Fair warning, the story is near completion. I think there's going to be like 2 more chapters. Anyway, this chapter is monumental if there's ever going to be a turning point in Blaise's life, so I hope you enjoy!
Chapter Eighteen: The Bravest You Can Be
I told myself that I wouldn't come back here ; that I would never lay eyes on my childhood home again. I thought that I'd never take another step onto the silky obsidian path. I relished the thought of never setting eyes on the purplish roses and their poisoned scent. I guess I should've known that I wouldn't keep my promise—closure is simply too tantalizing.
As I stand outside the doorway with my wand drawn and the full uniform of a Death Eater covering nearly all of me, I wonder what I should say. I told Hermione that I would try to forgive them and maybe I will. Today is not that day. Today is the day that I shove everything in my mother's face and hold her accountable for it: for the heartbroken boy that she continued to hurt.
She won't be proud. It always was impossible to make her proud, anyway. She'll probably be scared, actually. The last time she saw me I threw the Cruciatus Curse at her, and she felt all of the agonized pain that had building inside of me for so long. She always thought that I was too weak for such things. Now she'll have heard about Dumbledore and how I killed him in cold blood. She will think that I killed Dumbledore because that is what I'll tell her.
Guess what, I imagine myself telling her, you raised a bit of a monster.
Of course, I would never kill my mother, even though I hate her most of the time; even though a part of me wants her gone forever. I won't kill. I won't be like her. I won't use the Unforgivables unless I truly have no other choice.
Taking a deep breath, I force in the door with my magic, sending it crashing into the floor and splintering the boards beneath it. Theatrics and face value are an essential part of being a Death Eater, and I won't be letting up my character anytime soon. I march into the main hallway of the house, purposefully swishing my arms to allow the dark and heavy fabric to billow behind me. I slam house elves into the walls with my wand as I pass them, silently apologizing to each one. I march without stopping through the door at the end of the hall.
This is my mother's personal drawing room, and it screams "conceit" with its vaulted ceiling, giant windows, and a wall full of bookcases. The room is almost entirely walnut, with large paintings of her face covering most of what isn't already covered by books. The floor is decorated with a great Persian rug and on it rest several seats forming an island of sorts in the room's center. On the edge of the room opposite the bookcases rests a massive fireplace of black marble, upon the mantle of which rests framed copies of every newspaper article that's ever mentioned her. This is without a doubt my least favorite room in the house.
I find my mother stretched out gracefully on one of the couches, a spool of yarn on the floor below her and a pair of knitting needles in her hands. Without even looking up, she addresses me.
"Blaise Zabini." She says the words with a silky tone, knowing that I hate my last name.
"Mother." I acknowledge her without letting my anger show.
"What brings you home?"
I ignore her, instead saying, "You know you raised a bit of a monster."
She laughs lightly, "I always guessed that I had."
"I should kill you."
"You should," she agrees, "Why don't you?"
I open my lips to respond, but suddenly all this theatric banter seems pointless. I sigh and pull the mask off my face, tossing it against the wall. I flop into the chair adjacent to her. Disregarding my recently clean and pressed robes, I lean my head against one arm of the chair and flop my legs over the other arm.
To her credit, mother wordlessly snaps her fingers three times, and a house elf appears, refusing to look at me while she serves us tea and lemon cookies, a Zabini house specialty. Mother sets down her knitting and picks up her cup to take a sip, staring levelly at me until I take a sip of mine. Then I take one of the cookies and bite into it slowly, thinking about how this will probably be my last cookie for a very long time. I shouldn't be thinking that way, but I can't seem to stop it.
Silence drags on as we both sip our tea and eat our cookies. It continues to linger after the house elf has taken our plates and it lives on as mother puts away her knitting.
"Why did you do it?" I finally ask. I've always wanted to know the answer to my question. I've always wanted to know why I was never good enough, but I've always been too scared. I guess that a small part of me hoped that she really did love me. Either way, today is not the day for fear.
"Why did I do what?" Mother asks this with her gaze on the fireplace.
"Mother don't play games with me. I had to get my brains from somewhere and I'm going to guess that you have at least a fraction of brains yourself, what with convincing . . . how many is it now? Thirteen? Thirteen men to marry you? Heaven knows that it isn't your personality that won them over."
She sighs, apparently giving up any hope that I wouldn't press the issue. "I did it because I hated you," she admits. "Your father and I agreed never to have children. It was mutual. And then somehow, despite everything, we had you. Both of us were quite unhappy, but what could be done? There certainly wasn't any way that my pregnancy could be kept under wraps, the Zabini name being what it is.
"So we kept you, and we fought almost every day over who would raise you. Who would be burdened with the unwanted child? As soon as you were born, I knew that we were through. Your father and I . . . we simply couldn't be happy anymore. We never could decide who was to keep you, and I rather think that we were both trying to leave that day, only . . . he managed it first."
I suck in a breath, stunned. I can't even manage a reply. They . . . didn't want me. I was right. The whole time, I was right. Only, he didn't walk out on us—he walked out on me. I . . . I can't believe it. All that time, all those years . . . and he hated me up until the day he left. He probably still does if he's alive.
"Is—"
She cuts me off before I can finish my question, "—yes, he's alive. He wants us to get married again. He owled me this morning when news spread that you killed Dumbledore. Needless to say, you won't be welcome here any longer. It's a pity that my will can't be redone, but these are dark times. I suppose I will simply have to write you out of it when this war's over."
"You still hate me then?"
"No."
I open my mouth to retort, but again she cuts me off, this time with a finger.
"I said I hated you. I don't love you, but you're my son. I don't think there's a mother alive who can hate her own son for very long. I stopped hating you when I found you crying in a closet, whimpering about how badly you wanted your 'daddy'. I had to leave; I didn't know what was coming over me. I came back expecting to hate you again, but I never could. I kept you at arm's length, of course, but that was to ensure that I never started loving you."
Again, I'm stunned. She actually felt something that day: likely the worst day of my entire life? The day that I smashed my cake and set fire to my gifts? The day that smashed half of the dishes in the house, screaming at him for having left? The day that I cried my eyes out in a closet, feeling my heart tear and having no idea what to do about it? That day?
"Mother . . ."
"—But now you've gone and made it easy on us both," she interjects again, "you killed Dumbledore."
"Well, about that . . ." I begin, for whatever reason about to admit that killing Dumbledore was all a ruse, but she cuts me off again.
"You don't have to admit anything to me, boy. It's like you said: that brain of yours had to come from somewhere." She winks at me and then snaps her fingers again. This time, dozens of elves show up and push me towards the door.
"Oh, and Blaise?" she calls out just before the door shuts behind me, "Enjoy Azkaban."
I apparate to the edges of Malfoy Manor, just a short walk from the main gate and the wards surrounding the massive building. I'm not sure what I'll be doing here, but I need to bide my time until the moment is right to revive Dumbledore. I also need to make sure that no one is suspicious when I end up leaving to do exactly that.
I saunter towards the huge arching gate that tells everyone around just exactly how well the Malfoys think of themselves, a grimace on my face that should suffice for now. I've never been let in the gate alone before, and I now see what Draco meant during a discussion that we had years ago. The gate, he had said, required that all who are welcome also make a sacrifice before they pass. Sure enough, the gate's edge forms before my eyes to be a long and sharp blade with the inscription "sanguis", or blood.
Breathing in slowly, I run my hand down the blade's edge, wincing as I feel it slice through my palm. I glance down at my hand and quickly look away with a gag. I always have hated the sight of blood. To my further disgust, the gate doesn't open, and the knife appears to be half the silvery shade that it always was and half a reddish copper color.
Think, Blaise, think.
Then it hits me: "sanguis". Blood. Sucking in sharply this time, I slice my other hand open, this time going slowly to ensure that the thing gets all the blood it needs. This time the gate swings open silently and I walk up the path, ignoring the blood that's running off my fingertips as well as the judgmental stares of the famous—and freaky—white peacocks of the Malfoy estate.
I enter the Manor as though it were my own, my footsteps thundering authoritatively and a scathing sneer on my face. I waltz past the main gathering of the Death Eaters and allow them to see the blood dripping down my fingers. They can come to whatever conclusions they want, for none of them could hurt my reputation, though I'm personally hoping they'll assume I killed something or someone. Fear is a powerful weapon.
As I make my way to my room to process everything, I'm pulled into a side hallway by the elbow. I turn to threaten whoever is at fault when I realize that my arm is being held by Narcissa Malfoy. I repress a smile and try to put on an indifferent air. The woman has always been kind to me, closer to me than my own mother.
"Blaise," she whispers sharply, "I need to talk to you."
"What do you want?" The demand is supposed to sound sharp, but Narcissa has always been perceptive and offers me a faint smile.
"Not here. Come with me."
She leads me down several hallways and up several flights of stairs until we find our way to the very top of the house. She glances around and then cautiously taps her wand against a portrait of an especially sour looking relative, presumably related to Lucius. As she taps her wand, she motions for me to grab the folding ladder that suddenly appears above our heads. Pulling it towards us, she quickly climbs up the ladder and beckons for me to do the same. The ladder snaps shut behind us and I'm left to take in my surroundings.
I seem to be in private bedchamber, but it's much less lavish than anything I'm used to. Instead of the large windows and heavily ornamented furniture, I notice a tiny beam of light shining in the center of the room from a small, circular skylight and a single purple threadbare couch. The only other thing in the room is a shabby-looking bed with an extremely ugly patchwork quilt stretched across it. On the bed rests a heap unidentifiable books and journals, an illegible scrawl marking them all.
"This," she breathes, passing me a particularly dusty one, "Is Lucius' personal journal."
I stare at her, wondering why on earth she's showing it to me.
"Take it," she insists, grabbing my hand and pushing my fingers to grasp it. "It could well help in bringing about the Dark Lord's downfall."
"I . . . I think you're a little confused," I try. "I'm a follower of the very thing you're trying to bring down. I killed Albus Dumbledore."
Narcissa sniffs in amusement.
"Don't believe me?"
"You would have to be drunk on power to believe such a tale. The Blaise I know would never kill anyone except in self-defense."
I snatch up the book and wordlessly leave, the staircase snapping behind me and a smile fighting for control of my features. Truly that woman is a breath of fresh air amidst all this fear and hatred.
Soon enough, I find myself on my bed once more, my mind replaying the last several days' events and worrying about Draco. He really does look awful, and the way he looks at me—I wonder if Hermione has gotten through to him yet.
Hermione! I feel a stab to my heart as I wonder if she's okay. I wonder if Theo's okay. I even wonder if Ginny is okay. It's too late for that, though, for tomorrow it's off to Azkaban for me. I gulp nervously.