Still invisible, they arrived in an alley near Charing Cross Road with a series of cracks. The first thing Blaise noticed was how unnaturally foggy it was. London summers weren't exactly the dry heat of an Italian one, but they weren't normally this overcast. The flat uniformity of the sky made the weak sun of Hogsmeade they'd left look positively tropical.
"Repello Muggletum," Harry intoned.
A thick haze enveloped the air around them. The Muggles who'd investigated the alleyway upon hearing the loud cracks of Apparition continued on their way. Blaise chuckled, thinking that the charm had been more than a little overkill.
Blaise dismissed all his spellwork, and he stood tall, upright and proud. He was ready. Looking around him impatiently, Blaise waited for them to reappear from under Harry's cloak.
"Nervous, Harry?" Blaise asked.
Harry grinned at him. "Me? Never."
Hermione took Blaise's broom from him, shrunk it, and placed it in her pocket.
"What about you, Hermione?" He asked.
She shrugged. "A little, but I'll be fine."
"It's okay to be a little nervous, Blaise," Harry said. "You've just got to power through it."
Waving his hand dismissively, he scoffed. "It's going to take more than Knockturn Alley to make me nervous."
He was nervous, but he remembered far too well Harry's hesitance to include him in any plans to get back at Malfoy. Now was not the time to give those doubts any credence, especially with him suspecting his nerves. It was becoming his mantra, but he didn't want to be a liability.
He waited for them to slip back under the cloak before he slipped his wand into his sleeve and set off. One of the luxuries of London was that at the sight of something strange, pedestrians generally didn't look twice. The Muggles offered him a cursory glance as he made his way towards the Leaky Cauldron, head held high and in a graceful stride. He made sure to take the less-trafficked sides of the street to ensure that Harry and Hermione weren't bumped into.
Striding confidently through the Leaky Cauldron, he nodded in greeting to the curious eyes that met him. Not stopping to engage in conversation, he made his way to the back alley. Blaise was astounded to find no form of guard or checkpoint. It would seem his paranoia had been for nothing, but it didn't soothe him. There was supposed to be an increased Auror presence in the south of England, and he couldn't think of anywhere more deserving, bar the Ministry and St Mungo's, of at least some surveillance than Diagon Alley. Frowning to himself, he tapped his wand along the bricks in the correct order. They quickly reconfigured themselves to reveal the Alley, and he stepped forth.
Diagon Alley was a mere shadow of its former glory. Compared to the drabness of the Leaky Cauldron, it'd always been a place florid with colour and life, but it was far from that usual image. Where before Blaise would expect to see the hustle and bustle of happy shoppers, well-decorated shopfronts and the smells and sounds of magic in the air, there was only the hurried and anxious shop of people wholly aware of the looming threat of the Dark Lord. It was as if the fog itself had come down and stifled the essence of the Alley, rendering the very air still and lifeless in its wake.
One lone family passed him as he stood before the entrance, clutching their bags desperately to themselves, and the father peered at his watch.
"Hurry along, kids," the man muttered. "Best we get home before the mist thickens."
At Blaise's askance look, the woman accompanying him gave Blaise a withering look before nudging her partner to hasten their retreat. It wasn't difficult for him to make the connection between the unnatural London summer fog and Dementors; there had been throwaway articles in the back pages of recent copies of the Prophet alluding to the beginnings of an infestation in London.
Blaise hoped his uncle was safe. He'd send off his letters tonight if it killed him.
He passed Flourish and Blotts, closed with the windows boarded up, and the Weasley twins' joke shop. They were also closed to his relief. Courtesy of them, he'd spent fifth year one too many times under the effects of an embarrassing potion or charm. Their rampage across the school against all things Umbridge and Slytherin hadn't left them particularly high on his list of Hogwarts alumni he'd be happy to see.
He'd never been to the shop before, and cursing his curiosity, he drew closer to the vibrant red and yellow decal on the shop window. Blaise blinked owlishly at finding it advertised a joke item called "U-NO-POO" that caused constipation. Shaking his head in disbelief, he turned to the note magically stuck to the glass.
We accept mail order, but we're all out of protective clothing so take the time to learn a Shield Charm (quite a useful spell!) while we stock up.
Thinking back to Longbottom making him look and feel like a first year, Blaise felt rather attacked by their sarcastic comment on the Shield Charm.
P.S: To the unsavoury individuals who keep trying to knock our door down, please reconsider. You might find yourself a reluctant tester of our more experimental products.
Turning away with a smile, he continued along the main street towards the intersection leading to Knockturn Alley near Gringotts. Shops continued to be either closed, empty, or filled with the rare, flighty customer. The Magical Menagerie was empty and boarded up like Flourish and Blotts. Madam Malkin peered cautiously through her shopfront as he passed by. Upon making eye contact, she returned to darning a pair of robes upon her counter, though she continued to watch him through the corner of her eyes.
Beyond the family he'd passed, he hadn't yet seen anyone else along the street. The unnatural quiet of the alley made him feel more than a little ridiculous having put so much effort into his disguise, but he didn't let that thought discourage him. He opted to coach his pleasant mask into a more serious one. It was far more appropriate for the current state of the Alley.
Not even bothering for subtlety after passing Gringotts, he turned onto Knockturn Alley. Where before there was a clear distinction between the two Alleys, the grime and seediness of Knockturn seemed to blur into Diagon, rendering the usually stark transition between the two seamless. A hag, perched on the stoop of a dodgy-looking tavern, stopped her vigorous washing of a pair of stained trousers as he walked past.
"Lost, mister?"
Blaise forced down his grimace. "No. Thank you for your concern, however."
Before she could possibly beg for money or the limbs of his firstborn, he made his way further into the dense web of narrow corridors that made Knockturn. It didn't take him long to find Borgin and Burkes.
Playing up the clueless tourist act of peering into the shop, he left the door open a fraction too long, waiting for the feel of another holding it. Once it came, he moved inside, stifling all noise when one of his accomplices headbutted him in the lower back.
The shop was a dark and tightly enclosed space. As if aiming to stockpile every Dark artefact ever collected in Britain, the counters along the walls of the shop were laden in everything from jewellery to human bones. Piles of various knick-knacks peeked from the overflowing overhead cabinets. Compared to his mother's orderly archiving of her artefacts by origin and purpose, it seemed like unmitigated chaos to Blaise. Regardless, it was clear that the objects of value were placed in the middle of the shop on stands and plinths, as Harry and Hermione had said. However, he couldn't see any sign of the Vanishing Cabinet they'd described.
The shop was so tightly packed with merchandise that Blaise found himself having to gingerly take his steps just to get to the counter. He was not foolish enough to want to risk touching anything that he hadn't personally witnessed the shopkeeper touch with their bare hands. Weaving around a headless mannequin wearing a basilisk hide tunic, Blaise stood in front of the scowling shopkeeper and offered his most cordial greetings.
"Afternoon, sir. Welcome to Borgin and Burkes," the shifty-eyed man said. After a moment of consideration of Blaise's attire, his scowl deepened. "You seem a bit far from home in times like these."
Blaise smiled pleasantly. "Portugal and Mozambique are but a Portkey away. I'm Leandro Almeida, and you are, Mister…"
"Borgin," he said. "You Pureblood?"
Blaise nodded. "Naturally, I found myself curious as to what British wizards have to offer."
His gaze fell upon an array of metal masks of varying size hanging upon the wall above the counter. Where the wall would ordinarily be visible, the inside of the inhumanly wide mouths of the masks was an abyssal darkness. It was as if the models for the mask had had their jaws torn apart to make way for the void. Most disturbingly, the masks came in an array of sizes; he was sure one of them would be an ideal fit for an infant.
Borgin noticed where Blaise's interest had taken him, and his hand gestured grandly to the set of masks.
"Those are the Screaming Visages," Borgin said. "Wrought iron and enchanted with an ancient Sumerian curse. Two hundred galleons for the set."
Blaise highly doubted that the curse was of Sumerian origin, considering that would make the masks at least four thousand years old. No sane collector of Dark artefacts would part with them for only two hundred galleons. Regardless, he played his part of interested customer.
"And their effect?"
Borgin chuckled nastily. "Put one of them on and you'll scream and scream."
Despite the disturbing implications, Blaise couldn't help but think it sounded more irritating if anything. After giving the shop one last sweeping glance, he turned back to Borgin.
"Is there perhaps anything in this shop that weaves a more subtle magic than a shriek-inducing mask?" Blaise asked.
Borgin cackled and leapt out of the stool he'd been sat on. As he unlocked the flap to his counter, he began to whistle a jaunty tune. He seemed delighted by Blaise's dismissal of the masks, only further convincing him that the origin of their curse was a lie. They were most likely a con for gullible customers, or perhaps a cornerstone of Borgin's hot and cold strategy to draw customers in. Either way, Blaise had no intention of making a purchase.
"Excellent, excellent… a discerning patron," Borgin said, stood before him. He gestured impatiently for him to follow. "Come, let me show you some of the finer magic of the Isles."
They proceeded deeper into the shop. Borgin introduced him to a set of medieval torture instruments, a Hangman's knot, and a wooden snuff box with hidden properties Borgin refused to elaborate on. With each rejection, he grew more determined.
Borgin stopped them next at a set of crystal serving spoons resting on cream chiffon napkins. For such expensive-looking cutlery, they had a savage appearance. They all had a harsh, perpendicular bend between the scoop and the neck of the handle, resulting in them looking more fit for bludgeoning someone than serving food.
"These spoons are imbued with Malaclaw venom that activates when wet," Borgin said. His chuckle was a raspy rattle. "They'll leave anyone who eats anything that touched them with bad luck for days. Good for soups as you can imagine."
Blaise smiled thinly at the detestable man's joke. "Indeed."
The door opened behind them, and the floorboards creaked ominously with the arrival of a petite, stout woman. With the meagre lighting in the shop, Blaise couldn't make out their face, but their arrival seemed to deaden the air within the room.
"Mr Borgin," a familiar, girlish voice called.
When Borgin didn't immediately materialise in front of her, she cleared her throat impatiently. "Hem, hem."
Blaise would recognise that vocal tic anywhere. Anyone at Hogwarts would recognise it.
Borgin grimaced. "Apologies, sir. I'll be with you shortly." As he passed Blaise, he muttered, "this one's a bit of a nutter."
Blaise followed Borgin at a distance as he returned to the counter. Umbridge looked the same as usual, clad in garishly pink robes and wearing a vapid smile. The only thing new was the golden chain on her flabby neckline. Their eyes met, and she took in his attire with visible disdain, her brows furrowing. Dismissing him with a harrumph, she turned to face Borgin.
"Mr Borgin, at last," she said.
It had been perhaps twenty seconds since she'd entered the shop.
"Welcome, Madam Umbridge," Borgin said. "It's always a pleasure to have your custom."
"Yes, yes," she said, and her tone harshened. "Look, I can't be seen here, so do be quick."
"How might I assist?"
Blaise was very impressed at how level Borgin's tone was at her blatant disrespect. It'd seem Ministry lackeys have Knockturn Alley cowed too.
"I've recently come across…" She cleared her throat before she spoke once more. "As part my rightful inheritance as a proud scion of the Selwyn family, I have been bequeathed with this locket," she said.
Lifting the golden chain off her neck revealed a large locket, the golden medallion embossed with a serpentine S that was resplendent in finely cut emeralds. Blaise swore that something about the locket made him feel uneasy, but he decided it was likely just the sight of a Slytherin artefact being associated with Umbridge's regrettable existence.
"I'd like an appraisal of the Selwyn family locket," she said, giggling breathlessly at the wideness of Borgin's eyes.
Blaise wondered if Borgin found Umbridge just as mindbogglingly idiotic as he did. Blaise stared at Umbridge and her locket, marvelling at the sheer mental gymnastics it must have required to believe that the necklace wasn't a Slytherin artefact.
"It seems authentic. I'll offer you five hundred galleons," Borgin said. The greed within Borgin's voice was such that Blaise could believe he was in the grips of a gnawing hunger. With the tremor of his hands, it seemed as if only decency was stopping him from snatching the necklace from Umbridge's grubby hands.
"It's not for sale," Umbridge said.
"One thousand five hundred galleons."
She giggled proudly, the saccharine sound like nails on a chalkboard. "This is a prized artefact of the Selwyn line, and that is how it shall remain."
"Two thousand galleons, Madam Umbridge. That is how much I am willing to offer you. Please think on it," Borgin pleaded.
She stepped back, returning the locket around her neck with one final smile that didn't meet her dead, beetle-like eyes. "I will. Good day."
Blaise watched her stroll out of the shop, rather baffled, and Borgin slammed his fist on the counter with a muttered curse.
"Silly bint," Borgin snarled as he walked back to Blaise. "She's so lost in her Pureblood delusions that she's walking about with a priceless British artefact like a… like a badge. I'm telling you it's an absolute travesty."
Blaise didn't know British Wizarding genealogy inside out. That was more Daphne's thing, but he would bet his hairline that Umbridge was common as mud.
"What a foolish woman," Blaise stated. "That was clearly an artefact of Salazar Slytherin she's masquerading around with."
Borgin nodded at him, and his momentary fury ebbed. "Read a little British lore before you came here, did you? I knew I liked you."
His wrinkled face became increasingly prune-like as he stared outside the window, looking despairingly down the street leading back to Diagon Alley that Umbridge had disappeared down.
Blaise dipped his head regally. "Of course. I notice you speak of the locket with more than the passing familiarity of scholarly interest. Do you have a history with it?"
"The previous owner of the locket, some rich toff called Hepzibah Smith, purchased it from my late colleague, Burke," he said. He chuckled weakly. "Fond of an old employee of ours, she was. Always asking for assistance from Mr Riddle."
Blaise was mulling over the fact that Smith's great-aunt somehow fit into this story when there was a loud bang and a stack of plates fell to the floor, shattering into pieces. Cursing Harry and Hermione internally, Blaise watched as Borgin's eyes searched the room.
"It happens," Borgin said with a shrug. "The shop's a bit of a dump at the moment. I'm far too overstocked with all the Ministry raids that have been happening. All the families have been pawning their artefacts."
They continued with the tour, though Borgin moved and talked with a general air of malaise. After examining a set of throwing knifes enchanted for sharpness and anti-clotting, they arrived at an empty platform which had four clear grooves. Blaise was certain that the Cabinet they were searching for had rested on the platform.
"What stood on this platform? Something that drew the eye of another discerning patron?"
Borgin frowned. "Nothing worth mentioning."
Before Blaise could possibly probe that answer, the floorboards near the shop entrance heaved once more with the weight of a newcomer. They were clad in robes that had seen better days, dirty and covered in hastily darned patches. The top of their hood scratched against the low ceiling, and they were broad to the point their robes visibly heaved with their every breath.
Borgin offered him no apologies this time as he hurried to the entrance.
Opting to take a leaf out of Flitwick's book, he drew his wand from his sleeve. The wand movement for the Supersensory Charm was a complicated hexagram, reflecting the five base senses in addition to the caster's reflexes. It was far too showy for a discreet casting. With his father's wand, he'd been able to pointcast nearly every spell, but his own wand required that he perform wand movements to achieve the same effect. Performing the wand movement would be to draw a target on his back.
Desperately praying that it worked, he pointed his wand at his chest and focused intently on increasing his perception. He whispered the incantation for the Supersensory Charm in the softest whisper he could manage. As his hearing and sense of smell sharpened, Blaise smiled in relief. Used to the spell from years of violin and viola practice, the sheer sensory information that flooded his mind didn't overwhelm him. It was more akin to a subtle pressure in the back of his head, rather than the pounding migraine it had been when he'd first learnt it.
His ears had been rendered so sensitive that it was trivial to pick up on their conversation, even amidst the now loud sounds of the newcomer's robes rustling and Borgin's soft but raspy breathing. He tried to pick up any sign of Harry and Hermione, but there must have been something special about Harry's cloak, as he couldn't smell or hear them. Now that he thought about it, it hadn't looked like it was made of Demiguise hair.
"And everything is ready?" The newcomer asked. His voice was bestial, more akin to the sharp bark of a large hound.
"Yes, yes," Borgin mumbled back. His voice, ordinarily oily and sly, had become tremulous and cowed. "I've done as required, and the Cabinet is hidden away in the back of the shop."
"Good. Malfoy's brat has sent word that plans have been advanced. We move tomorrow."
Blaise barely stifled his gasp of surprise. He hoped desperately that one of Harry or Hermione were listening to the conversation. The idea of Death Eaters flooding into the school from the seventh floor, so close to the Gryffindor Common Room, filled Blaise with a chilling anxiety. It'd been easy to treat this as a little excursion, an exercise in being useful, but this was no game. He wouldn't be a liability.
Borgin sniffed. "Do what you must."
"We will."
Blaise ignored the thunderous sound of heavy footsteps approaching him. The stench of dry earth, sweat and something sharp, almost like blood, grew overpowering with his every step, and Blaise knew with dead certainty that the scent would be noticeable without his Supersensory Charm. He focused intently on the bloodied playing cards in front of him, maintaining his calm and collected expression in spite of the despair pooling in his stomach. He had his suspicions who the newcomer was, and he desperately hoped he was wrong. As much as he hated Malfoy, he was better than this. Surely?
"Looking for a gift for family back home?" The dreaded voice asked.
Being over six foot, there were few people that Blaise had to look up at to make eye contact. The behemoth in front of him demanded it, being almost a head taller than him. Even with his hood up, leaving most the newcomer's face in shadow, it was clear that he was incredibly hairy. Taking note of the wild amber of his eyes, Blaise accepted what he'd feared. He knew just what type of abomination was in front of him. In fact, he knew exactly who he was speaking to and exactly what they were capable of.
Blaise maintained his cool as much as he could. Now was not the time for him to show weakness to Fenrir Greyback. He'd heard enough stories in the Slytherin Common Room, whispered when lamplight was low and the young in bed, to know the consequences of doing otherwise.
"Perhaps," Blaise said, tone perfectly pleasant despite the slow ramping up of his heart rate. He wondered if the beast in front of him could hear it as clearly as he did. "Not much here worthy of friends or family."
Greyback let out a harsh bark of laughter, exposing his yellowed, unnaturally sharp teeth in the process. There was a dark humour in his eyes as Blaise followed his teeth with more than a little caution.
"No, definitely not," he rasped. He gestured at their surroundings, almost in a brutish mimicry of Borgin earlier, and stepped closer. "This is a shop where you buy gifts for your enemies."
Over Greyback's shoulder, Borgin was making pointed nods of his head towards the exit. Blaise grit his teeth and held his ground, knowing that he was in deep trouble. Harry and Hermione had yet to give him a signal that they'd concluded their search, so he'd have to keep distracting the werewolf.
"Where did you say you were from?"
"I never did," he said. "Is there a particular reason you're asking?"
Greyback stared holes into him, and Blaise met his gaze despite feeling his wand hand begin to grow wet with sweat. After a long moment, Greyback turned to face Borgin who was watching from the counter fearfully. "Leave."
Blaise felt his heart sink in his chest as Borgin dashed out of the shop, not even looking back as he disappeared down the street. As the door closed with a loud slam, a rattling crash resounded throughout the shop as a table collapsed. A large, brutish sculpture of an eye fell to the floor, crumbling into pieces.
Greyback didn't even blink at the disruption. "Why are you here?"
Blaise panicked when he advanced on him, hand outstretched. He pointed his wand at the floor, and a thin layer of ice coated it, sending Greyback into a scramble to secure his footing. Having anticipated it, he'd remained still before leaping onto the table, crunching tacky necklaces and a well-preserved hand underfoot.
"Depulso," Blaise murmured.
Where a normal person would be knocked off their feet by the Banishing Charm, Greyback simply wavered a little before he leapt with unnatural speed towards Blaise.
"Shit, shit, shit," Blaise mumbled to himself hysterically as he jumped down onto the floor, barely avoiding tripping as he slid across the ice.
He knew the only reason he hadn't been mauled by that savage pounce was the Supersensory Charm augmenting his reflexes, and he hoped whatever Harry and Hermione were doing was more important than his life. He really did, as he could use their help.
Greyback followed, a ravenous grin on his face, and Blaise gambled all he had into one spell. The Levitation Charm landed at just the right moment. With the unwashed, sharp fingernails of the werewolf inches from clawing his face, Blaise stepped backwards and forced Greyback further into the air, fighting desperately to hold the spell as Greyback thrashed about. The fact that Greyback made no overture towards reaching for the wand within his pocket gave Blaise some confidence. The werewolf must not be much of a wizard. He was likely no more than the most mediocre hedge wizard. Still, it did not make him any less dangerous.
Once Greyback was clear of him, he threw him into the wall behind the counter on the opposite side of the shop. Hitting the frame holding the masks with a nasty crack, the werewolf dropped to the floor with a groan.
Nowhere near naïve enough to think that would be enough, Blaise pointed his wand at the mannequin near the door. It jumped into life, walking gingerly with disjointed limbs for a moment before vaulting over the counter with the grace of an acrobat. It proceeded to choke the werewolf with its spindly arms. The gurgling sounds of the werewolf being choked were more than welcome to Blaise, but it didn't last long. The mannequin was thrown into the roof of the shop with a crash, splintering into a mess of limbs and basilisk hide that rained upon the middle of the shop. His gaze fell upon the largest of the Screaming Visages, the beginnings of a sneer on his face. With a slash of his wand, it descended upon the werewolf.
The ensuing screaming rattled through his skull and threatened to burst his eardrums. It brought Blaise to his knees. Emitting a low cry of agony, he ended his Supersensory Charm with a jerky motion of his wand, receiving immediate relief. Once he'd gotten back to his feet, head spinning, he found Greyback in double staring at him, mask in hand, and fury in every harsh line of his faces.
"I was thinking of simply spreading the gift," he murmured, "but I think I'll eat well tonight."
The werewolf gave him no time to digest his threat as he drew his wand and threw a series of spells at him. Head still ringing, Blaise managed to block them with ease, but in his hubris at how easy it was, he didn't take notice of the mask that Greyback threw after his salvo. He managed to deflect it with his hands braced over his face, not trusting his Shield Charm, but the cruel edge of it cut into his forehead and dribbled blood into his vision.
Blinking blood out of his eyes, he threw every spell he knew at the werewolf. Some practically rolled off of him for what little effect they had, and others were merely sidestepped.
"No killer instinct. You wouldn't have made a good werewolf," Greyback said, laughing as he weaved around the table Blaise threw at him. He continued his slow advance, his eyes bright. "Maybe I'll have your wand arm first."
"Reducto!" He yelled.
He threw everything into the spell, his terror, his hatred of the werewolf, and his desperation. All it accomplished was throwing Greyback into a nearby table. He merely pushed himself off it and continued stalking towards him.
Blaise knew that werewolves were generally spell resistant, but he'd been under the impression that spell resistance was only during the full moon. Having just spent the previous evening looking at the moon during Astronomy, he could confirm that the moon was currently a waxing crescent. Greyback was barely human, a walking mockery of a man, to be able to shrug off spells so easily.
"Expulso," he cried.
Greyback's eyes widened in surprise, but he blocked it with surprising deftness. Before Blaise could follow up, he leapt towards him and without his Supersensory Charm, it was trivial. He had no chance. Blaise gagged as Greyback's massive hand wrapped around his throat, and he struggled violently as he was raised onto his tiptoes, forced to stare into the werewolf's amused eyes.
"I knew I smelt Hogwarts on you," Greyback said, sneering at him. His breath smelt like raw meat, pungent and sour. "Tell me, boy. Who sent you?"
Terrified but defiant all the same, Blaise mustered his best attempt at a sneer.
"Hagrid and… Filch," he ground out.
Greyback's nails slowly dug into his throat, threatening to tear into his skin. He gurgled incoherently, thrashing in the werewolf's grip as air became increasingly harder to breath. "Don't play with me, boy."
At Blaise's ensuing silence, the werewolf's nails retreated, and his windpipe was subjected to his full grip. It remained weak but threatening all the same.
"One last chance," Greyback murmured, staring into his eyes uncaring. "I'm going to kill you, but I can make it painless."
Blaise didn't acknowledge him, too busy trying to call for help, but his voice was gone, no more than a wheezy rasp. The pressure began to ramp up once again, and Blaise's vision began to flicker as his lungs cried out desperately for air.
Too lost in his looming victory, Greyback didn't notice Harry and Hermione materialise into being behind him. Both had their wands out, and while Hermione's cold expression took Blaise by surprise, it was the fiery fury in Harry's that had his eyes widening. Noticing where Blaise's gaze had gone, Greyback began to turn but it was too late.
"Reducto!" Hermione screamed.
Hermione's spell knocked Greyback off balance, and his hand slackened. Taking the opportunity, Blaise scrambled out of the way, his hands clawing at the nearby table for balance as he slid once more along his conjured ice.
"He's spell resistant," Blaise whispered, his voice a hoarse rasp. "You'll need something stronger."
A strange golden light coalesced around Blaise's legs as Harry pointed his wand at him, and he found himself with a preternatural sense of balance, righting himself easily on the ice no matter where he placed his feet.
"Pot – "
Another flick of Hermione's wand and Greyback was silenced, shouting silently at them. Blaise added his own spell and Greyback's powerful chest heaved against tightly coiled ropes. It took Greyback a paltry effort to snap the ropes, and he stalked towards Harry, wrath evident as he prepared to pounce.
"Sectumsempra," Harry roared.
Blaise had never heard of the spell, so he watched carefully. It was as if a sword had cleaved across Greyback. A massive gash appeared across his torso, tearing through his robes from shoulder to hip, and so deep it exposed muscle and sinew. Crimson bloomed along the boundaries of his robes as the werewolf howled in agony, the piercing sound managing to break through Hermione's spell. Blaise watched dispassionately as Greyback fell back, screaming all the while.
"Stupefy as one," Harry ordered, looking at the two of them as the werewolf began to get back on his feet.
Looking away from the blood spurting from Greyback's wound was easier than Blaise thought, and he nodded with Hermione. She looked queasy and looked at Harry as if she'd never seen him before. Between the thin sliver of his lips and his frosty eyes, Blaise couldn't entirely blame her. It was like the Lestrange poster all over again.
The three red lights collided with the werewolf, illuminating him vividly in the dank lighting of the shop. Like a marionette whose strings had been cut, he fell to the floor with a loud slam. Nearby tables rattled with the force, and a shower of dust from an overhead cabinet rained upon Greyback. He didn't move again.
Harry smiled grimly at the two of them. "Good job."
"He's not… he's not dead, is he?" Hermione asked, staring at Harry.
Staring at how calm and collected Harry was, Blaise realised just how out of his depth he was, but he elected to try and make himself useful. Nudging the body with his foot, Blaise was both relieved and dismayed to feel signs of slow, steady breathing.
"Unconscious," he said. It hurt to speak, but he didn't let it stop him. To do so would be to acknowledge his weakness. "I can't say I'd be upset if he was dead."
Falling back onto a nearby table, he shuddered. Breathing was painful, but he gave nothing away. He was really racking up the life debts with Harry, and it infuriated him.
"Fenrir Greyback, the baby eater in the flesh," Blaise whispered, and he exhaled desperately as the panic he'd kept desperately bottled washed over him. His heart raced knowing just how close it'd been.
"Fuck," he spat.
So lost in his disbelief at what had just happened, he almost didn't notice Harry moving towards him. Harry pointed his wand at the cut on his forehead. With a tingle, it knitted together seamlessly.
He placed his hand on Blaise's arm, a comforting weight after the events he'd experienced. "Are you alright?"
Determinedly not looking at the puddle of blood beginning to form around Greyback, Blaise nodded at Harry. It was hard to believe that Harry was responsible for the wound Greyback was sporting. That spell had to be Dark, but he knew that Harry had went to those lengths for his sake. It was that knowledge that allowed Blaise to meet his eyes and not be wary. The ruthlessness of his putdown was something Daphne would have done. He had to know the effects of multiple Stunning Spells at once, even on a magically resistant freak like Greyback, was potentially lethal. After all, McGonagall had almost died after Umbridge and the Ministry had done the same to her.
"I will be," he said, and he chuckled hoarsely. "That was more than a close call."
Hermione continued to stare at Harry. "What was that spell, Harry?"
"We can talk about that later," Harry said.
Blaise gave Hermione a warning look, and to his gratitude, she nodded. They'd interrogate Harry later.
"This isn't over," she said. Sighing, the frustration faded from her still pale, anxious face. "Greyback saw you, Harry."
"And he knew I was from Hogwarts," Blaise said.
Hermione stepped towards the supine body. Her face was tightly twisted, pained and angry at once, as she pointed her wand at Greyback.
"Obliviate," she whispered.
Despite knowing it was for their benefit, Blaise looked at her with more than a little caution. He didn't think he'd ever be able to look at that spell the same way. She didn't say anything else as she turned away from them, lost in her thoughts.
Harry drew in a deep breath, and the force of his exhalation resounded across the quiet of the room. A shade of his terrible anger showed itself again in his voice. "I think I'm going to kill Mundungus. That locket belonged to Sirius, and he sold it to Umbridge of all people."
He had no idea who Mundungus was, but he did know that Sirius Black was supposed to be Harry's godfather who'd died last summer.
"Slytherin's locket belonged to your godfather?" Blaise asked.
Harry looked at him strangely for a moment, and then he let out a tremulous laugh, sounding both gleeful and anxious at the same time. It was hard to make sense of after the events that had taken place. Blaise stared at him, fearful that he'd finally lost it.
"My scar started feeling weird when Umbridge came in. No wonder we couldn't open it. That locket is one of them, Hermione," Harry said. "Dumbledore said he'd choose Founder heirlooms."
"I know, Harry," she replied, the beginnings of a brilliant grin on her face. "We might have found one."
Feeling massively out of the loop, Blaise cleared his throat impatiently. "As much as I'm interested in hearing about Harry's double life as an artefact detector, let's deal with the Cabinet."
After Harry and Hermione had stopped laughing, he smiled without humour at them. "And maybe you two can include me in your eureka moment at some point."
Harry and Hermione had the decency to look at least somewhat chastised, but they didn't elaborate. They led him to a back corner of the shop, near where the eye sculpture had fell, but out of sight from where he and Greyback had fought. There was a massive hole in the wall, leading to a dark passage. He was too wary of Borgin returning to question them, so he let them usher him into the hole. As they stepped into the tight passageway, crouching in single-file, Blaise tapped Harry on the shoulder.
"Since your scar doubles as an artefact detector," Blaise whispered, "have you considered letting Lovegood use you to find those Nargles? She says they're magical creatures, but you never know."
Blaise sniggered when Harry shoved him on the shoulder. It may not be the most appropriate time for humour, but it made him forget the werewolf lying back in the shop and his own weakness.
They descended a rickety staircase before emerging into a tiny chamber, and they all squeezed in and gathered around the Cabinet. It was a hideous thing, much taller than a man and made of a decrepit oak. It appeared so old and battered that it'd simply rot if left to its own devices.
He cast a Spell Revealing Charm, and he found nothing.
Hermione nodded at him. "I stripped what few spells were on it. The real protections were on the entrance to the passageway. We'd have been sooner to help you, but we couldn't remove the enchantments."
Recalling the loud bang that had startled both him and Greyback, Blaise nodded at her in acceptance. "You blew the wall out while Borgin left." At their chorused agreement, Blaise frowned at them. "Is there a reason you didn't deal with the Cabinet?"
"We heard the commotion upstairs. Besides, wouldn't you want to help with this?" Harry offered.
He was still too anxious and half-panicked to offer up a sarcastic comment at Harry's sentimentality, as he usually would, so he turned to face the cabinet. The smile that crossed his face at his thoughtfulness was as pained as it was pleased. When he turned back to face them, he wasn't surprised to see the understanding in their eyes.
"We do it together," Blaise said as firmly as he could.
They pointed their wands at the Cabinet and cast as one.
"Bombarda."
As Hermione vanished the dust and fragments that remained of the Cabinet, Harry smiled at them both.
"Let's get out of here."
By the time they landed back in Hogsmeade, it was almost time for dinner at Hogwarts. After changing and a quick debrief in which he'd downplayed the extent of his fight with Greyback, they all piled into one of the last carriages heading back to the school. As they made their way towards the Great Hall for dinner, Blaise indicated that he was going to his dorm. He didn't think he could brave dinner after the events of the day.
Hermione nodded at him. "I'll see you both later."
Harry stopped Hermione with a gentle touch on the shoulder, and he gave Blaise a hesitant smile. "Actually, I'm going to go with."
Disappointed but understanding, Blaise waved him off. He tried not to feel too jealous that Harry wanted to spend time with his House.
"Shoo," he ordered. At Harry's incredulous smirk, Blaise sniffed haughtily. "I'm afraid you've lost the revered privilege of warming my bed, Harry. It's back to the lonely embrace of Gryffindor with you."
Harry's eyes widened in disbelief. "Getting rid of me that easily?"
"See you in the Hall, Harry," Hermione said with a muffled laugh. "Thanks for the help, Blaise."
Blaise nodded, and she turned to make her way inside.
Turning back to face Harry, he smiled. "Definitely. I might welcome you back if you grovel well enough."
Harry's brows rose. "I know you, Blaise. I don't think you'd be satisfied with only grovelling."
Despite the beginnings of very elaborate and vivid plans for Harry's mouth forming in his mind, Blaise managed to stifle his lecherous grin. "We'll have to work something out."
Harry smirked, catching on. "I look forward to it."
They met for a quick embrace.
"Thank you for trusting me," Blaise murmured into his hair. "It means a lot that you were willing to let me help."
If there were a next time, Blaise would have to be better. Harry's smile was gentle as they separated.
"I'm happy you were there to help," Harry said. "I'm sorry about Greyback. Me and Hermione… we should have been faster."
"I should have been stronger," Blaise spat.
"You were really good with Borgin," Harry said soothingly. "Hermione tried questioning him last summer and got kicked out."
Blaise was sure that Borgin was more than a little sexist, but he could imagine quite easily Hermione attempting a tactless interrogation of the old wizard while all but screaming her Muggleborn status.
At his silence, Harry gave him an encouraging nod. "You did well for your first time. If it makes you feel better, I'll make sure we've made a proper Gryffindor out of you before the next little trip."
"Little trip, huh? I see your talent at saying the wrong thing continues to flourish," Blaise said.
Harry looked a little chastised and Blaise sighed. Rather than lash out, he needed to, as he'd told Harry, get his shit together. He frowned, thinking on the potential fallout of their actions.
"Do me a favour, Harry," Blaise said. "Keep an eye out for Malfoy."
Harry nodded sombrely. "Already planning to."
Harry turned to leave, but he stopped in his tracks and looked at him over his shoulder. "Work on your offensive spells, Blaise. Flitwick said he plans on having us do mock duels next time we meet. I expect a challenge."
"You're on," Blaise murmured. It wasn't just about impressing Harry and their friends. It was about survival and self-sufficiency.
Instead of heading to the dungeons as he'd said, he went straight to the Library. Thinking of Daphne's aptitude for fire magic, Harry's burgeoning ward talent and Hermione's wide skillset, he realised that it might be worth finding something that resonated with him. Knowing the only reason he was still alive was the Supersensory Charm, he found himself drifting towards the ever-familiar Charms section. Ignoring the vast assortment of treatises, essays and primers on specific spells, he looked for something more holistic. He eventually found himself staring at a massive, age-worn book entitled Curious Charms for Crafty Combat.
Flicking through it, a smile began to grow on his face. This would be useful.
Taking the book with him to Madam Pince, he checked it out under her watchful eyes.
"Mr Zabini," she called as he turned to leave, "perhaps you should see Madam Pomfrey."
"I'm sorry?"
Without a word, she conjured a simple mirror and showed him his reflection. There was an angry bruise across his forehead where he'd been cut by the mask. Harry and Hermione hadn't commented on it, and he knew that Harry would have done so. It must have been a recent development. Thanking her, he left and made his way to the Hospital Wing. With every step, he wondered how he'd acquired this bruise, especially after Harry's well-cast healing charm.
After much tutting and chastisement, Madam Pomfrey gave him a potion to apply which reduced the redness somewhat. He returned to his dorm. After blanketing everything he owned in every protective enchantment he knew, he climbed into bed and reached for the letter he'd left on his bedside table.
He looked down at the damned letter that he'd been struggling to write for the last week. He found it wanting, even in its fifth iteration. Perhaps it would be best to be honest about the sudden direction his life had turned towards. The prospect of Dumbledore having to deal with his mother was tantalising, and it was with a savage smirk that he reached for a blank piece of parchment.