This chapter contains a scene that you're probably familiar with, so don't hold any parts that don't strictly follow the book against me. In the series, Blaise Zabini is in no way the hero, so I figure I'm allowed to do whatever the heck I want with the scenes I borrow.
Chapter Twelve: Deeper
"I'm scared, mummy," I whisper, trying to bore my eyes into hers and ignore the darkness around us. For a moment, I'm that little boy with the cat again, sitting with him as he died, singing softly and crying as my life seemed to fall apart. For a moment, this woman is all I have.
"There's no need to be afraid, boy. I love you."
She smiles, and for a single second everything is okay. For the shortest of moments, she loves me. I'm not that little boy who wonders desperately what in the world he did wrong; the boy who blames himself for not earning his mother's love. I am wanted.
Then the smile changes. Her smile that seemed so sweet before turns rather in a sour and somehow sickening way. She raises her wand and shouts, a green blast of light hitting me in the heart, sucking away my life. All I can see of the world around me is her face, heralded by the green light, eyes glinting in pleasure at what she's just done.
I jerk upright, trembling from the horrors of the nightmare. These dreams have been coming more often and stronger, each one somehow more real than the last; sticking with me later and later into the day that follows. I lunge my hand over the side of my bed and shakily pull out a Draught of Peace that I put there in anticipation of more nightmares. I swallow the entire vile in a single gulp and pull out my wand, whisking away the sweat on my brow and whitening my bloodshot eyes with a spell that Theo taught me. Finished, I lay back down and await the sleep that should come when my draught kicks in.
It's been five months since Draco cut ties with me, and the reality of my world keeps worsening and worsening. The dreams started the night I linked Hermione and Draco together, and they have continued on, more terrible each time. Sometimes I dream of my mother murdering me, sometimes I dream of a Dementor sucking my soul. Sometimes I dream of Draco falling to his death or murdering Dumbledore and enjoying it, basking in the Dark Lord's glory. Either way, dreams suck and I'm getting rather tired of having them.
I never thought that it would be this hard; that I would break down so quickly. I always considered myself a strong person, but suddenly I'm afraid of dreams: a constant reminder of the reality I made for myself, the reality in which I go to Azkaban—hell, basically—in one month's time.
Draco hardly makes appearances anymore, never showing up to most meals and from what Theo tells me, he's missed as many classes as I have. Hermione hasn't explicitly told me about their mind connection—which isn't surprising since I haven't spoken to her—but based on my research, they both should be able to control which thoughts go out to each other, though it's certainly possible for either of them to force their way into what the other doesn't want them to see. I had Theo check just to be certain, proving what I had hoped for the entire time. Legilimancy is pointless against her, and I'd imagine that it's the same for Draco.
The Draught of Peace seems to be working, and I soon feel reality begin to look better somehow. I am no longer afraid that my plan will fail. It seems . . . certain in a way that gives me a bit of confidence. I close my eyes and breathe slowly, enjoying the smaller things in life, the things that I rarely dwell upon, such as the ability to breathe and the feeling in my chest as I suck in the life-giving substance. The blankets, too, feel so soft and smooth, the green silk gracing my skin with the perfect balance of breathability and warmth. I take another deep breath and fall asleep almost instantly.
What the . . .?
Looking around, I find myself surrounded by portraits and pictures rather than sheets and silence. Some of the paintings snore fiercely and a few others stare at me with a look of surprise that matches how I'm feeling.
Where am I?
I turn and notice the entrance to Slytherin commons . . . several floors away from the Room of Requirement and my bed.
"Bloody . . ." I mutter to myself.
In an instant it dawns on me. I remember taking the Draught of Peace the night before and the stupid side effects I've been trying to brew out of my potion. This has to be yet another such side effect. For whatever reason, the potions recipes from the textbook never turn out right. I wish that I could talk to a real potions expert . . . if only I could tell someone what I was brewing without unwanted questions.
"What time is it?" I hiss softly to the nearest painting, a tall woman with a long nose that appears to be many different colored triangles all shoved together.
"Why, it's 3 p.m.," she bellows, her voice deeper than I expected, apparently unaware that I was trying to keep quiet.
"Thanks . . ." I sigh, irritated with myself for sleeping in so late, even though it is a Saturday. It's now that I hear a sound—a rather odd sound—coming from an abandoned prefect's bathroom. It sounds like . . . crying, like an open, pitiful kind of crying that one only cries when at the end of what they can bear: the lowest depths of despair. I'm not an entirely heartless jerk, so I begin to wander towards the sound.
Suddenly it seems very cold in the castle. I glance down and realize I'm still in my pajamas, which for me means that I'm standing in a pair of emerald boxer briefs, and they aren't exactly loose fitting. I normally would groan and turn around, but I want to see what's wrong. At this point I'm beyond caring about much of anything, anyway, so unless it turns out to be the Dark Lord himself crying in that bathroom, I probably won't even have a blush to hide.
It doesn't take long to get to the prefect's bathroom, and I'm about to slip in when I catch a glimpse of blonde—light blonde, Draco Malfoy blonde—and I freeze. I put a freezing spell on the door to hold it in place and then I ever so slightly back away so that I'm in the shadows. Draco's probably just beating up some poor kid again, and I don't want to run into him like this. But as I stare it becomes clear that Draco is very much alone: alone and leaning over the sink.
He's crying. Draco Malfoy is crying.
It was my 13th birthday, and I had been invited to Malfoy Manor to celebrate my coming into manhood. Narcissa had insisted that we eat a "proper" meal, consisting of ten courses and requiring that we use all of the proper silverware in the correct order. I spent much of the meal copying Draco.
Though I had never agreed with them, I knew that the members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight took their birthright as a serious matter. For them, the Sacred Twenty-Eight wasn't trifled with, poked fun at, or Merlin forbid misunderstood. As a frequent guest of the Malfoy household, I was expected to know and understand all of the many rules of the group, though I wasn't and still am not a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
After dinner, Lucius presented me with a gift that only a Malfoy would give: a poisoned blade that could only be used once and would make the victim appear to have had a sudden heart attack. They would go on for weeks afterward, thinking that everything was fine, when suddenly they would die. Everyone else would assume that it was the heart attack that had done it, but you would know. Anyway, the gift was presented and then Draco and I were sent off to amuse the adults and play around with the Quidditch equipment.
Hundreds of feet in the air, Draco and I raced and looped, laughing and thoroughly enjoying ourselves until Lucius became bored and decided to join us as the beater. He chased us relentlessly, which at first I thought was a part of the game. One look at Draco's face told me otherwise. The boy was at least three shades paler than his naturally creamy skin tone, and his eyes widened into a fear that I recognized: the fear that meant a beating.
Narcissa rushed inside without so much as looking back, and I knew right then that we were on our own. I played the game as best I could, but though both Draco and I could play well against fellow students, Lucius is a full-grown man. Eventually, Draco was hit square in the face with the bat. I could hear the snap even from where I was, several yards away. Blood gushed out from Draco's nose and soon his face was more nose than anything else. Still, Lucius didn't stop. He laughed, turned, and continued to pursue his son. He hardly seemed to notice that I was there.
He chased the boy like a cat chases a mouse: toying with him, letting him think that he'd escaped before chasing him again. Finally, I'd had enough. I rode my broom straight in between them and declared that I needed to be heading home soon. Lucius agreed that we should be finished, and he began to lead us to the ground. As we landed, I saw a slight glint in his eye, a glint that I shrugged off. I was foolish. Quick as a flash, he swung the bat and hit me across the stomach, causing me to vomit my dinner. Just as quickly he struck me in the back and then again behind my knees, throwing me to the ground.
Though my mind was nearly numb from the thundering pain, I will never forget Lucius' interaction with his son.
"Father, no!" Draco screeched out in a whisper, tears filling his eyes.
Lucius turned, slowly and casually, his words forming delicately on his lips. "I teach your friend here to be a man, and you . . . you cry?"
Draco's eyes closed for a moment. When he opened them, the tears were shining from his eyes, but they didn't fall. He looked fierce; determined.
"No."
I . . . I don't know what to do. I, Blaise Zabini, master of all plans; commander of every situation . . . and I'm frozen, standing gaping like an idiot in my underwear, hair tangled and halfway flopping in my face. All I do is stand there staring at my former best friend, at the boy that's already suffered so much.
Suddenly I hear a retching sound that serves to break up the sobs. It's the vomit that does it. Draco Malfoy has never, ever puked in his entire life, a fact that he's always held in pride. My friend . . . my poor friend.
With renewed courage, I take a single step forward, ready to tell him it's okay and offer him my renewed friendship and explain everything, including my desperate plan and maybe even the fact that I linked his and Hermione's minds together. But that single step is the closest I ever get before a figure rushes into the bathroom, cornering Draco in his moment of weakness.
And who would it be that confronts Draco Malfoy at his lowest other than Harry Freaking Potter, the Boy Who Bloody Well Lived, who begins shouting at him. Draco looks up and I can see the tortured look in his eyes, the puffy blotches that surround the usually so clear grey. I can see dried vomit on his white dress shirt and fresh vomit on the corners of his mouth. His complexion rivals that of a ghost and he shakes horribly, but it doesn't take long for him to force a sneer on his face, though I know it's not a real one.
I want nothing more than to step in, to tell Harry that whatever he's about to accuse Draco of isn't true: that it's me who's the Death Eater. I wish so badly that I could save him right now, but I can't. It would ruin everything, I know, but the brokenness in his features makes my heart ache like it hasn't since the day my father left me.
Before I know it, Harry's shouting some spell I've never heard of, but when Draco collapses and blood starts seeping from thousands of cuts that suddenly appear out of nowhere, I figure it must be dark. Before Potter can hurt him worse, I slip from the shadows and wandlessly attempt to throw a stunning spell at him, surprised when it works, as I didn't go through my usual focusing bit. I see a professor rushing towards the scene out of the corner of my eye, but I don't catch who it is because I can't seem to rip my gaze from Draco's dying form. He must be dying because he's lying in a rapidly expanding pool of his own blood, a pool that's starting to seep into Harry's clothes as he lies in his stunned form, unconscious from hitting his head on the door as he fell.
"Professor!" I holler. I don't care that I'm in my underwear anymore, I can't let Draco die. My goal is to save him, that's why I allowed myself to be abandoned by the entire Slytherin House. It's why I befriended Hermione (though I couldn't bring myself to regret that either way), and it's why I'm planning to go to Azkaban. I soon catch sight of greasy, black hair and a rather slow gait.
"PROFESSOR SNAPE!" I screech, this time at the literal top of my lungs. When his eye catches Draco, he whips his way to my side and rushes into the bathroom, swiftly muttering spells.
He only breaks away for one second to look over at me and whisper sharply, "Get out of here, Zabini, you shouldn't be seen!"
I feel myself nodding in agreement, and I rush away, no longer feeling the cold stone on my feet. I freeze and turn to where I can still see Snape's form hunched over the limp body.
"Will he be okay?" I dare to call out, hoping no one else can hear me. Snape doesn't call back but rather gives a firm nod, which I choose as the opportune time to leave. I rush quickly into the Room of Requirement, not bothering to put on any clothes over my underwear. I wish that I could be anywhere but here right now, but I can't be in Slytherin, and I'm beginning to seriously debate whether I can leave this room again at all or not. Everything is just compounding itself; I can feel the end marching on.
I gruffly slam the door behind me and slide onto the ground; my legs seeming to have decided that they no longer work and would rather be dead weight instead. I am exhausted despite the sleep I actually managed last night and it's all I can do to push a few matted curls from my eyes before sprawling onto the floor, trying to breath.
Breathe, I command my lungs, breathe! Still, I can't seem to catch my breath and am instead glued to the floor. I can't get the images out of my head: my best friend wrapped in the agony of all he's being asked to do and then his dying form, the slashes almost pulsating while his breaths grow more and more shallow.
I don't know how long I'll be laying here, but I don't see any movement in my near future. It's at this moment—at my most vulnerable—that the door swings open and I hear a sudden shriek. Still unable to move, I guess I'm at the mercy of whoever has found me.