Chapter Seven: A Well-Deserved Hatred
I walk through the halls to the chorus of my own breathing and occasionally—if I'm very, very lucky—the faint whisper of some confused student. I thought I was used to silence, but not like this. Ever since I was released from Saint Mungo's it's been the same. The rumors about what really happened at my mother's house are all that anyone can talk about, only stopping when either Ginny or I walk past.
Some people think that I really meant all of those things I jokingly 'confessed' to Harry Potter, my love for him so strong that I would even save his girlfriend. Some people think that my mother was the one that tortured both Ginny and I: the poor star-crossed lovers. Some people think that I'm evil and tortured Ginny myself, placing a memory charm on her so that she wouldn't remember.
Very few people believe what I've told them despite Ginny confirming the story every chance she gets. The story is exactly what we agreed upon, which is that I truly had stumbled upon her with too many witnesses not to save. The only people who believe it are as follows: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, and Ronald Weasley. They only believe it because of the loyalty of friendship.
I sit down to the Great Hall for my meal and the treatment I get is much the same. No one bothers me anymore. I find that it's actually easier this way—the way that it used to be—and I know that I should hate it, but instead I just feel absolutely nothing. I should hate being alone, but more than anything I know that I should hate what happened. I should hate my mother and that she was so very ruthless in the way she handled the confrontation, no angles, no casual comments for me to decipher, just kidnapping a random girl from my school and then expecting me to deliver. Except Ginny wasn't random, not really. What she said about her, it was true. I had said that I was going to marry her, and even though I didn't mean it, it leaves me with this vague sense of responsibility for it all.
I've begun to realize lately realize that I've been responsible for so many things that have happened to me, and it should hurt. I wasn't enough for my parents, and it was me who wasn't enough, not them. When I think about it, I can think the words 'it hurts', but I don't feel them. The whole world is on some sort of stand-by, just blah that can't be changed. Every day I wish more and more that I felt something, anything.
I find myself crawling through emptiness for the thousandth time now, curled in a fat floral recliner in the Room of Requirements while I should be in class Transfiguring a cat into a lamppost or whatever useless nonsense I'm supposed to be learning. I've been missing more and more classes lately. I might be expelled if I don't pick up the slack soon, but I'm a little beyond caring at the moment.
Whenever I close my eyes, she's there, her and her menacing eyes. She's hurt me so many times, it should hurt that she would do yet another thing to me. Even though I knew she hated me, knew that she probably never loved me . . . the Imperious Curse? I have never in my life wanted to put someone through one of the Unforgivables, but here she had been putting me through them, unwittingly, my entire life? So why doesn't it hurt? Why am I not screaming and crying or doing something . . . anything?
Suddenly I stand up and, without even giving it a second thought, thrust a vase against the wall, wanting to feel satisfaction as it shatters to hardly more than dust. I pick up another one and throw it against the fireplace, watching as the dust and the fire collide. I reach my hand underneath the base of the chair I was just sitting in and flip it. Pulling my wand out, I shout at the top of my lungs and watch as the chair bursts into flames, the smoky burn in my lungs hardly noticeable. Next I pull a charring log out of the fireplace and bash in the chandelier that Theo made, the chandelier that is inexplicably in the room every single time I enter it. I now shout out spells and utterly destroy basically everything else the room has to offer: another chair, a few stone sculptures, several bookshelves, and a mirror.
"Wow."
I jerk my head sharply towards the voice that undeniably belongs to Theo Nott. He raises his hands and claps slowly, strolling through the destruction I've just caused as though it were a scenic park.
"Augustus," he begins, never shirking in his resolve to call me that, "While I must say that you look a treat, tell me. Does this," he motions to the mess surrounding me, "Make you feel any better?"
Usually I would argue, but I'm too tired for this right now. "No," I sigh, sinking to the floor and resting my face in my hands.
"I didn't think so." Then, to my utter surprise, he walks over and sits down next to me, resting his hand lightly on my shoulder.
I blink at him, but I'm not given the time to comment.
"You know, I think it was noble of you to stand up to her like that." He says this plainly, making no attempt at the usual Slytherin beat-around-the-bush type of compliments. It sounds good when he says it, too, because it almost makes it sound normal, like I'd just helped an old lady across the street or something.
I shake my head numbly, trying to shake myself to feel the thing that seems nearest to the surface, the feeling that I somehow screwed up, that somehow it's my fault that my mother hates me. We sit there in silence for a while, Theo just watching me silently. Finally, he opens his mouth to speak again.
"I got Ginny to tell me what happened." He admits this without that usual smooth quality to his tone. It makes me know that he's being realistic. "You can't forget forever."
"Doesn't matter . . ." My voice falls flat, but Theo seems to understand. His eyes flash and he jumps up, suddenly screaming at me.
"YOU'RE PATHETIC!"
The fact that he's screaming barely pings against the steel wall that seems to be holding every emotion in place somewhere far from where I could even begin to feel them.
"DID YOU HEAR ME, ZABINI? YOU'RE SUCH A COWARD THAT YOU CAN'T EVEN DEAL WITH YOUR OWN LAST NAME!"
"Yeah," I admit softly, "I know."
"YOUR OWN MOTHER DESPISES YOU! SHE HATES YOU AND YOU DESERVE IT!"
"Yeah. I know." This time I say the words more strongly, but still without any of the emotional tint that I wish could be there.
"YOU FAILED HER AND YOU'RE PROBABLY GOING TO FAIL TO SAVE MALFOY, TOO!"
"Yeah. I know."
Theo smirks evilly, and I'm starting to wonder if he's really my friend at all. "YOU'RE SELFISH, ZABINI! YOU ALWAYS HAVE BEEN AND YOU ALWAYS WILL BE! YOU'RE USING HERMIONE AND YOUR ABOUT TO USE DRACO TO GET WHAT YOU WANT! THIS HAS ALWAYS BEEN ABOUT YOU! YOU DON'T ACTUALLY CARE WHAT HAPPENS TO ANYONE ELSE!"
The words ring in my ear. "You don't actually care".
Suddenly, I jerk upright and place my face centimeters from his, "YES!" I shriek, "YES, I AM A COWARD! I AM SELFISH! I AM AFRAID OF MY OWN LAST NAME! AND IT'S ALL MY FAULT! EVERYTHING IS MY FAULT! MY MOTHER HATES ME AND I DESERVE IT!" Then I crash to my knees and that's when the tears come, hot and numerous. I curl into myself and wail. It's an ugly sound, but I know that it's mine. The numbness rushes away and instead I feel a deep and all-consuming pain. I can't believe that I'm allowing Theo to see me like this, but it's not like I can stop once I've started.
He doesn't say anything more, just watches me silently as I scream and wail like a toddler. I cry until I'm out of tears to cry, leaving this muddled feeling of pain, hurt, and betrayal. Now I'm forced to content myself with the occasional sniff and the puffy feeling around my eyes.
Theo mummers something quietly, and I look up at him to catch it. He looks . . . like he understands somehow. "It's not you fault, by the way."
"I think I know that somewhere," I admit hoarsely, "but right now it doesn't feel that way."
"I know."
I stare into Theo's eyes, a tiny beacon of light after what feels now like an eternity of darkness. I blink slowly, not fully understanding what he means when he says he knows. How could anyone possibly know?
Theo takes a deep breath and continues, "I blamed myself for my mother's death, for my father's drunken state. For surely, if I'd at least tried to help him through life without mother . . ." he trails off, his eyes staring forwards but his mind clearly far away.
Then he interjected his own thoughts, mumbling words that I manage to hear perfectly. "But he didn't care regardless." Theo shakes his head momentarily, then turns to face me directly.
"I had to understand something, something that was hard to accept. You can't take responsibility for the rest of the world. In the end, you are all you can control. The mistakes you make, the good choices: the ugly and the beautiful. That's it. I couldn't earn the love of a father who never wanted me and you can't earn your mother's love now. Blaise, you shouldn't have to earn your parent's love. If they don't love you simply for being their child, maybe their love isn't worth anything, anyway."
"But Theo, she put me under the Imperious! She said she's done it before, too!" My voice is strained, and I can hear the pain extending into it.
"What?" Theo breathes the word, eyes wide.
"Theo, I was right! She did put me under it! I . . . I've felt it before, now that I think about it. It's the same heavy feeling that I got that time Moody put me under it. I think . . . I think she does it a lot."
"You're not going back there." Theo nods seriously, "Don't go back there, Blaise."
"Believe me when I tell you that I don't intend to."
"If they ever let me out of Azkaban, I want to be given a redo." I sigh and flop to the floor, finding that I rather enjoy theatrics now that I've gotten used the them.
Hermione smacks me lightly, the braid she was working on falling out of my hair. I can feel her sighing quietly, but we've already agreed that she won't be treating me like a martyr anymore, so I don't mention it.
"Why don't you just fix this year's problems and get the grades you want?"
Oh Hermione. Always so sensible . . . "Yes, because it wouldn't look even slightly suspicious for me to march up to Dumbledore, explain why I've been shirking my grades, ask for an extension or extra credit or something, and then proceed to be a real competitor for the top grades. Besides! I have way too much to do. I've been thinking that I might want to practice wandless magic for my upcoming vacation."
Hermione's fingers freeze in my hair, the Room of Requirement—where I've been spending most of my time—deadly quiet through the many floors and sturdy walls that separate us from the other students, the majority of which are probably outside enjoying one of the last warm Saturdays of the year as October draws to a close.
"I thought you weren't going back there," she finally says, probably trying to sound relaxed. I can hear—and feel—the slight shake to her voice that gives her away, however.
"I'm not. I meant Azkaban." She was referring to my house (okay fine, my mansion). I had to tell her the truth about that, of course, after Theo already found everything out from Ginny herself. While Theo's a Slytherin and used to finding his own way, Hermione likely wouldn't take it well if she hadn't heard it directly from me. I explained everything except what my mother had said to me and how she'd wanted me to use the Imperious Curse. I couldn't bring myself to tell her that.
"Oh." Her voice is dark, and she pulls her fingers out of my hair entirely, the unfinished braided top flopping into my face.
"Cheer up, love, I—"
"—Love?"
"Oh," I blush furiously as I realize my mistake, "It's just . . . I didn't mean anything by it, it's just something I've picked up over the years . . ." That's partially true. I picked it up from my father, actually, and the memory leaves me with a slice of pain, like an old wound reopening.
"What?" Hermione looks concerned again.
"It's nothing, really. I won't say it again."
Hermione nods, likely sensing that there's something else to this but wisely having the good sense not to dig into it too much. "Anyway, you were saying that you wanted to practice wandless magic. You may as well spend you time otherwise. I've tried it, and it's impossible."
I laugh. "So, the Great Hermione Granger cannot do something and it therefore must be impossible!"
"No! I—"
"—Just can't stand not being able to master something, to understand it."
Hermione shakes her head slightly, "You've got me, but I have to go study for a Potions exam next week. Have you studied at all?"
"Pfft! No. If I'm going to fail, it's going to be a show that throws Fred and George's exit from Hogwarts in the dust!" I wink, trying for a smirk, but finding it hard. Though I may have cried over my mother's betrayal, I still can't manage to push it from my mind.
Hermione seems to notice this, smiling sadly as she leaves. I know that she wants to help, but there isn't anything she can do.
I spit forcefully onto one of Hogwarts many inexplicable trophies, scrunching my nose in disgust. I should've showed up to more classes, but like an idiot I kept ignoring them. After failing the Potions exam—and a whole host of others—I am now finishing my first week of detention, which will continue on every night for the next three weeks on a rotation with every Professor whose class I've missed, which means all of them.
"Mr. Zabini, I must say that I am very surprised that you would consider skipping one of my classes. I know how much you would enjoy Potion Making, I've enjoyed it myself for many years now." Slughorn is currently breathing down my neck, literally. On the bright side, detention has been keeping my mind off of things, but now I think that the Professors must be having a contest to see who can make me most miserable, because this is getting ridiculous.
On Monday night, I sat in the kitchens with Flitwick, chopping onions beside the house elves. Flitwick insisted that I dress "appropriately" and handed me an empty flour sack with armholes, gesturing to the bathrooms for me to change. Of course, it was just my luck and as I exited the bathroom, I ran into Ronald Weasley, Harry Potter, and Hermione, all of whom found my getup entertaining to say the least. The house elves didn't even seem to care that I was dressed according to elf culture and continuously gave me confused stares. Worst of all, when I make the mistake of dropping a few chunks of onion on the floor, Flitwick insisted with a smile that I continue to follow elf culture and handed me a bucket of water, which I was forced to dump onto myself. Much to Draco's amusement, I returned that evening soaking wet and wearing a flour sack, hair plastered to my face and smelling of onions.
On Tuesday night, I was dragged to the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid on a hunt to collect some of the rarer ingredients found in wolfsbane potion. It was going fine and I was actually quite relieved that it wasn't as bad as Monday except that Hagrid seemed to have forgotten me. I yelled for hours, completely lost, until I finally gave up and decided to spend the night. How was I supposed to know that there was some vast lake of what I can only describe as glue deep in the forest? I tripped over a log and landed face-first in the stuff, struggling for hours before I finally managed to reach my wand from my pocket and blasted the stuff away. By the time I returned to the castle, I was covered in glue and more than ready to go to bed, but to my great dismay I realized that it was already early Wednesday morning. I showed up in the Slytherin Common Room with my hair sticking up everywhere and my robes plastered against my body, forcing me to waddle rather than walk. Everyone—and I mean everyone—saw me.
On Wednesday night, it was time to face my doom with Professor Snape. He simply handed me a quill and gave me a lengthy document to copy, telling me that I couldn't fall asleep. He had to have known that I was up all night, because by the time I finished, it was once again the morning of the next day. I did end up falling asleep and—again much to my dismay—found that I had ink smeared across my face, ink that strangely couldn't be removed with magic. I had to leave it on the entire day before it finally wore off. Needless to say, the general student population saw an ink-covered Blaise.
Tonight, I'm scrubbing trophies, which makes me suspicious to say the least. I've been trying to get my revenge, at least, by cleaning as many as possible with my spit, but it's so childish that I hardly feel better.
"Mr. Zabini, did you hear me?"
"Hmm . . ." I flick open my eyes, groaning as the light hits them, even though it's only dim candlelight.
"Mr. Zabini?"
". . . It's Blaise . . ." I mumble, mostly to myself, as I lean my head against the most recently polished trophy.
Professor Slughorn chuckles lightly, but then takes a step back. "I was considering how best to punish you, but I imagine that you've learned your lesson, young man. You may go to bed now."
I should thank him, but all I can think of is my bed, so instead I begin to inch my way to it. My legs weigh a ton and the bags under my eyes droop quite low. My progress is slow.
"Oh, and Mr. Zabini?" Slughorn calls, "I do hope you'll accept my invitation to my Christmas Ball, which I'll be holding in two months' time."
I should be asking him why he's inviting me right now, or why he's asking me at all, but I don't. I simply mumble, "Yeah. I'll be there." Then I head off to my bed, falling asleep as soon as I collapse into it.
Stay tuned for updates soon (ish). I have the next chapter finished, and it's an important one to the story, so hopefully I do a reasonable job writing it. Please write me a review if you can, I would love to hear from you. Thanks!