hands through his hair. As he said this, he carried the expression of someone who had finally put down a heavy load. "Having kids never scared me until I watched Hogsmeade go up in smoke. At least this project would give me some direction. Some practise, even."
Victoire was very still. She hadn't touched her food or her wine. It was the confession he had been holding onto. For weeks, Victoire had wanted him to get this off his chest but now that he was doing so, she didn't want to hear it.
"What do you mean?" she said quietly.
"I'm not ruling out a family. I just don't think I'm ready. I keep thinking about my own dad, how he acted –"
"You never even knew your dad," she accused. Her voice seemed to be coming out of somebody else's mouth.
"No. .I suppose not. I've learned more about him, though," Teddy was wary now. His excitement had evaporated at her tone. "I don't want to start a family without being prepared."
"So this project is supposed to help you take that step."
Clipped and quick, she didn't say it like a question. She sounded ice-cold. The way her mother sounded in a fight.
"I thought setting up a foster house would be a good way to resolve a lot of the anxieties I have, while building something worthwhile. I've been thinking about it since the battle."
"Right. It's been so very long that you've had to think this through."
"What do you mean?" He was speaking very calmly, very slowly. He knew she was going to start a row and he was cautious. It only made her madder.
"You've come up with this plan over a few weeks. It's just another one of your irresponsible impulses."
His eyebrows furrowed together, creasing like a caricature to show he was perplexed. "I'm irresponsible...because I want to wait...so that we're ready to be parents?"
It was easy to pick a fight about this. It was less scary than picking an argument about what was truly nagging her.
"It's like nothing's changed," Victoire snapped. "I'm the one left to worry about the practicalities while you go off on whatever strikes your fancy. I get left doing shit I don't even want to do!"
"Like what? I thought you enjoyed writing. You told me you were thrilled to be with the Prophet again."
"I didn't imagine myself needing to be a vulture who writes gossip articles!" She was yelling now, her voice too loud in the basement kitchen. It sounded piercing to her own ears.
"You're only just back in the gig! It'll take time to work your way up, won't it?"
"Do you know what my latest assignment is? An intimate exposé on three missing kids disappearing with a goblin gang-leader."
Teddy shrunk back in his seat. Yellow wax dripped down like hot tears, hardening on the tabletop and splattering across their dinner plates. He had forgotten to charm the candlewax. It dripped. Once. Twice. Like a leaking faucet.
"But you're not going to write that," he said, voice flat.
"What choice do I have?"
"Are you serious? You always have a choice."
"One of us needs to make money."
"For Merlin's sake," Teddy snapped, throwing his hands up. "You'd use Harry like that?"
"It's not like I got very much out of him tonight anyway."
"Who are you?" Teddy demanded, standing up. With an almost inaudible pop, like the sound of lips parting, his blue hair changed to a dark inky black. "Since when did you care about money?"
"Since I became an adult! Since we need a place to live! Since I started craving a little more stability!"
She stood up too, knocking over her wine glass. It didn't shatter, but the rich red liquid spilled like blood across the table. Teddy closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steady himself, trying to retreat from the fight.
"I wish you had told me this sooner," he said calmly, eyes still closed. Painfully, her heart squeezed as if he had grabbed it in his fist. He slowly opened his yes again. "I'm sorry you feel like you're carrying such a big burden and you're unhappy in your work. Still, I think writing that article is a mistake."
Victoire's mouth twisted. The earthy smell of the wine mixed with the paella's spice was making her want to be sick. She couldn't stand to be there a second longer.
"I'm going to stay tonight at my parents' house," she said coldly. "I'll see you later."
The food remained uneaten, the evening prematurely dead. The argument had been brewing all day, maybe longer. It had been brewing uncomfortably in the space where things get unsaid or said in roundabout ways. It had cooked deep down in her guts, churning and rolling about like something alive. It wasn't anger. It was fear.
Zabini hadn't realised he was waiting for her until she came in. The witch with the tattoos and dreadlocks. She looked healthier for some reason. He took a moment to study her. Her dark skin seemed less ashy and her eyes were clear and bright. For some reason, seeing her enter the tavern had been the best part of his week so far.
"Couldn't resist my company?" he asked archly.
"I actually have a business meeting."
She took off her coat this time and he noticed the tattoos peeking out under her sleeves and collar.
"A business meeting?" he repeated, in the same auspicious voice.
"Just a gillywater, please."
To his dismay, she didn't take a seat at the bar. She was clearly intending on moving towards one of the tables. The business meeting really must have been a business meeting.
He grabbed the bottle. He was alone again today. The days were slow. It was just after six, but no one had been in since he opened. Isabella said she was meeting with a potential investor and Alice said she needed to pick up the week's stock before an appointment. They had their own business meetings, he supposed. His significance to the entire operation was fading by the day. He really was the guy who just poured drinks.
"What sort of business are you into?" he said, placing down the drink. He wanted to keep her talking as long as possible, up at the bar with him.
"I'm a tattoo artist," she said, counting out her coins. No tip. He guessed she couldn't have afforded it if she really was a tattoo artist. "But this isn't that kind of business meeting. I'm not sure what this is. A favour for a friend I guess."
He scooped the coins into the till and nodded. Despite his intrigue for her, he felt resentful at this last throwaway comment. Somebody like her had friends, people to do favours for. She tipped her glass to him in a small salute and moved over to one of the tables.
Zabini alternated between watching her and the time. His sternum ached as the clock hand march around the face in a dull parade. At about half past six o'clock, it got busy. Twelve wizards wearing navy blue robes came in. They were gruff, blokey sorts. They ordered a round of beers – Zabini only had a dark ale on tap –then ordered a second round shortly afterwards.
The door chimed during the second round, announcing the arrival of Teddy Lupin. Zabini didn't recognise him at first because his hair was a dark jet black. He watched with incredulity as he joined the tattoo artist at the table, leaning in to give her a half-armed hug and a kiss on the cheek before heading to the bar. He ordered another two gillywaters, replacing the one the witch had now finished. Zabini served him quickly as another group of customers came in.
This newest group were dressed in dark green robes with gold trim, speaking to one another in animated voices. The insignia on their robes told him that they were Ministry officials. He had to grab a notepad to jot down their cocktail requests, sure he would forget them by the time he delivered the beers to the table.
The door chimed again, and Zabini felt a spasm in his chest. Where were all these customers coming from?
The muscles in his shoulders unbunched a little as he saw that it was the girls, finally back from wherever they had been. Alice carried two boxes in her arms. She walked straight to the kitchen without so much as a glance towards Zabini. Isabella slipped behind the counter and joined him, picking up the notepad to scan the list of cocktails. Her dark hair was high in a ponytail, swinging from side to side as she grabbed the bottles from the shelves.
"About time you showed up," he grunted.
"Six o'clock rush?" she replied, chipper.
He collected four beers to deliver to the group of twelve. He had to make another two trips to unload them all, then returned for the empty glasses. He didn't trust himself to use a spell.
He could hear the musical percussion of the cocktail shaker, like a maraca, beating out a hypnotic tempo in Isabella's hands. He started on the next cocktail and they didn't speak until everyone had been served. The tavern filled with a din it hadn't heard since New Years.
"Where have they all come from?" Zabini muttered. "It was quiet all day."
"Didn't you take your break?" Isabella asked. "They've started with the first stage of construction."
"Of what?"
"Expanding Hogwart's Quidditch stadium for the match. They're doing it here in Hogsmeade."
"I didn't go out," he replied tersely.
"They're constructing accommodation outside of the village and they're adding onto the school's stadium so it can fit 50,000 spectators. Not as much as a proper World Cup stadium but if they sell that many tickets, it'll be huge. They're anticipating a lot of tourists."
Zabini felt his jaw slacken a little. 50,000 people? Where were all these people when their towns were infested with goblin gangs? Where was their help then?
Isabella finished the cocktails and went to deliver them. He was a little sour that she had made the drinks of those who were willing to tip. Alice returned from the kitchen to help him behind the bar.
"You'll be pleased," she said, smiling at him wryly. "I met with the sales reps for Dragon's Scale and Wizard's Brew – we'll have a few more beers on tap after this week."
He grunted, pulling a pint as she spoke. Maybe Alice thought it would add variety to his day, pulling the different taps.
Isabella returned to the bar with the empties. She was grinning.
"This is really good. Good if she sees it busy," she muttered, almost frenzied.
"Hannah's coming, then?" Alice prompted.
"Wanted to see it for herself."
Zabini washed out the foam on the empty glasses, bottom lip jutting out petulantly. He didn't want to ask.
They worked shoulder-to-shoulder, not speaking much. Zabini was like a wall between the girls. He could feel them cast anxious glances behind his back, like they were throwing darts at a board. They did this a lot when they were around him. He could guess what it was about: they couldn't stand his sullen silences, his coldness. While they complained about his salacious flirting and distasteful jokes, they secretly must have preferred it to his most recent mood. This was likely the reason they left him all day, avoiding him for long stretches. Who could stand to be in his company?
With the pub truly busy, Hannah Longbottom arrived in a long grey overcoat dusted with snow. Zabini immediately recognised her. If his skin were not dark enough to disguise his chagrin, his blush would've given him away. He knew Hannah better than either of the girls, not just because she stood in as Hogwart's matron (likely an excuse to remain close to her husband during the school terms) but because she had been the first to give him a job and a place to sleep back in the previous summer. They had taken him in like a stray cat tolerated because it could at least catch mice. Other than Hannah and Neville, the only other person who knew about that rough period was Rose Weasley and she was not around to give a testament.
Hannah spotted him and smiled warmly as she moved towards them. Before she closed the distance, her eyes roamed the new décor and the crowded tables. She drank it in as one might drain a sweet cocktail. She looked very impressed as she finally reached the bar.
"You're busy. Much busier than the Cauldron," she said, without greeting. She was speaking directly to Isabella.
"It's like this most nights," she lied smoothly, placing her hands on the bar and leaning across it, to add conspiratorially, "and about to get busier with the charity match coming up."
"I bet," Hannah said with a wink. "Neville mentioned plans that the Ministry has to totally re-do the Hogsmeade precinct."
She shrugged off her coat and hung it on the hook under the bar. She then tapped it twice and smiled. Zabini privately glowed that someone had noticed his little installation. Then he immediately snuffed the feeling.
"What would you like to try? On the house, of course," Isabella said.
Hannah's eyes roamed the special board, then rested on Zabini. She smiled again, that sticky honey smile. It was too bad she was so fond of monogamy.
"What do you recommend?" she asked.
He felt both girls look at him uneasily. They were worried he would be surly, turn her off. Clearly, she was the investor.
Instead, Zabini reached down into himself to pull on his familiar mask—the one that he was beginning to realise was more about preservation than pleasure seeking. He gave her his most charming smirk. He blinked slowly and reached for a brandy glass with his left hand and his wand with his right. He chose the brandy glass for its shape.
"I'll make you something I've been experimenting with," he said in a low voice. "Better than anything on the menu."
"Really?" she smiled, searching his face.
He crushed a sugar cube into the bottom of the glass, then popped a second into his mouth with a wink. He poured two shots of whiskey and added the dash of bitters. Stirred. He snatched an orange from the citrus bowl behind him without looking around. He bounced it off his arm and caught it easily, before shaving the peel using his wand. The spell was simple and it looked far more dramatic than using a knife. He torched the peel briefly with his wand in a burst of flame. He ran the smoked peel around the lip of the glass.
He then performed the trick he had been practising in the hours he had been left alone at the bar. He took a stick of cinnamon and smoked the cocktail with his wand so a flavoured mist curled over the glass. He flashed Hannah a grin as he slid it towards her. With a final flick of his wand, he set the cinnamon briefly alight before it then snuffed out.
"I call this one the Goblet of Fire. Enjoy," he said.
The drink was still smoking as she sipped it. Hannah smiled tentatively. "Very impressive."
He twirled the burnt stick of cinnamon between his fingers, then tapped it against the bar.
Two of the Ministry witches had witnessed his lit performance and hovered to watch. One of them, probably in her late thirties, was staring at him eagerly. She had crow's feet around her grey eyes.
"Is that any good?" she asked Hannah.
"Delicious. He's very gifted," Hannah said, nodding her head at Zabini. He was no longer in the mood to blush, not even at her praise. He smiled smugly.
"I'll have one as well," the Ministry witch said.
"Coming right up," he replied coolly.
He set to make the second drink. The girls surely couldn't complain. He had performed the role they had hired him for. But he noticed that they were staring with wide eyes, as if he had lost his mind. Could he do nothing right?
"You serve food as well?" Hannah asked, sipping her cocktail.
"I look after the kitchen," Alice said, clipped. She cleared her throat and sent Isabella a meaningful look before turning her attention to their investor. "I'll give you a tour, if you're keen."
The two departed for the kitchen while Zabini repeated his Goblet of Fire routine for his new customer, who watched rapt. The other Ministry officials were leaving. The one other woman in the group—older than the middled aged witch who was watching Zabini avidly—tapped her shoulder and murmured a goodbye.
The bar was thinning out. Even the blokey wizards were taking off, their last round of beers left on the table. However, before the final cinnamon trick, Zabini noticed that Teddy and his business partner remained at their table, pouring over a binder. They had been here for almost two hours. He wasn't sure why it bothered him so much.
"Here you are," he said to the witch smoothly, sliding her smoking cocktail towards her. She didn't look at the drink. She didn't look away from him. The thirst was not for the cocktail.
He was the one to break their gaze, turning uncertainly to Isabella. "How much would you price this?"
She stuttered out an invented price and the witch obliged, tipping Zabini almost as much as the cost of the drink. She was alone now, her friends having left, so she slid onto a stool a little further down the bar.
"Hey," Isabella said sternly, grabbing his arm.
He pulled his arm free. The din had passed. Only Teddy's low murmuring and the crackling of the fire filled the room. Now that the hubbub had subsided, he could keenly feel the knot in his chest. Isabella's brown eyes were wide, somehow making the feeling worse. He decided he liked it better when her fringy hair was long and obscured her eyes.
"You can't snap at me. I behaved exactly as you wanted," he said bitterly, his façade set aside.
"It was like you switched into a different persona."
"Didn't you hire me because you knew I'd pull all the witches in?"
"Andy, we're worried about you," Isabella pleaded. He flinched at his old nickname. "You've been so depressed lately. And what I just witnessed—"
"Is exactly why you hired me—it's exactly who I've always been."
He pulled off his apron, snapping it down on the bar with an accidental force. It sounded like the crack of a whip. Teddy, the witch with dreadlocks and the Ministry witch all looked up at the sound. Zabini pretended not to notice.
"I think I'll take my break now," he said coolly.
He heaved himself up over the bar instead of walking around it and crossed to the middle-aged witch in the green robes.
"Would you like to join me upstairs?" he asked in a low, velvet voice.
He knew that this would grate on the girls, for he was breaking the number one rule: he couldn't bring customers upstairs. He didn't care. As if they would sack him after he clinched their deal.
The witch drank the last sip of her cocktail. She would taste like smoked citrus and cinnamon, the taste he had made for her. The desperation that rolled off her meant this would be simple and easy, uncomplicated. In times like these, people craved intimacy in the most craven of places.
He led the witch towards the stairs. He felt the tattoo artist watching. He wondered what she would think of this. Would she be impressed or disgusted? He wasn't sure which reaction he preferred. He wasn't sure why he was even thinking of her as he led the other witch up the stairs.
He had been hoping that the others would have dispersed by the time he came back down. It was a childish wish. His breaks were only ten minutes and he didn't really need more than that.
She was tipsy and eager on the way up the stairs, groping him greedily from behind, but he could tell that she was slightly repelled by how small his attic bedroom was. His bed was a king single and it took up most of the space. It didn't deter her enough to question the decision. They were finished in about seven minutes. Zabini felt mechanical. It did nothing to ease the knot in his chest. There was no triumph in shagging a woman so much older. There was no disgust either. It just seemed unremarkable. He wondered if this was how Isabella had felt when he had shagged her. Maybe the whole 'feeling nothing' thing was contagious.
She dressed quickly and he could feel the embarrassment oozing out of her as she tried to yank on her stubborn stockings. She had lighting bolt stretchmarks that raced around the pouch of her stomach and he wondered if she was a mother. She wore no ring on her finger. Where were her children tonight?
He had expected waves of silent fury lapping at the bottom of the stairs when he finally returned but he was greeted with a low tide of indifference. Hannah, Isabella and Alice had joined Teddy and the tattoo artist at their table. Isabella and Hannah sat, while Alice hovered behind Isabella's chair. They were in deep conversation as he descended the last few creaking stairs.
"I'm trying to understand this from all perspectives," Teddy was saying. "I was an orphan, but I always had family I could turn to, so my experience isn't really accurate."
"I'm not sure what you can get out of us," Alice sighed. Her reluctance to sit down made Zabini think that she had been first singled out in this conversation. "I was orphaned as an adult."
"Barely an adult," Teddy muttered. "Emotionally, the impact of something like that…"
"Of course it's traumatic," Alice said, her voice tight. "But I grew up in a loving home, like you."
"And even if I didn't grow up in a loving home," Isabella continued, "when my parents abandoned me, I still had gold. I still had a place to stay."
"Why don't you ask André?" Hannah suggested as she spotted him, motioning him over.
He stood by the balustrade, stock-still. He could feel the heat creep uncomfortably into his face again. If they had been angry and disgusted, he would have been nonchalant. He wasn't sure how to play off their mood.
He walked over woodenly. His little act of rebellion had done nothing.
"My expertise is being called for?" he said silkily.
"I'm starting a home for kids who need a safe place to stay," Teddy explained.
He gestured to the wreath of documents fanned across the table. Zabini ignored them, staring fixed at Teddy. He was burning. Hannah's suggestion felt like a betrayal. It was like he had come downstairs without clothes on.
"I'm not sure how I could help."
"I thought with your experiences last summer, you could give us another perspective," Hannah said softly.
"My experiences?" he echoed.
Hanah's eyes were honey warm. Hard to be angry at honey. "When you stayed with us at the pub for a little while."
He said nothing. That summer at the pub was like being in a safe haven compared to his home. How could he begin to peel back the façade that masked the rotting, decaying structure beneath? There was too much history there.
"There's no reason to be ashamed," Teddy prompted. "Selma was homeless for a while. It's not like those situations are your fault."
Selma. That was the name of the tattoo artist. Homeless. That's what they thought he was.
A maternal presence rolled off his tablemates in waves, even from Teddy Lupin, who sat at the head of the group like a concerned mother hen. He was perhaps the most maternal of them all in his lumpy cardigan and wide brown eyes. The women clustered around him wore the same concerned look. Zabini was used to being looked at by women - and by men, too, for he wasn't oblivious to his charms - but these looks were not the sort he appreciated. Each pair of eyes were filled with pity.
"Maybe start with why you left. What was your family situation?"
"I had siblings. A couple of younger siblings. But I don't know, they're gone now."
"Gone where?" Teddy prompted softly.
"Gone. I don't know."
He hated Teddy pecking over his past with that annoying mother hen look.
"What was your last memory of them?" Teddy said, as a suggestion.
Zabini chewed on his thick, lower lip. His last memory of those two siblings - two sisters, tiny toddlers - was long buried. He remembered packing the pantry with food, then packing his trunk with his shabby secondhand uniform. He remembered them crying when he left, clinging to him. It made him want to recoil from the memory.
"The last time I saw them was when I left for Hogwarts."
"Right," Teddy prompted, quill to page, eyes now eager and focused on Zabini.
"I left my mum a list of instructions of what she needed to do but I don't think she did them. When I got home for the Christmas break to check on them, they were gone. She said a Ministry witch took them. I reckon she called them. I don't think she could stand them crying and they cried a lot. My mum told me that they were given to some relative of their father's, some great aunt. They both had the same father, and the aunt lived abroad and took them away," he explained.
He had to stop there, the memory of their empty reeking flat hard to swallow. He had come home just to check on them. They had both been too young to write, and his mother never returned his mail from Hogwarts, so when he spared a thought for them, he had been worried about their welfare throughout that first term of school. He didn't spare a thought often, though. Hogwarts was like a dream. The hot water never ran out, he got fed three times a day, he always had freshly pressed robes, no one came round looking for money owed. People acted impressed when he told them his surname.
"So you were basically their carer until you left for school."
"Yeah."
"The social workers never came to check on you after they took your sisters?"
"Why would they? I was old enough to take care of myself."
"You were…eleven," Teddy said slowly. He wasn't writing now.
"Once I was at Hogwarts, it was just the summers. Where else would I have gone?"
"You didn't have any other family?"
"I think I had an older sister, but I don't know what happened to her. I was really small then."
"Your father?"
He couldn't help but snort derisively. He felt raw, like all his nerves were exposed. As if he was some sort of muggle contraption and someone had pulled out all the wires. The one that he couldn't stand to look at was Selma. At first he thought it was because the cool mask he had constructed in front of her was now crumbling, leaving all his soft crevices exposed. It wasn't that. When he took a fleeting glance, the look of concern was more jarring than the others. She reminded him of his mother, but his mother had never worn that look in all her life. Not when looking at him.
"Do you truly think that the Blaise Zabini would take in a ratbag like me, with a mother like that?"
He couldn't even mention the love potion, the scam of his mother's relationship with Zabini and his own cursed conception. It was bad enough as it was.
"What did you say your last name was?" Selma asked.
He felt his lip curl at the question. He could just imagine what she was thinking. How could a Zabini claim to have such a miserable childhood?
The name Zabini carried its own aplomb, covering him like finely made armour. He even looked like a Zabini. The inky skin, the high cheekbones, the beautiful full lips. He had always feared that it was just a husk. Underneath that disguise was a sad, self-absorbed creature that better resembled his mother. Loveless and unlovable, satiating it's desires like an animal. A lone wolf. Whatever curse was on him was born of her.
He didn't say his surname out loud. It didn't really belong to him. How exactly had he ended up with it? Just another thing his mother had stolen, something sick he had inherited.
"I'm out," he declared, pushing out of his chair. He wasn't getting paid to be interrogated. He headed towards the door, ignoring whatever they called after him, grabbed his coat and stormed into the cold night air.
Hogsmeade did look a little different. Even in the distant darkness, he could make out the skeleton of the scaffolding around the Hogwart's Quidditch pitch. It looked like a tower made of toothpicks. Up the street, the Hog's Head looked like it was getting an extension. Accommodation options, no doubt.
He ploughed through the snow, his feet crunching through it. The cold snuck under his clothes with a lecher's touch.
He didn't hear them calling until they were right up behind him.
"Come on, you'll freeze out here," Teddy Lupin said as he caught up, grabbing his shoulder. Zabini didn't stop walking and Teddy walked alongside him, backwards, as if they were having a stationary conversation. "I'm sorry if I pushed you too hard. I shouldn't have forced you to talk."
"No one forced me," he grunted.
Someone else was on his right. He couldn't bare it if Isabella or Alice had come after him. They were already acting so weird around him. Now they would carry around the knowledge of his secret pain, to see how truly pathetic it was, not some mysterious ruse to pick up women. How could he face them? However, as they passed a street lamp he saw the blonde hair and realised it was Hannah.
"I thought your friends already knew," she said apologetically. "They just told me they had no idea. I'm so sorry I mentioned it."
Their remorse was worse than the pity. He kept marching, as if he could outrun it. He had no idea how to quiet the horrible feeling surging up inside of him. Usually, detached sex would do the trick. The gratification smothered any other thought or feeling. But that had failed, too. He was unfixable.
"Just slow down for a moment. Please."
He listened to Hannah, coming to a gradual halt, as he really had no where left to go. Wasn't that the problem? He breathed out twice, the air leaving his nose like dragon steam in the cold night. He felt as if someone had hexed him – his stomach churned, his head spun, his skin was clammy even in the cold.
"Why don't you head back into the pub, Teddy? I want to have a word with André," Hannah said quietly.
They didn't speak until they heard the distant sound of the door chime back down the dark street. The snow and the dark made the world a little more cushioned than it might have been otherwise.
It felt a bit like a standoff in the snow but under Hannah's gentle gaze he felt his defensiveness melt.
"There's still time for you to heal, you know," she said quietly.
"No chance, and there's no good bringing the past up."
"Sometimes the past can help. Teddy wants to create the safety net you never had. To save other children from the fate you had to suffer through."
"Lucky them," he bit back. "I was bound to turn out this way no matter what."
"How can you be so sure?"
"I am cursed. I always have been cursed. I'm beyond saving."
The words came out flatly, like a mantra.
"I can't believe that," Hannah replied.
Standing between the pools of light from the street lamps, hidden in shadow, he exposed the final ghastly wound he had been hiding.
"I have shed the blood of a unicorn," he said, his voice harsh and low. "I was conceived under a love potion, against my father's will. Do you really think somebody with such a stain on their soul can be saved?"
Hannah was silent. At first, he was certain that this terrible revelation had finally convinced her of the truth. He was completely broken, beyond any repair. Nothing good could come of him. However, as the pause progressed and he noticed Hannah's searching eyes, he realised that she had more to say.
"The unicorn, did you drink its blood?"
"No, I just injured it."
"So you're not cursed," she said flatly. "I studied this sort of thing when I became a Healer – cursed wounds and the like. You must consume unicorn blood to be cursed."
He didn't know what to say in response to this. She was so matter of fact.
"As for the love potion, I am truly sorry to hear this. What a heavy burden for a child to carry. However, you're wrong again. It is an old wives tale that a person conceived under a love potion cannot know love."
"Sorry?" he was sure she was making this up now to console him, and it grated on his nerves.
"I can promise you that there is no proof behind it at all. We think that the myth began as a way to dissuade people from using the potion. The idea that any offspring from the union would never know love was a way to put people off using the potion for that purpose, long before the actual potion was banned."
"How can you be sure it is just a myth, though? For all you know, it may be the truth."
He felt oddly betrayed by her theories. If there was no curse on him, threatening to unravel his existence, what reason did he have for all these sudden changes? The physical reactions in his body, the terrible turmoil he couldn't stem?
"It must have been terrible to grow up without any love," she simply said, and enveloped him in her warm arms.
The last person that Draco Malfoy expected at the iron-wrought gates was a nosey Weasley with a quill poking out of her dragon hide satchel. He strode down the long gravel driveway toward her. Divided by the gate, they stared at one another as if through prison bars.
"What?" he demanded.
Victoire hated everything about this. She hated showing up unannounced, digging about in the graveyard of someone's grief to stitch together a macabre story. She hated the steely glare on Malfoy's face, his distrust. She hated the way ambition felt on her, like wearing somebody else's clothes.
"I'm writing a story for the Prophet."
"Not interested."
"About your son," Victoire added. It felt callous. She wished she could snatch the words out of the air.
Draco had paused, though. With one hand he gripped the iron grill of the gate.
"What about my son?"
"An exposé about why he has been missing for so long. Who's to blame."
She threw the words out like dice. A gamble. The Weasley clan had always been particularly good with that. It was a smart play. She knew that Draco Malfoy loved to blame people and here there were many people to blame. Gladstone, Grigarex, the Goblin King, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger. The list would surely go on.
Draco hesitated, then leaned back with all his weight. The gate swung open.
Victoire did not glance at the immaculate gardens or the albino peacocks that shrieked shrilly as they passed. As she mounted the steps leading to the front door, she thought of last night's row and Teddy's look of utter contempt.
The lobby gave a brief introduction to the opulence that awaited. What drew Victoire's eye was not the chandelier or the gilded mirrors but a family portrait that hung opposite the entryway. In it, Scorpius was about fourteen. He was willowy and thin, with the awkwardness of a teenager between two poised parents. He looked different to the young man Victoire had last seen. His silvery blond hair was not wavy and loose but slicked back austerely with gel. He kept tucking his thumbs nervously into his pockets and shifting his weight from foot to foot. He looked shy and unsure.
In the portrait, Scorpius looked like a split image of his father at first glance. However, as she took a step further to study the picture, she noticed what might have passed as deliberate mistakes. Scorpius' face was more delicate than his father's, angelic like a renaissance cherub. Cupid's bow lips and a gentle curve to his nose. His features were softer, like his mother's. It was the slick hair gel and dark navy dress robes that made him resemble his father so uncannily.
Once they were inside his office, Draco Malfoy poured two whiskies without asking whether his guest wanted one. So far, this felt too easy. Was he already drunk? She thought of Harry's confession the night before about Ginny's intervention at home and felt queasy again.
"You asked me earlier who was to blame," Draco said quietly. He placed his hands over his face as if to hide. The rings on his fingers glinted where his eyes should be. Muffled, from behind his thin fingers, came an unbearable admission. "I am. I am to blame."
Quill poised, Victoire waited for what he had said to click into place. Slowly, she lowered the quill, studying the devastated father before her. There was no story here.
"I couldn't understand why Scorpius would leave with them, would follow Rose, would choose the Potters and the Weasleys over us. Over our family. But I see it now. My parents were terrible people but they were good parents. They loved me. They made sure I knew it."
"I'm sure Scorpius knows how much you love him," Victoire said, her voice brimming with compassion now.
Draco dropped his hands, his face twisted with anguish.
"How could he? I was cold with my son. I was hard on him. I didn't want him to turn out as I had, so easy to manipulate. I didn't like the way he idolised Rose Weasley and envied Albus Potter. I got inside his head and I turned him against them. I made sure he wouldn't trust them. He was just a child!"
Victoire was lost now, not understanding the complex history of Scorpius Malfoy and his father. The punishment. The Legilimency. It was all unknown to her, unknown to most. She wasn't sure how to comfort this man as he sobbed like a child. She noticed, with his head down in his hands, his hair was more silver than blonde.
"I thought I was turning him against them but I was turning him against us," he gasped. "I have lost the chance to tell him how - how - sorry I am."
"You speak as if he's already dead," Victoire said quietly.
"He must be. Why else has he been missing for weeks? Potter thinks they have a plan but I'm not so naïve."
"There may be a plan," Victoire continued, quill away now. "They may turn up any day now."
"Do you have children, Weasley?"
She shook her head, the lump hard in her throat.
"Then you have no idea what it is to live this way."
A/N: Gosh, I really just want this story done! Not too many chapters to go...
Hope everyone is having a safe lead up to Christmas! Thanks for all the kind reviews. Van x