Author's note: okay, so I started this thinking it would be fun and light and sarcastic, and what do I get? Three guesses, and the last two don't count. Yup, more angst! I think I need to hire a new muse… Anyway, this is still not mine, nor do I have nearly enough money to even consider buying any of Harry Potter. (Though I'd buy Draco if I could. Tom Felton too. :D. Just kidding.)

6: In which Blaise discovers the extent of Draco's revenge

Draco's revenge was swift and merciless. After he and Potter endured the two days of forced contact – something they didn't mind nearly as much as Blaise had hoped – Draco announced that the two of them were going into town for a bit.

At first, Blaise hadn't suspected anything out of the ordinary. Going into town was the kind of thing Draco tended to do, and he suspected all the villagers knew who he and Potter were. But, the more he thought about it, the more his Slytherin instinct for treachery sent off warnings. This was too simple for Draco. Surely the blond could have thought of something better! Blaise was forcibly reminded of the promise that had gotten him into this mess: he hadn't thought that would be dangerous either.

Sure enough, the morning after Draco's announcement, Blaise awoke to find Draco and Potter gone and the house locked. From the outside. He clenched his fists. "I am going to kill him," he growled. A sudden, desperate hope struck him, and he turned the handle to Draco and Potter's room. It didn't open. He groaned in frustration and stomped down the stairs to the kitchen. As he'd half expected, a note from Draco lay on the table. He picked it up, his scowl deepening as he read.

Dear Blaise and Weasley.

Harry and I have decided to go out for a bit. We shouldn't be longer than a couple weeks. You have free reign of the house, though I'm afraid dirt crept into the hinges and none of the doors leading to the outside work at this point. We are both terribly sorry for the inconvenience, but we trust it will not be too much of a strain.

Cordially yours,

D. Malfoy

Blaise's hands shook with rage as he put the note down. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he picked it up again, staring at it. Yes, there was indeed the tiniest snake drawn by Draco's name. And Draco had the gall to tell Blaise they weren't allowed to use magic! Blaise fished out his wand and touched it to the snake, watching as the writing faded. Green letters replaced the black, though the penmanship was the same.

Blaise.

If you haven't snogged Weasley by the time we get back, I will be forced to take matters into my own hands. We're doing this for your benefit. I hope you appreciate it.

Draco.

Blaise's face contorted into an ugly sneer of rage. How dare Draco do this to him? And after he'd promised not to interfere, too! He grabbed a quill from the jar on the shelf, dipped it into the inkbottle conveniently located next to it, and scrawled on the back of the note.

Draco, you are in trouble. Big trouble. Death Eaters will be as nothing compared to what awaits you when you and Wonderboy come back. If I were you, I would turn around and start running. Terribly fast.

B

He yanked out his wand and touched it to the paper. "Transporto," he said viciously, watching as the paper began folding itself into a paper airplane. When it had finished, he added, "Draco Malfoy." The paper airplane seemed to nod, then it took off and zoomed off towards the window. It smashed right into it, falling to the ground in a pathetic little heap. Blaise looked at it, his face resigned. He should have realized that the spell wasn't powerful enough to give paper any sense. He decided to leave it where it was and hope Weasley wasn't clever enough to pick it up.

He turned towards the counter, intending to make himself something to eat, and frowned. Then, he sighed, rolling his eyes. The coffee machine dripped softly, dark brown liquid falling into the pot. Potter. It had to be. Blaise poured himself a cup, certain the emerald-eyed Gryffindor was secretly laughing at him. Why else would he leave such a pointed reminder of Blaise's inability to function in a proper kitchen.

The sound of stumbling feet alerted him to Weasley's presence, and Blaise said down at the table, taking a drink of the coffee. It was slightly too sweet for his tastes, but he would deal with that. It was a hell of a lot better than the raspberry substitute, which wasn't even proper tea. The label marked it as a, 'soothing herbal remedy,' whatever that was.

"Can I have some of that?" Weasley asked, pointing at the coffee.

Blaise shrugged. "I won't stop you."

Weasley nodded and fetched his own mug. Blaise watched him out of the corner of his eye, unable to help himself. He and Weasley had barely spoken for the last two days, something which Blaise suspected had factored rather heavily into Draco's decision to lock them up together. Blaise couldn't help being more than a little irritated that Weasley had ratted him out, though he was fairly sure he knew the reason. The flash of pain on Weasley's face had been rather obvious. Or rather, it had been obvious to him. Who knew what Draco had seen? Then again, if Draco had seen it, that might be another reason to take Potter and go far away. Draco could be rather territorial, and Blaise knew he wouldn't like Weasley trying to steal Potter away. Not that Weasley was trying very hard, mind you, but Draco wouldn't care.

"Where are Harry and Malfoy?"

Blaise shrugged again. "They've abandoned us. After locking the doors, may I add."

Weasley winced. "How long will they be gone?"

"According to Draco, two weeks. If I know Draco, though, probably more like a month. Which reminds me." He rose and went to fetch his wounded airplane. Weasley looked at it curiously, but Blaise ignored him. He examined the thing, decided it was fixable, and smoothed it out again. Weasley craned his neck, reading the words Blaise had penned.

"Why are you so angry with him?"

Blaise shook his head. "Hasn't anyone told you that it's rude to read someone else's mail, Weasel?"

Weasley scowled. "You're not one to talk, Zabini," he spat.

Blaise controlled the instinctive wince at the other boy's harsh tone and adopted what he hoped was an expression of bored disinterest. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Stop playing innocent. You're the one who screens everyone's owls before they reach the table."

Blaise relaxed. Was that all? "The stories have gotten wildly out of proportion," he informed Weasley.

"Really?"

"Really."

"All stories start somewhere," Weasley informed him.

Blaise shrugged. "So they do," he agreed. "But what makes them stories is the element of fiction. So, no, I am not in the habit of reading everyone's mail at school, which should have been obvious if you had but stopped to think. Granted, thinking is not your strong point, I know, but even you should realize that I would never have time to do anything else if I read everyone's mail every morning."

Weasley frowned, whether at the insult to his intelligence or because he was attempting to understand what Blaise was telling him, and demanded, "So where did the story start?"

Blaise sighed and set his cup down. "I don't believe that's your business Weasley," he said icily. He really didn't want to tell that story. Especially not to Weasley.

Weasley crossed his arms. "What did you do, Zabini?"

"Why don't you ask Draco?" Blaise demanded bitterly, turning back to the note and smoothing it out. "I'm sure he would be glad to tell you. Or, if you'd rather, you could ask your little friend and he could ask Draco. I doubt Draco could deny him anything at this point." He replaced the spell on the message and picked it up, moving with it to the fireplace. "Draco Malfoy," he informed it, and threw it up the chimney.

Weasley continued to stare at him, anger evident on his irresistible features. "He's not my little friend," he hissed.

"No, you only wish he was," Blaise shot back.

There was a gasp and the sound of breaking crockery as Weasley dropped his coffee cup. "Shut up!" he screamed. "Shut up!" He shot a furious glare at Blaise, then turned and ran out of the kitchen, leaving Blaise staring after him, a tight ball of self-loathing prominently lodged in his throat.