Harvest season was close. He hired two people to maintain the grounds, and aside from occasional questions that necessitated his presence, they kept a far distance.
As he liked. As he had wanted, for so long.
Every morning, he woke up at his preferred hour of half past nine. He had his house to himself. No trespassers to tend to or portraits to threaten; now that they were gone, he enjoyed spending portions of his day in different rooms. He took his morning espresso in his sunroom, answered letters in the parlor, and strolled between his office or pergola depending on the weather.
He was the master of this small world he built for himself, without the help of any legacy or Dark Lord or family or friends. Other than the monthly visit to his mother, his life would be exactly as he planned it.
He kept the plate in the foyer filled to the brim and drank himself to sleep every night.
Granger was in the papers sometimes. Mentioned alongside Longbottom when Longbottom quit, noted to be the only curse-breaker left at the Ministry. Another time, while presiding the success of the DMLE's thorough program to halt crime, her name was hastily tacked on to a sentence at the end of a paragraph about another dark wizard felled by Potter's brilliance. Twice, linked romantically to Krum, courtesy of her latest field placement in Bulgaria. No further information was given on the matter, because the woman's supposed romantic exploits mattered more to the Wizarding World et large than the world-changing theories she was developing, probably on vampire rights if she were anywhere near Durmstrang.
Blaise unfurled a roll of fresh parchment onto his desk. Ink beaded at the tip of his quill before falling to splatter onto the top left corner.
He set the quill down. There was nothing to say.
In September, he visited his mother and received a strongly-worded scolding for missing his August trip. The grapes, he said, and the vines. Convenient excuse that makes, Malina replied, are you sure they're real?
Fortunately, Blaise was prepared with a feature of the vineyard a local wizarding paper had done. It was the closest his mother would get to see what he was investing his time in, a far better cry than dark arts or murder, so he should get some credit, he assumed, but no sooner did Malina read the paper did she ask him about the woman.
"Woman?"
"Yes, boy, the one you ran from last time. Have you married her yet? Tested her wits? Mippy still has my potions lab cordoned off with the grand pianos, so I won't be able to help on that front."
"No, mother," he said tiredly, staring at the puce-colored soup. Beans or horklumps? It was hard to tell. "She remains likable."
"Still?"
Yes, and always will be, if the world had its hateful way with him. Unwilling to discuss this further, he put on a forlorn expression and slid a napkin across the table. "Your letter thief wins again."
Malina stood. "Mippy! Grab the shears! Grab Grimwald the Gorey!"
"You destroyed his statue."
"Grimwald the Gorey's hand! And the east wing's tapestry! There is a thievery abound tonight!"
Later, when she had run herself ragged and draped herself over the chaise in their favorite parlor, feet in Blaise's lap and holding a cooled block of ice he conjured for her under her head, she asked,
"You look tired. Haven't you gone out for quidditch, yet?"
He hadn't played quidditch since Goyle gave him a good grounding on the Nott Manor's pitch in July. Before Granger brought a salve for him.
It was enough to have touched her without marking her with him. She was a good girl. Good girls didn't need to be waylaid by men like him, no matter how long he stared at unused packets of popcorn in his pantry or blot-stained parchment. He would no longer blame her for his misgivings, and that was enough.
It should have been, anyways.
October brought with her Pansy Parkinson, on a visit timed three weeks before Draco's bachelor party.
Unlike Draco, she maintained a semblance of decorum, as it was all she had after her misjudgment cost her. To be fair, most of them would have done as she did, having cheered her on silently as she offered to sell Potter to the Dark Lord.
It was also, unfortunately, exactly that acerbic attitude that gave her more breadth to do as she pleased.
It had to be Draco's doing. This was her first visit, and she was alone.
He would be naive to think Draco would've done nothing. But prone as the blond was to theatrics, he would've refused to divulge the extent of it, given how utterly unbelievable it sounded.
Because it was unbelievable. It was the height of ridiculous. Inconceivable in every world, and why he hated meddling, and why it fucking hurt to be meddled with, intruded upon so carefully until his every nerve was waiting for anything —
Stop. He swallowed down bile and walked to the gate.
As he unlocked his wards, Pansy barked at her house-elf. The small thing deposited her bags in one of the rooms upstairs and departed with a meek pop.
"Irritating creatures. Zabini, where's the Reisling?"
"I don't make white wines."
His voice was rough from disuse.
Pansy made a deriding noise, peering about the villa. Her sleek black hair moved as a single entity as she bobbed her head. "Is this it? Estio wants me to visit in October. I hope his manor is as big as you told me."
"And you've agreed?"
Estio was the distant Portuguese cousin of his trying to broker a betrothal contract with the Parkinson's. Blaise had agreed to the connection only after Draco made a case on her behalf. Pansy would be unlikely to find anyone suitable in England, and the prospect of sending her off into someone like Warrington's arms was enough to make anyone ill.
Those conversations seemed hazy, like they occurred a lifetime ago in a dream that Blaise was now waking up from.
He couldn't remember the last time he spoke to someone for non-alcoholic reasons.
Scrunching her nose, Pansy fell into a wing-backed chair, tucking her feet under her. "He owns a fleet of hippogriffs, so yes."
Blaise handed her a plate of ravioli he'd prepared earlier. Draco must love that, and the thought bruised his heart.
Pansy stared despondently at her plate. "I will give you an elf."
"Eat, or starve. You're imposing."
She made a great show of reluctance, but he knew it was good, and he knew she thought it was too two slow chews later. In moments of thought, Pansy would purse her lips and tilt her head slightly, a contemplative look that suggested she was always calculating, but was aware of how sorely lacking she was.
"This place is okay," she deigned to offer. She pointed a finger at the far wall. "What's that blocking?"
He looked at the hole he'd blown into the wall last week. Isolation tended to make one physical with their environment, and he'd taken to late night jogs and blasting parts of his home to pieces.
The part Pansy pointed to was an ongoing project that he covered with a tapestry so Pansy wouldn't get herself entangled with unfinished woodwork and try to disembowel him in the dead of the night as punishment. Malina had tried, once, and Blaise quickly learned he was a poor duelist if he had any less than eight hours of sleep.
"Construction."
"Of?"
"Nothing you don't have in your enormous manor, Parkinson."
"Hm." Pansy gulped down the last bite. "You should come visit. There's some rooms we're renovating that are sure to inspire the… rustic aesthetic you have going on here. Mother will be out next weekend."
Blaise wiped his lip. "I'm busy."
"You always are. We haven't seen you since July." Pansy conjured a cigarette and placed it between her lips. A wand-tap later set its end smoking.
"Still harvesting."
She exhaled slowly. "I swear, I'm buying you two house-elves after I marry."
While Blaise stewed in cold annoyance, Pansy padded around, examining the art work. Blaise had no obnoxious family portraits nor genealogy trees to hang up; instead, there were paintings of dragons and phoenixes, a wall-spanning fresco depicting basilisks and chimeras, and a smattering of pictures of famous Quidditch players.
He had few pictures of himself. They were all in his desk drawer.
Pansy hummed noncommittally at the set of Wimburne Wasp photos, artistically split into four and each depicting a single move. "No Krum?"
Krum hadn't been an active player for Belgium in over a year.
Blaise had the sinking feeling this was a set-up and braced himself.
"Doddle and Herkins are the championship choices this year."
"Viktor Krum…" she let out a sigh of longing. Another tendril of smoke curled from the cigarette. "If I knew someone to set me up with him. Merlin, that deep voice. You know, I heard Granger is back with him."
She said the name carelessly. An average man would think it a mere slip of the tongue on the way to better topics.
But Pansy continued twisting the proverbial knife. "Did you see the papers? She broke up with Weasley. Can't fault a woman for wanting to move up, though I can't imagine anyone would willingly touch her except McLaggen, I say."
Blaise's hands flexed.
"The Daily Prophet does deliver here," he replied, equally cavalier. He momentarily contemplated adopting a cigarette habit, too, but it would destroy his clothes.
"I saw her with Ginny Weasley when I went to Gladrags to get my dress tailored for Draco's wedding. Can't imagine they could afford anything, really…"
Blaise's head began to hurt. There were a lot of clever details and points Pansy was trying to pry amidst a waterfall of information. She'd improved in her prying, certainly, but the schoolgirl tendencies had yet to be tempered.
"She still fit?"
Pansy cocked her head. "Who?"
"Weasley."
Pansy reddened, eyes slanting. He returned the challenge. He hadn't forgotten Pansy's insecurities; few moral concerns could stop him from exploiting them for self-protection.
"Fuck you."
His stare turned punishing. "I prefer my evenings without mentions of gingers." Granger was most excused, of course, which he belatedly realized Pansy would've noticed.
Thankfully, Pansy missed the slip-up as her angry flush deepened. Ginny Weasley remained a sore point due to having outdone most of the females in their year, both in looks and her Quidditch performance.
Pansy swiped the glass he'd just filled and downed it like a shot of vodka. "Theo mentioned something last week."
Her casual prying hadn't worked, so she was making a different play.
"Theo makes bullshit for a living."
"Did you know Granger works as a DMLE agent? They have her squatting in Igor Karkaroff's home in Belgium."
Blaise's movements slowed to molasses.
Pansy wasn't Draco. He wasn't going to kick her out. But for fuck's sake, she'd done her homework, and if Pansy had gone after Granger herself, there would be consequences.
It was easy enough to portray his slowing down as methodical handling of a bottle. He plucked another glass and poured, watching the maroon slosh and settle.
He calculated carefully.
"Parkinson. Why are you here?"
"Wasn't she doing field work in Tuscany? When you and Draco fought?" When he fixed her with a penetrating stare, Pansy let out a mocking laugh. "Please. Everyone and their mum knows you aren't talking. Draco's told the sordid tale over three times between drunken romantic bliss."
Not everything, clearly. Just enough to make Pansy Parkinson travel to Tuscany in the middle of the autumn to meddle in business irrelevant to her.
Blaise plucked the glass out of her hands before she went and drank through another bottle. "Whatever conclusions you've made in that empty head of yours, don't."
"So you didn't call his father a coward? Which he is, but you don't say that to his face."
And Draco thought Granger was whoring herself out and called his mother a hussy.
Blaise's lack of answer made the right corner of Pansy's lip curl up.
"I've known Draco since we were waddling puffskeins. Dated him for four. The only woman who could make him turn into an absolute frothing-at-the-mouth prat is that beaver know-it-all."
That she was abandoning her roundabout line of questioning for direct confrontation meant she was unsure. A good sign. It sounded inconceivable enough to him, too, almost.
"Why is Granger relevant?"
A small crack appeared in Pansy's resolve. "But Theo said at the Falcons game when Warrington—"
"Yes, Pansy, she was here for work. Took me forever to clean after she left." The words felt like cotton in his mouth, but Pansy's confidence continued dissolving. He forced his mouth to make a scoffing twitch. "Find other women to bluster over."
Pansy's flinty eyes scrutinized his practiced evening routine—sending the silverware and plates to the kitchen, charming the curtains to close and dimming the lights—and seemed to conclude there was nothing incriminating, other than the conspicuous lack of elves running about.
"You're right," she said finally. "I don't know what got into me. Just the idea must insulting."
I'm certain you're a better man.
He flashed her a hollow smile.
"So, with Draco…" Pansy clasped her hands together.
"I won't be coming. Feel free to spend your time exploring before you report back to Draco."
Her anger spiked again. "Whatever's gotten into you two, fix it," she demanded furiously. "It's ruining the mood. And send Theo's owls back." Flipping her hair over her shoulder, she angled for the stairs. "Oh, and Blaise? Nice job decorating without portraits."
"She's gone and working with Karkaroff—"
"Sir."
"—and Pansy is easy to keep away—"
"Mister Zabini."
"—but if she's not convinced and goes to Draco—what, Di Verità?"
"Have you considered taking me out of this grimy trunk?"
Blaise stopped pacing and looked down at the hastily opened trunk, his expression dour.
A minute later, Di Verità's portrait was leaning against the wall, set above Great-Aunt Calista's jewelry collection. Calista herself looked down her chunky nose to communicate utter loathing at Blaise's choice to stuff all the portraits in here.
He thought they'd love to chatter at one another. He was wrong, but he didn't have time to deal with ancestral squabbling between those whose bones were chewed through by scampering wolves eons ago.
For good measure, he charmed the other portraits silent. Great-Aunt Calista fell out of her frame to visit another chewed through ancestor.
"You didn't let her take the bait," moaned Di Verità. "That is your fault."
Blaise glowered.
Di Verira stopped his moaning in favor of whining. "Is this 'Granger-shaped problem' one that needs solving? Why do as the Romans do?"
"The Romans killed you for treachery."
"It's the idiom, I'm told." Di Verità cleared his throat in a preamble of ridiculous guidance. "Do nothing. You don't care about her. Indeed, you are content."
Blaise tossed him back in the trunk, pointedly ignoring Di Verita's last mutter, "foolish boy."
He supposed he could—send her a letter.
It's not as though the thought hadn't crossed his mind, evidenced by the sullied parchment he couldn't quite make himself put away.
He scoffed. She hadn't sent him a letter to thank him for the Sangiovese, not even a perfunctory note. So what would he say? Granger, you had a question left or Granger, Lang's theory holds more weight than Porter, and Yukolt is a crumpet, why must I read? or Do I need to bribe the Head of the DMLE to annex your department?
More importantly, who the hell did she think she was?
He imagined Karkaroff sneering at her and her apologizing.
No.
Granger would sooner punch him.
But would she? She knew Blaise was an arsehole and called him that, and still bought her little healing potions and wrangled him into a—a—a date?
Night out.
Quality time with an acquaintance?
Fuck.
He waited for the ill-advised panic to subside, imagining it diffusing into his blood and muscles.
He was Blaise Zabini.
Unaffected.
Lovely, she may be, but an incessant worry-wart with nothing to do, he was not.
Nodding once, he stretched his fingers and went back to work.
Two days before Draco's bachelor party, Theo's owl returned, interrupting Blaise's high-class daily spiral of self-pity. Blaise tore open the letter, if only to assure Tuscany wasn't about to greet another rogue sent by Draco.
Pansy says you're being a pompous git, but Draco's going to be a bigger git. If you're not in London by tomorrow morning, we're sending Goyle after you.
A glove-shaped portkey fell out of the envelope. It smelled like Theo during OWLs week.
Blaise tossed it in the bin, strengthened his wards, and commandeered Theo's owl again.
The next day, around noon, instead of a miscreant Goyle wandering Italy, Blaise was faced with the fireplace in his office flaring to the ceiling.
He'd forgotten about that detail. Floo calls weren't the norm. They, understandably, preferred to not stick half their bodies into a fireplace, and a ten-minute international floo-call cost a quarter of a decent portkey with the added nuisance of a two-second delay.
"What in Merlin's name is wrong with you?" Theo's twitching countenance levitated in the ominous green flames.
Blaise's quill continued its scratching. "How high is your bum sticking up?"
Theo made a strangled noise. "Stop kidnapping my owls. And send me back Lucy."
"She would be at my mum's."
"You were in Cotswolds?"
Blaise tugged a particularly nasty piece of parchment forward. "No," he said crisply.
Thankfully, Theo's look of profound contempt was interrupted by a wickering flame. It had the effect of making him goggle-eyed.
"What's going on, man?"
Blaise looked at his ceiling and noted the distinct lack of runes up there. "You sent Pansy into a nasty dither for no reason, so stay out of it."
For a long time, only the sound of a scratching quill and flickering flames occupied the office. Having expected a withering comeback, Blaise assumed the connection had faltered, or Theo had accidentally fallen onto his haunches.
Then he heard Theo sigh.
"Zabini, if this is the life you want, then we'll respect it."
Blaise lifted his quill.
When there was no indication that Theo was joking, or just mumbling nonsense as usual, an ugly tendril of feeling wrapped around Blaise's gut.
Despite the cackling flames, Theo's voice turned soft. Brittle, almost. "Do you remember my trial?"
Blaise made an affirmative sound.
"I didn't expect us to get anywhere, to be honest. When we were in school. That we didn't end up in Azkaban was a miracle. But I got this job, and I'm up for another promotion already, and...I met someone. She's great."
Was she his replacement at gatherings now? Was Theo's wedding heralded for next year, and then Pansy's, or maybe both, and they would all get older and have children and leave legacies, with or without him?
"I'm happy for you," Blaise replied quietly.
"It's gotten busy here. I can't…tell if you want us to run after you, or not, but I'm not going to have a lot of time anymore."
He cracked his knuckles. The empty piece of parchment, omnipresent at the corner of his desk with a single blotch of ink, mocked him.
Theo chuckled at the silence. "I hope you get through whatever's going on. You know where to find me. Take care, Blaise."
The weather cooled to welcome winter.
On his calendar, Blaise crossed through the date. Draco's name was smudged, anyway.
The debauchery that was the lads' night, composed of Britain's Wizarding Community's most affluent bachelors feat an Azkaban convict or two, in an exclusive Wizarding club made it to Witch Weekly, a copy of which Pansy sent.
Blaise left it unopened.
The thing was, it didn't matter.
The acerbic brunette had plenty to write about her dress, Astoria's fitting, how Millicent was a troll about color schemes, and success with Estio's hippogriffs. Marcus also wrote fervent letters about pesky Quidditch players and that Warrington's appearance was fewer these days, to everyone's relief.
Then those letters dwindled into once or twice a week, too. His mother wrote regularly, but the stack of papers his owl delivered every few days grew sparse.
He wondered if the dying felt like this. Instead of the great exit many dreamed of, dissolving into a fizzle, then nothing.
The cardstock invite mocked him every time he swept past his dresser in his quarters.
At times, anger flared in his chest. Why was it his responsibility to fix a mess caused by Draco's immaturity?
At others, he admitted, he took the bait. He confused anger at himself for liking Granger into hating her. And then faulted Draco for noticing.
Granger certainly didn't get provoked. Granger didn't run when she let him touch her and touched him back. Granger came to pull weeds with him as a goodbye.
For the first time, Blaise took a sip of the newly-developed and elderwood-barrel aged moonshadow merlot and dreaded swallowing.
"If this is going to be a regular thing, can I be hung over your east balcony? I hear the views there are the best."
"No."
"Your office?"
"No."
"Is the library done? What about there?"
"No."
"You really should be nicer to me."
Blaise shot Di Verità a cloying look. Against his better judgment, the small chats in the storage room with drinks in hand were becoming a regular activity.
"I…suppose."
"No, I mean—wait." Di Verità comically shoved his face into the entire frame. "You mean it?"
Blaise rolled his shoulders back. "Yes."
"If this is part of an apology tour, I recommend starting with Calista. It would make life far easier for this sheen of paint."
"Piss off." Blaise poured the last of the moonshadow merlot over Di Verità's face. Obviously, the portrait couldn't taste it, but it was the aesthetic of it that mollified the portrait into spending another week in the dusty trunk. He'd reconsider returning him to the foyer after some thought.
Meanwhile, Great-Aunt Callista's eyes were stuck in a perpetual glare, following his every movement. Blaise decided against stuffing her inside a trunk or wardrobe because silencing charms eventually wore off and the old hag at least stayed quiet when she was ogling her precious jewels.
The ornate display case was tinted green and silver from the shine of the jewels themselves. But as he turned, he caught sight of a warm gold, twinkling at the edge.
Carefully, Blaise lifted the bracelet from its display, feeling the cool, smooth metal against his skin. "Not very traditional, is it?"
Great-Aunt Callista began mouthing off. Fortunately, the silencing charm would be in effect for at least another hour.
But it was the prettiest piece in the case, and he let it go.
Granger made the front cover of The Daily Prophet at the end of September.
Blaise received the paper during an afternoon nap under a pergola, induced by an early morning spent overseeing filtration. His owl dropped it on his shoulder and it sent him careening off the bench.
ARREST IN BULGARIA, he read. He didn't need to read further. Staggered moving pictures of Granger's flushed face, Aurors escorting her at each side; and of Karkaroff's scraggly face shouting behind bars stared back at him.
There had been a skirmish in his mansion. Karkaroff had been released to Bulgarian authorities after the war, but his son had easily bribed a guard and broken him out, keeping him in their dungeons. The son, however, was a British citizen, and the home was in his name. And so, like Zabini's case, the Ministry discharged Granger to conduct a usual survey of the Karkaroff home.
The article detailed Granger's statements on noticing the usual survey turning sour when the son first refused to heed the DMLE call, and then the rotten smells emanating from below.
She managed to break into the dungeons after weeks of work, thinking he was hiding old corpses. Instead, a confrontation ensued with the raving man; she was temporarily blinded and suffered 'minor' leg injuries from breaking through seventeen curses in the span of ten minutes, and Karkaroff lost a testicle. By the time the Aurors arrived, fifteen minutes after Granger's initial emergency call, it was over.
There was a cut on Granger's lip. It was swollen, and her hair fell limply around her face. One Auror jostled her side.
Blaise watched her wince on repeat. He'd almost forgotten what she looked like, her having taken on an amorphous shape in his head the more he refused to think about her, tried to douse the house with expensive cologne and perfumes and obnoxious cooking aromas.
Cedarwood and berry lingered everywhere . Threaded through every wall of his home and every nerve in his body.
He wanted to talk to her. Are you alright? What the fuck were you thinking? Why haven't you transferred departments? Why didn't you aim for the other testicle?
You had one question left…
One question.
Had he had a question left, it would be—what sort of man are you certain I am, now?
The late afternoon sun draped its languid fingers across the sprawling vineyard. Blaise walked between the neat rows of bare grapevines, savoring the clean, frosty air. In the distance, cicadas and golden snidgets hummed.
His third harvest was officially over. Had been, for weeks. It never became easier; grapevines took their precious time in awaking from winter dormancy, buds emerging with only stubborn coaxing and great care out of woody canes. Then, when they unfurled into delicate green leaves, they could be left alone to grow skywards, attracting nymphs and pollinators for help. Then, tiny clusters of flowers would give way to minuscule green berries, coloring as summer wore on and then finally softening from something sour into purple-red pops of sweet respite.
Once their skins became taut and smooth, a gentle squeeze would reveal their readiness. His assistants had hand-picked them every morning, transporting them to the elves in a local crushing and pressing facility, who took care of de-stemming and washing.
He wasn't sure if his father ever walked the grounds, or even drank wine. His mother was unclear on whether Mr. Zabini preferred currant rum or mulled mead, or perhaps he was a vagrant who scorned alcohol altogether.
Discovering the existence of a villa as part of their estate was a happy accident. Fate, some may have called it, but Blaise was not susceptible to romantic overtures. It was an accident, a paper record he discovered when signing off his mother's assets in reparations, that he took advantage of. He didn't even visit Tuscany before taking title, setting his bags down and finding old clippings of his great-grandparents times four in the storage rooms, whom once ran a tidy, local winery.
Furthermore, he wasn't particularly fond of grapes as a child. Draco had his green apples, Theo refused to eat anything colored red or orange, Pansy thought sugarcane was a fruit, and Blaise ate whatever he found least distasteful in the Great Hall. But one summer, when him and Draco were two boys on the cusp of adolescence, sprawled on the manicured lawn of the Malfoy estate, they fed peacocks green grapes, laughing as they would pull their hands away at the last moment and the ostentatious animals would squawk. They would do this until the leader of the pack began pecking at Draco's hair, and finally receive a bushel of grapes before the rendered the Malfoy heir bald.
Draco's voice came to him now, full of youthful ambition, speaking of grand plans and the futures they would build after graduation. Lucius Malfoy featured heavily in Draco's boyhood dreams. The world had seemed so endless, dreams as ripe as grapes in the summer.
The memory faded, leaving Blaise cold.
He had wanted this solitude, and he got it. Maybe he was the only one to escape England's tight grip. The rest would grow older; the next cycle of bad men with violent ideas would rise and fall; and the world would continue to spin anyway.
Blaise let a shriveled grape fall from his fingers. It fell to the ground, an imperfect sphere, lost among soil and leaves.
That night, a letter fell into his lap.
Granger's name, in tidy script, adorned the back of the red envelope.
Zabini,
Apologies for the delay as I was stationed in Bulgaria for some time. Legal issues, too, as I am sure you are aware (I know The Daily Prophet delivers there).
I never thanked you for the wine. I'm not familiar with its varieties but I will savor it for a special occasion.
I think of what you said sometimes, and have been working to make a few changes in my life. I hope you find yourself doing the same.
Many thanks and take care,
Hermione Granger
The parchment wrinkled under his fingers. Was this what it was like to have a legacy? To affect and be affected?
He missed her. He missed her—all of them—so much.
And Blaise, Merlin help him—he began to cry.