It started off as an accident.
To be honest, Blaise had intended on coasting by seventh year without drawing any attention to himself. From any direction. And prior to Easter Holidays, he had been doing quite an impressive job of it.
From the outside eye, it often appeared that Blaise Zabini was simply another member of Draco Malfoy's cohort — but anyone in the Slytherin House, and especially within the Sacred Twenty-Eight, knew better.
His lineage was no less impressive than the others — he had, after all, qualified for Slughorn's dinner parties in sixth year. And he certainly was just as wealthy, if not more. He had inherited his mother's dark eyes, which held an allure that she often used to ensnare a multitude of husbands. But whereas Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle all had ties to the Dark Lord, Blaise's mother had been able to slip under the radar. She offered her financial services to those who visited, and in return, the Zabini family had remained relatively untouched by the Dark Lord's followers.
It was a method Blaise greatly admired, and planned to follow. As he arrived to Hogwarts his first day as a seventh year, noting the lack of muggleborns and the terror present on the faces of halfblood students who had barely scraped by in proving their lineage, Blaise kept his face impassive. When Headmaster Snape stepped to the podium and announced the Carrows as Deputy Heads, he quirked his lips up in a polite smirk as they scanned the crowd, taking note of Longbottom's furious quaking.
During class, Blaise made sure to toe the line of acceptable — in learning the Imperius curse, he observed the way Crabbe forced a second year to break her own finger, and the way Longbottom refused to cast the Unforgivable (thus earning himself what would clearly be a painful detention), and chose to have his second year victim do a humiliating but harmless dance.
In short, he had followed his mother's advice to the tee.
He stayed at Hogwarts for the holidays, and spent most of his time studying in the library. As a former Inquisitorial Squad Member, which Blaise was surprised to see the Carrows took note of, he was granted the opportunity of a later curfew, with the expectation that he act as an unofficial prefect.
The night before class resumed, Blaise came up from dinner to see a letter waiting for him.
Untying the parchment from the Malfoy bird and taking the parcel that came with it, he unraveled the scroll and scanned the elegant scrawl printed across.
Zabini —
I won't be returning to Hogwarts for the rest of the year. Enclosed are some potions and ingredients I kept on me. The Dark Lord is...displeased. I suspect this may be reflected in the curriculum that is to come. As the only other level head of the group, keep Crabbe and Goyle in line for me.
— Draco
"The fuck, Malfoy?" muttered Blaise, looking through the parcel. There had to be at least a dozen bottles, each marked with a different label. Pepper up. Calming solution. One for cuts. One for bruises. A balm of some sort.
As it turned out, Draco's suspicions were correct. The Carrows returned to class with an aggressive vigor. In one, Hannah Abbot was dragged to the front by her hair and used as a target for Stinging Hexes.
But when Goyle failed to produce a hex, a spark flitting away from the tip of his wand in a pathetic manner, Alecto Carrow slashed her wand and gave him a cut at his cheekbone furiously.
Stumbling back in shock, Goyle barely had time to regain his footing before a second hex slammed into his jaw. He crashed into Finnigan, who caught him briefly, looking gobsmacked — a Slytherin pureblood had never been punished like this before.
"Pathetic," sneered Carrow. Next in line, Theodore Nott swallowed convulsively. "If Finnigan does better, Goyle, you can expect a detention."
Goyle blinked, stunned, and for the first time the Slytherins in the room shifted in unease. The class continued in an even more subdued manner than it had been, and as Goyle shuffled back in line, Blaise felt his heartbeat increase in pace.
That night, as Goyle inspected the cut in the mirror, Blaise found himself unable to focus on his book.
"Goyle, if you keep moving your head I can't look at it," snapped Theodore, tapping his roommate's chin with his wand. Goyle whimpered slightly, but turned his head.
" 's still bleeding," pointed out Crabbe uselessly. Blaise chanced a look up at the cuts — sure enough, they were still bleeding sluggishly.
"They're cursed," said Theodore in frustration. "You should go to Pomfrey."
"Don't be an idiot," said Blaise. He felt the three of them look over at him, but he kept his eyes firmly on the tome in front of him. "The Carrows check the sign-in to make sure a punished student isn't trying to get healed before they're allowed. You step foot in that infirmary, Goyle, and they'll think you can't take care of this yourself. It'll only make you seem weaker."
"I don't want to bleed out," said Goyle nervously, pressing a fourth tissue to his cut.
"You will not bleed out." Blaise rolled his eyes.
"I feel pale."
"No you don't."
"How do you know how he feels — "
"Merlin," Blaise set down his book. Reaching underneath his bed for the parcel, he yanked out the potion and uncorked it. "Get over here. Two sips."
"Where did you get that?" asked Theodore, squinting at the rest of the items in the box. Blaise ignored him, watching Goyle take two swallows with a grimace. He waited until the cut reduced to a slight open wound before re-corking the bottle and slipping the parcel underneath the bed.
From then on, it only seemed to grow - Astoria Greengrass came to him with a swollen eye a week later. He gave Tracey Davis a few swipes of the healing balm after her lip had been split open. Goyle, who ended up serving that promised detention, broke a bone.
A month later, Blaise woke to a tentative knock at their dorm door. He'd always been a light sleeper, but in the fuzz of the night he couldn't tell if he had imagined it.
Ah. There it was again. It couldn't be the Carrows — they'd have come in by then. Scowling, Blaise slipped his feet into his slippers and opened the door.
"It is one in the morning," he said irritably, blinking away the sleep in his eyes. But his cutting tone fell short as his eyes adjusted to the light.
It was a young boy, no older than a third year. His Slytherin tie was disheveled, and his dress shirt had been ripped in several places. From the dim light, Blaise could make out several bruises mottling the side of his head. And the worst part was that he was weeping. Full on, body-wracking tears.
It had been different when he'd been tending to Greengrass, or Davis, or Goyle. But apparently word had spread.
Sighing and fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, Blaise took a breath before he spoke. "Go down to the Common Room. I'll be down soon."
The Common Room was barely lit. With the dormitories already in the dungeons, the Slytherin living quarters had never been particularly warm. In the spring, it was a cool and refreshing space for students to lounge. But on a night as drafty as this one, the small crackling fire in the fireplace did nothing to keep Blaise from shivering. It only annoyed him more as he lugged his parcel down the stairs.
The boy was waiting for him as instructed, sitting close to the fire on the ground. Swallowing a sigh, Blaise toed off his slippers and joined him. "Thank Merlin for carpeting."
The boy didn't respond. He gulped several times, drawing in air, and tried to speak through his sobs. "The Carrows — I — I couldn't — "
"Let me see," said Blaise. He held out a hand, and the boy offered his arm obediently. Several of his fingers appeared broken from the start, and as Blaise rolled up the sleeve he took note of the long cut up his arm. And of course, the Umbridge favorite that the Carrows undoubtedly liked to incorporate: sprawled across the back of his hand — I will perform as a pureblood should, despite my pathetic lineage.
And despite the dissociation he'd tried to instill in himself, Blaise could not help but feel sorry for him. "What's your name," he said gently, turning the small arm over in his hand.
The boy hiccuped several times, swallowing a mouthful of phlegm that made Blaise wince. "Malcom. Malcom Griffins."
"Well, Griffins," Blaise said. "You're in luck. I've got some dittany that should heal the wounds on your arm."
Luckily for him, Griffins' weeping seemed to cease after Blaise placed three cotton pads of dittany on his wounds. He quieted down into small sniffling, and as Blaise applied a swipe of bruise balm to his face, he seemed content in carrying the conversation by himself.
"I was talking to this Hufflepuff in the hallway," said Griffins, wiping his eyes. "And Profess'r Carrow — the girl one — " at that, Blaise could not contain a smirk " — she asked me if I was aware I was shaming my house. And then she asked if I'd even asked the girl — the Hufflepuff — for her blood status before speaking to her. Because she was a halfblood. And I just, she looked so scared, an' so I said, 'Does it really matter anyway?' And Professor Carrow just got so...mad."
Well, thought Blaise. How exactly did one say the phrase that was incredibly stupid of you nicely?
"I wasn't gonna talk to her," said Griffins hastily at Blaise's reaction, flinching as the seventh year silently spread balm onto his upper arm. "But she's a first year, and she's so tiny. And she was lost, so I was giving her directions."
"You're tiny," Blaise pointed out.
"Am not," Griffins said stubbornly, and Blaise was reminded of a baby donkey. "I'm a third year."
"The epitome of adulthood." Blaise placed the lid back on the balm and returned it in his parcel. "You should be good to go, Griffins. Get to bed."
As Griffins got to his feet, though, he looked as though he had no intention of going to bed. "Thank you," he said shyly. Straightening his tie, Griffins peered up at Blaise from under his bangs.
"Shut up," said Blaise, feeling weary. "Just stay out of the Carrows' way. I don't ever want to see your face again, do you hear me?"
The third year had the audacity to laugh. Turning to the staircase that headed towards his dormitory, Griffins flashed Blaise a bright smile and disappeared.
Collapsing on a sofa nearby, Blaise stared at the parcel in his lap. "Fuck."
O-O
To Blaise's immense disappointment, Griffin's visit began an avalanche of visitors. They came knocking at his door anytime from one to four in the morning. At times, Blaise would wake to a timid knock and consider rolling back over and falling asleep. But sometimes they'd be crying. And if they weren't, Griffin's voice would ring over and over in Blaise's head until he got out of bed.
His supplies were quickly running out. Draco had most likely assumed that the parcel would only be used amongst his group.
That had been Blaise's assumption as well.
He mulled over the predicament over breakfast. From where he was sitting, he had a perfect view of the Gryffindor table. Longbottom limped over to his seat, but at Amycus Carrow's smirk, he offered a shit-eating grin that Blaise could almost certainly guarantee would mean another detention.
He could just...stop. A loss of supplies wouldn't be unreasonable. After they ran out, Blaise would have the perfect reason to start turning people away. And perhaps get some uninterrupted sleep.
" — Zabini. Zabini!"
Blaise blinked, staring up at Parkinson, who was snapping her finger at him. "What?"
"What is wrong with you?" said the dark-haired girl. "You've been so distracted lately."
He rubbed his eyes. "Nothing. It's the bloody Cruciatus curse we have to master for class in a few days."
"You haven't had a problem with the previous one," pointed out Nott, spearing his sausage in two.
Blaise focused on his tea. "The Cruciatus is different."
"What's so different about it?" asked Crabbe. "Should be easy."
The group of them stared at Crabbe, who looked back at them defiantly.
"Yes, of course." Parkinson said quickly. One by one, they returned to their meal.
He wished Draco were here. He'd never felt particularly close to any of them. But he and Draco had always been in agreement of what needed to be done. And now, oddly — tensions were even higher.
Turning his gaze away from the group, Blaise felt a prickling at his neck. He glanced over to see Daphne Greengrass staring at him. They held eye contact for a few seconds before she looked away and helped herself to some eggs.
In Potions, Blaise headed for his seat in the back. Seventh-year potions was not a mandatory class, and with so little students Blaise usually found himself without a partner. For the students who had made it this far in potions, Slughorn was content in putting up the potion he wanted them to brew today and letting them have at it. Today, he was flipping through a novel at the front desk.
As he opened his textbook, Daphne Greengrass took ahold of his bag and moved it to the ground so she could take the seat next to him.
Blaise's hands stilled temporarily before continuing to set up. "Decided to change seats today?"
"I couldn't see that well from mine," replied Greengrass, placing the cauldron on top of the desk and lighting the fire with her wand.
"Ah," murmured Blaise dryly. "So you decided to move further back. Next to me."
"Exactly."
It seemed that he wouldn't be getting much out of Greengrass until she was willing to talk, so Blaise busied himself with chopping up the ingredients of the Wintergreen potion.
When he got to the ninth step of stirring clockwise, she spoke. "They call you the Healer, you know."
"I — Pardon?" startled, Blaise nearly lost count of his rotations.
"The Healer," repeated Greengrass, keeping her eyes on her potion, which was bubbling nicely. "The lower years in our House. They say that if you knock at his door past midnight after a detention, he can fix any injury. It's all very magical."
Blaise's throat was suddenly dry. "It's not like that," he managed.
"Sounds like that," said Greengrass. She hesitated. "Sounded like it when you healed my sister."
Was this what she was after? An opportunity to express her...thanks?
"I've been watching you," the blonde continued. "And you don't seem to be restocking."
"Well, no," said Blaise, taken aback. "It's not quite as if I can head on up to the Infirmary and grab some."
"No," agreed Greengrass. "You'd have better chances with Snape. He makes all the potions for Pomfrey."
"But Slughorn is the Potions professor now."
"I thought so, too. But Snape is definitely still brewing. I suspect it's therapeutic for him. Or perhaps he's making potions for the Dark Lord. In any case, he has a large stock in his office."
"That's preposterous," said Blaise in disbelief. He poured the beetle legs into his potion and stirred twice. "You're suggesting I sneak into the headmaster's office, nick his potions, and get away with it? It's impossible."
"Yes," Greengrass paused. "But not with two people."
Blaise knocked over his vial of dried slugs.
"You didn't used to be quite this easy to rattle," said Greengrass amusedly, watching him scoop the slugs hastily back into the vial. "Save some of those, would you? They're useful in a variety of healing potions."
"I'm sorry," Blaise set down the vial. "But are you honestly suggesting — encouraging — that the two of us sneak into Snape's office to steal his potions? And not only that, but brew them as well?"
"Well, you can't brew in here." Greengrass gestured to the classroom. "The Carrows are always roaming the classrooms, itching to catch someone. And you know Filch is, as well, now that he's got close to free reign."
"So you're saying the headmaster's office is a better option."
"Yes," she said impatiently. "With a lookout and an extra pair of hands. Id est, me."
Blaise stared down at his cauldron, speechless.
"Come off it, Zabini," said Greengrass with a sigh, as though Blaise was being unreasonable. She held up an empty vial and transported a few slugs into it. "See? Our first collection."
And so began the biweekly terror that plagued Blaise's nightmares. If the steady stream of stupid first, second, third and fourth years coming to him with tears and injuries at night were not enough, they now added stealing from the man who had murdered Dumbledore to the list.
They had yet been caught. But to be fair, they had only done it twice. And both times, Blaise had stirred his potions and collected the vials that wouldn't be missed, unable to process anything other than the calming mantra of fuckfuckfuckfuck. Greengrass would stand at the door chopping ingredients, and in the case of Snape entering, she'd found a corner behind a large cabinet that they could hide behind. And she had a damn good Disillusionment charm.
Blaise knew. He'd asked her to prove it once, and she'd cracked him on the head with her wand so hard while doing it he swore he had a concussion afterwards.
It was a good system. Blaise made sure to heal those who came to him just enough that they'd be able to get through the day, but not so fully that the Carrows would see a complete removal of their work. Toeing the line.
And perhaps this was not completely in line with the Dark Lord, the Carrows, and Snape. But they were all Slytherins, anyhow. Nearly all purebloods. And frankly, anyone would agree that the Carrows were too aggressive for their own good.
Toeing the line.
O-O
No matter how many times Blaise was awoken at night, he would never get used to it. But no matter how hurt they'd been, they'd always known to knock quietly.
The pounding woke Blaise like a gunshot; he half fell, half stumbled out of his bed, sprinting to the door. In the beds next to him, Crabbe and Goyle were still snoring heavily. Blaise yanked the door open.
"What the hell," he hissed, only to be cut short.
It was Griffins. Who, unlike the previous three times, seemed completely uninjured, if not weeping again. Blaise clasped the boy's face and inspected him heavily before letting go in a bout of anger. "What is wrong with you?"
"It's not me," gasped Griffins, to which Blaise immediately shushed. "It's Natalie."
"Who?"
Griffins grabbed Blaise's hand. "Natalie," he said impatiently. "The Hufflepuff first-year I told you about? The halfblood one. Please, we have to hurry — "
"Griffins, I —"
"Please," said the boy, and it was then that Blaise could see how hard the third year had been crying. "Her father bought one of Hagrid's support-Harry-Potter pins, and the Carrows took it out on her. It's bad."
He did not know what to say.
This was not toeing the line. This was not even close to that. This was completely, irrevocably crossing it.
"Malcolm," said Blaise heavily. "I can't."
The third year stared, dumbstruck. "What?"
"You don't understand. She's not in Slytherin. She's not even a pureblood. And to make matters worse — her father supports Potter and the Order."
"But —" Griffins took a step back, the expression on his face morphing into disbelief. "Blaise, she's not going to make it."
He swallowed. "I can't help you. If the Carrows or Snape find out — "
"Go."
Blaise turned to see Theodore Nott standing behind him. The boy's voice was a hushed whisper, and he cocked his head.
"Nott," breathed Blaise.
"I'll get Greengrass. She's been helping you, hasn't she?" Theodore motioned at the door. "I won't say anything. If it takes longer than it has to, I'll cover for you."
Blaise felt as though he had been dragged into some alternate reality. He wanted to ask when Theodore Nott had chosen to turn a blind eye to aiding the Light. But there was no time to dissect it. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
The next few minutes were a blur. Blaise gathered his parcel and cast a Disillusionment charm on the both of them as Theodore slipped out. Griffins took hold of Blaise's hand and they ran as quietly and quickly as they could up to the seventh floor.
They circled the hallway once, twice, then three times. By the time they paused, Blaise was out of breath.
But a door had appeared before them that hadn't been there before. Before he could process what was happening, he had allowed himself to be pulled into the room.
His eyes immediately drew over to the bed at the center of the bed. He barely had time to make eye contact with Hannah Abbott, who was sitting next to the bed, before an arm grabbed him and slammed him up against the wall.
Ears ringing, Blaise could barely make out Griffins' cry of protest. "I knew it," said Ginny Weasley, pressing a wand to his throat. "We can't trust any of the Slytherins, Neville! Look who he's brought?"
"No, he's here to help!" said Griffins, choking on his tears. He swallowed as Weasley swiveled her eyes over to him.
Blaise had not been planning on helping Griffins with anyone to view it. But by the way Weasley's red-rimmed eyes glittered and her wand hand trembled, it seemed he was too invested now to run away.
Toeing the line, huh?
"It's true," said Blaise, keeping his voice as level as possible. "And it seems like you need it."
"Why would you help us?" sneered Weasley. Blaise kept his eyes on her wand, which looked like it wanted to cast a Bat-Bogey Hex at any point.
"I don't," he confessed. "But Malcolm is a different story."
There was a pause as Weasley stared him in the eyes, as if attempting to figure him out. Blaise kept his face passive.
"Let him go, Ginny." Neville Longbottom stepped up next to the redhead. He seemed tired, Blaise observed. Perhaps his grins and defiance were really a front to antagonize the Carrows after all. "Natalie's got nothing to lose."
Weasley did not move immediately. She pressed her wand deeper into his neck before lowering it. "Sabotage us," she warned fiercely, "and you won't make it out alive."
"Looking forward to it," said Blaise dryly. He waited until she stepped aside before striding forward.
Natalie the first year was unconscious on the bed. And very, very small. Had he ever been this tiny?
A large part of her face was unrecognizable, mottled with burns and blisters. The Gryffindors had removed part of her shirt in an attempt to work on her shoulder and right arm, which seemed dislocated and broken in several different areas. Her torso was wrapped in a slowly reddening bandage.
She was dying, Blaise realized. He reached out and took her hand, examining the misshapen fingers. Next to him, Hannah Abbott tensed and took a breath.
"We can't stop the bleeding," she said, the tremor in her voice barely visible. "And when we tried to heal the broken bones, it only broke more."
"You can't use Episkey," said Blaise. "It's a curse."
"How are you so sure?" said Weasley from behind.
Blaise opened his parcel and rifled through for the container he'd used once before. "Carrow sicced it on Goyle in his detention, when Finnigan cast a better Stinging hex in class than he did."
For a moment there was just the sound of Blaise opening and uncorking the vials he needed. Then, Longbottom: "I didn't think they tortured Slytherins."
"Not in front of the other Houses, usually," said Blaise calmly. "And less than your lot."
"Still," Longbottom protested weakly. "If we'd known — "
"You'd what?" interrupted Blaise. "Help?"
"Well, no — "
"Blaise heals everyone that comes back injured," piped up Griffins. He was holding Natalie the first year's other hand as Blaise worked to spread the balm. "Everyone knows to go to him."
"Neville and Hannah are the healers here," said Weasley in response, watching Blaise unwrap the bandages gently. "Hannah can usually distinguish the injury, and Neville nicks from the Infirmary."
And in the silence of healing a first year caught up in a war she hadn't asked to be in, Blaise thought they'd come to some sort of understanding.
O-O
It started off as an accident.
But as Blaise shook Longbottom's hand, Abbott and Weasley flanking him in a slightly less-aggressive posture, he knew he'd be back.
Nott joined Greengrass and him in what was now a weekly trip to Snape's office. He refused to say exactly why he wanted to help, but when they paid Abbott a visit, Nott's ears turned a bright pink and he spoke a total of two words.
Between the three of them, they easily doubled what they could make. Oddly enough, they were never caught.
Blaise was careful not to speak to any students associated with Longbottom. Things were different now. Crabbe had become increasingly violent, and had actually become the top of the DADA class. He took to tormenting any young Gryffindor that passed by in the hallway. Something had shifted imperceptibly amongst the group — something unspoken, but nevertheless there.
For those that had been healed by Blaise and sworn to secrecy, they operated under a similar understanding that Blaise would not speak to them outside of the Room of Requirement. But sometimes Blaise would go to bed to find small gifts that had been left on his bed: chocolates, flowers, and potions ingredients nicked from class. They were never signed.
When Potter returned to Hogwarts with his two companions, Blaise took a cursory glance at the feral hunger in Crabbe's eyes. When Mcgonagall forced Snape out of Hogwarts and began preparations for the war, Blaise knew where he had to be.
"Mr. Zabini," said Madam Pomfrey in surprise when he entered the Infirmary. Her eyes tracked the tall, dark Slytherin with slight wariness, and he did not miss the way she fingered her wand.
He held up the parcel, now worn and beaten. "I'd like to help."