When Blaise was young and witnessed his mother parade fathers five, six, and seven through their manor, she would tell him: I don't love him.
With father number five, he would ask, then how is he my father? Because he was young and thought every mother loved every father and vice versa like Draco's pompous parents.
And then that father was found dead in his bed during third year, so Blaise stopped asking.
Love was a thing he knew the form and shape of but didn't know how to color in. Frankly, it was a dull prospect worsened by the women's chattering in the common room, and then the men's when they reached wizarding adulthood and had to worry about things like marriage, having children, and whatnot.
Blaise knew what he wanted now. But he didn't know what to do with that knowledge that didn't involve meeting in a suspicious wizarding club and bedding witches in expensive hotels. Keeping his peace was standard protocol precisely because it kept him outside the realm of having to think about these things.
There was no one to blame but himself.
"My boy." Malina wagged her carving knife at him as she followed him to his quarters. "How was dinner?"
He shut the door. Winced, reconsidered, and opened it before she used it as target practice.
"Sorry, mother."
"You best be. Now tell me, did you find the letter thief?"
"No."
"Grimwald's come back to life?"
"No."
She stroked his arm, forgetting there was a seven inch weapon scraping his tailored sleeves. "Did those pesky solicitors of mine say something? Bring them home. I'll keep their mouths shut." Her smirk took on a sultry edge. Blaise gripped her wrist and returned it safely to her side. "Are you going leave again? So soon?"
"I thought you liked it here by yourself."
While Blaise began to pop out his cufflinks, Malina lifted the knife towards his chin. "Don't be silly. It's always better to be alone with someone else."
"Mm. Did father tell you that?"
Today, mention of his father made her freeze. Her arms fell to her sides of their own accord, and a bead of blood trickled down her fingers.
He called for Mipsy. She materialized a pace away, shrieked at the sight, and escorted Malina away, mumbling about bandages.
"Sorry, mother," he said again, after they were gone.
The next day, there were no letters in the owlery. Not from Pansy, not a single peep from Theo, and nothing from Draco.
Not the next day, and not the day after that.
His floo was undisturbed. No git faces popped up while he met with a few potential business partners in a wizarding club, nor when he met potential hirees for brunch.
He was here, and he had no one.
Not even his mother at the moment, whose mood had taken a genuine downturn and was now spending her days sprawled in her parlor, tinkering with old pictures. He tried suggesting she take up clipping birds again, or perhaps he could open the potions lab for a few minutes…but nothing cajoled her. So he scheduled a meeting with his solicitors, to see if they could negotiate terms for her to stay on the estate but be able to wander outside in the gardens, at least. They replied that it was possible, but he'd have to submit a petition to the Ministry.
One week after his ceremonious arrival in London, he scheduled a meeting at the ungodly hour of eight o'clock simply to make it in and out of the Ministry before most of the working crowd—including Theo—managed to spot him. The nice but bleary-eyed lady in the reception walked him through the forms that apparently could not be done via owl, and less than five minutes later Blaise was told to go home and wait for the great bureaucratic machine to reply.
What he hadn't anticipated was Granger, swots of all swots, to stroll out of one of dozen floos.
"Zabini," she called with a casual wave of her hand.
Some of the atrium's occupants groaned at her cheer but she appeared to ignore them in addition to Blaise's attempts to inch closer to a different floo. Not because he wanted to avoid her, but because it was nine fucking o'clock and he needed the darkest, best coffee available on this miserable island.
At least seeing her assuaged him. Periodically in the past few days, he'd have bouts of a not-entirely-unfounded worry that the reason Theo, Draco, and Pansy were so quiet was because they were plotting against Granger, or using her to punish him, somehow.
She planted herself about an arm's width away. He was relieved to see her in good health and very…chirpy.
"Ah, I'd forgotten your greatest enemy."
He titled his head, quizzical.
A faint smle crept across her lips. "The sun."
"Don't mistake me for a vampire. It's insulting."
"Your closet had me fooled."
He tried not to gawk. "I dress normally, not like a viscount."
"No, of course not."
Then she did something odd. She smirked.
She was teasing him like she would a friend, half-mocking and half-playful, and it was as though they were on a delicate detente of sorts. Her open robes exposed her crisp white blouse tucked into tailored black trousers, hair pulled back into a neat bun. He tried to remember whether the garish maroon from their school days would add a nice touch of color to her wardrobe, or maybe pinks or even greens.
"Zabini—"
"Granger—"
Granger cleared her throat. They tried again.
"You fir—"
"I have—"
"Oh, yes, if you have work I don't mean to—"
"It's not—"
They stopped.
Granger looked at her shoes, as though she were supposed to find a copy of the English dictionary there. For his part, Blaise flicked his eyes to the arching, pedestrian ceilings of Ministry halls and then back to the crown of Granger's head.
"I don't have work. Just a few meetings and business outings."
"How long are you in town for?"
Blaise tried to determine whether she was asking for conversational purposes or something else. But her bright-eyed plain expression didn't hide the sort of two-faced turnabouttery he was used to. What she said was exactly what she meant.
"A few weeks," he answered carefully.
She appeared to do some mental calculations with that enormous brain. "Malfoy's wedding?"
For a hysterical moment, he wondered whether the idiot trio (read: Theo, Pansy and Draco), instead of plotting against Granger, had convinced her into doing their bidding. More reasonably, however, it was Granger being her usual straight-forward self.
"Ah," she murmured, looking away. "Nevermind."
They were garnering curious looks again, this time in the middle of the Ministry. He wouldn't be surprised if someone recognized him in the next few minutes—and it wouldn't be because he was that strange man up the hill growing grapes in his yard.
Ask, he wanted to urge her. You can ask.
She didn't ask, but they lingered. Allowed people to congeal in clumps around them and slither to wherever they needed to be, for another day to maintain peace. Discomfort, not lack of desire, affirmed his decision to leave. They opened their mouths at the same time.
"Bye, Gra—"
"Would you like to join me for a cup of coffee?"
They both froze. Blaise, processing the question, and Granger, maybe from belatedly realizing the enormity of it.
She drew a sharp breath. "You'd have to get a visitor pass this time, but I usually stop by the cafeteria for a quick drink before my morning meetings," she rambled, eyes flickering to the igniting floos. "Or my office. It'd be more private." Her hands tightened minutely around the straps of her bag. "As thank you for last week."
She'd already thanked him. He didn't need more watery English coffee.
But he was trying to become a man certain of himself.
Draco still didn't understand. Blaise wasn't entirely sure he himself understood, either. Maybe he was trying to prove to himself that he was trying, when something possessed his tongue to make an affirmative noise and nod his head in agreement.
The visitor's office was tucked away behind the fountain and statues of the wizarding world's greatest in the atrium. At this hour, only a few were lined up in the queue. Granger waited for him off to the side, perusing through some papers in her bag in a headstart for work.
Blaise told the lady at the front his name and handed over his wand. After a prolonged minute, she excused herself to 'check something' , when every other person ahead of him had simply been handed a slip to roam the Ministry for the day.
When glares from the people behind him for the delay intensified, he suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Sauntering into Theo's office was easier than this.
"Mr. Zabini, I'm afraid we need a twenty-four hour notice," the lady said, face plastered with apologies as she handed him back his wand.
"It's just for the morning."
"Rules are rules."
Granger appeared next to him and promptly shoved her head into the window. "Rule? What rule?"
The lady flustered. "Oh, Miss Granger! You see, he can't be here without an appointment."
"He had an appointment earlier."
"Yes, but for a day pass—"
Granger made a disconcerting growling noise. "Luna Lovegood walked in to visit me earlier this week. What's the issue?"
"Leave it," Blaise intoned, knowing where this was headed.
"There's no issue," the woman insisted. Her face was reddening by the second. "He's just—it's best for everyone that he not wander—"
"What do you mean not wander?"
"Granger—"
"He's on the list, you see."
"What list? How come I've never heard of this list?" Her voice approached perilous levels of shrill.
"Granger," he hissed again. "Not worth it. People are looking."
Twisting herself around him and towards the window, she put her hands on her hips in a pose she probably thought was intimidating. "He hasn't done anything! You can't just—this is the government, he has rights! He pays taxes!"
He didn't, actually, there were some evasion…issues he probably needed to sort out. But Granger needn't know.
The woman pressed her lips together and shook her head.
Huffing, Granger drew herself to full height. "He has an appointment with me," she declared.
"Miss Granger, I don't see it here. I'm afraid I can't—"
Blaise lifted a hand to Granger's back and pulled her aside so the glowering line behind them could move forward. Granger's annoyed yelps required dragging her around the corner to avoid the dozen pairs of eyes glued onto them.
"That's not fair, it's not—" she was protesting.
"Granger, stop."
Her bottom lip wobbled as she glared furiously at him.
"You'll end up in the papers," he continued. "Do you want that?"
"I don't care." Her nose twitched. Gods, her anger was attractive, and her anger on his behalf was positively fascinating. A smug thrill settled low in his body.
"You do," he said firmly, changing his tone into a coaxing one. "You have an upcoming trial. Leave it."
"Aren't you insulted? It's an indignity! Offensive! I'm telling Harry. We—we fought a sodding war—"
He ran a hand through his hair. He hadn't faced much scrutiny once his own trial ended, with all the leaving to Italy and disappearing, but he remembered the early days. Especially as a second-hand witness to what the public put Draco and Pansy and even Theo, for his father's crimes, through.
"This is unnecessary. I'll see you around." Blaise had every intention of sidestepping around her to return to the floo.
But then he remembered what Granger despised most.
"Or wait a few minutes, then come."
"Where?"
A record, really.
Muggle coffee was just as bad as wizarding Britain's coffee, so that was another point in favor of commonalities.
Granger mumbled angry curses into her cup. He'd expected a long ode to the values of equality and anti-bigotry, but instead she cursed enough to make a sailor jealous while sipping down a coffee that was more accurately milk and sugar topped with a coffee bean.
Throughout, Blaise was tight-lipped, so occupied with cooling the warmth webbing across his chest, he was.
"I'm sorry that happened," she finished.
She was so careful with him.
"Why are you apologizing? Unless your job description's reached new heights."
She let out a lengthy sigh. "I'm working on it."
"It?"
The waiter took her cup and replaced it with a plate of pastries. He looked at Blaise's barely sipped cup and shot him a glower. Blaise just returned it with a mild glare.
"Nothing." She coughed. "Is this really the only place to escape to?"
Blaise crossed his legs. The stools they were perched on were kitschy, almost as kitschy as the muggle cafe they'd stumbled into. Cheap wood countertops stained with drinks, or worse. The vague scent of overripe fruit and fried dough. More weary muggles resembling ghosts rushing in and out.
"There are other countries unfamiliar with bushy-haired maniacs," he drawled.
At first, she joined the waiter in glaring at him, but then she let out a small laugh when she realized he was returning her jesting from earlier. "Is that why you returned?"
He braved another sip. It was just as awful as the first one. He'd have to Vanish it or Confound the waiter when he wasn't looking. "Your work file on me didn't include travel habits?"
"It didn't, but the dominant story is your career as a weedkiller, with the minor benefit of wine, is holding you hostage."
She was perfectly serious.
Unbidden, a laugh bubbled out of his chest. "You'd be mostly correct."
She was unruffled at his sudden fit of laughter, instead smoothing down her skirt and picking at lint. They'd opted to shed their conspicuous robes—muggles also used something called air circulation and heating systems instead of thermal charms—to avoid overheating into crisps. He was left in his hastily chosen cashmere sweater, fitted trousers and brogues while she wore her usual choice of work outfit, with ankle boots instead of sensible heels. Did she walk to work? Where did she live, anyway, with Weasley out of the picture?
"I thought so. Was worried I'd have to waste my last question."
A tiny burst of hope burrowed behind his ribcage. She remembered. "Less than perfect marks. Mostly correct. Where's the incandescent rage?"
His hands were resting in a loose clasp on the counter; she had one in her lap and the other curled around a croissant. She took a bite, wiped her mouth, wiped her fingers, and let them tap over the surface.
"Depends on whether you're still angry at me."
"No," he replied immediately. "I'm not." And he hadn't been, not at her, in a long time. He keeps his voice measured, in its usual tone of silky detachment so nothing could bely the turmoil underneath except what he said alone. "I was—am—angry at myself."
Last week, he'd followed her to wade through her confusion. It was more than serendipitous that they found themselves here, today, so he let his hands separate, one splayed evenly across the matte surface. And the other, closest to her, left open.
"Hm." She nibbled on her lower lip. "You've got plenty of company there."
He doubted there was anything the Golden Girl did that deserved self-ire. Surely, people like that took comfort in even their mistakes, knowing their intentions were sincere? Or was she referring to that noble kind of regret, of anger at not doing more, rather than having done too little?
His skepticism must have been too obvious for her to ignore.
"I mean it," she insisted. "There's a lot of things, and most of them I can live with. But one thing I did, I don't even have the luxury of no regret." Her face fell, voice thin as she confessed, "I regret it so much."
"How do you live with it?"
"I don't. I just don't let it stop me from being better and giving other people the room to be better, too."
How very martyr-ish.
How very true.
Somehow, his knuckles skipped over to the halfway point between them. And she did a strange thing too—she shifted in her chair, peered at him through thick lashes, and there it was. A serendipitous touch, a grazing of bones, nothing like the explosive impulsive embrace of months ago, but a tender thing.
Today afforded them no more time to linger. Blaise was forced to wait while Granger paid because he carried no muggle money, but that allowed him to surreptitiously Vanish the contents of his sad cup. When she returned, she eyed them as though she knew exactly what happened, but said nothing of the matter. Neither spoke at all, preferring to dodge the irritable working folk seeking a caffeine fix until they made their way back to the Leaky Cauldron.
His fingers curled and uncurled when he stopped at the door, and she stepped close enough for her perfume to cling to his coat.
"I still haven't tried the wine, you know."
He looked down at her head. She was staring at the letters hanging over the door, missing half the letters so it read eaky Ca d.
"Not a fan?" he asked.
"I ought to try beer first, I think. Real beer, not butterbeer."
"It would knock you out cold for two days."
"Would it, though? I'm not a lightweight."
"Microdosing during Potions for extra credit doesn't make you a fiend."
"I have never—" she began to object, scoffing, but before she could finished a man wider than he was tall slammed the door open and tottered outside. She lurched to avoid the crash and in doing so, crashed into Blaise's left arm.
He caught her waist and swung her behind him. He felt her shift restlessly as he shot the man an annoyed look.
Granger was silent.
"Granger?"
"Oh," she simply said.
Blaise studied her to ensure she wasn't suddenly touched in the head. But frowning, Granger looked at the arm that was loosely wrapped around her waist, at his chest, and finally lifted her gaze to his face. Her expression was a mix of baffled and tranquil. Her general mode of behavior appeared to be wildly imbalanced. He liked it, he decided. The surprise and thrill of having not a clue at all of how she saw the world, other than on a moral arc heading towards good.
He waved a hand in front of her face. "Has your brain evaporated?"
For a few moments, her eyes were locked on his face. Finally, she stepped away.
"It's seven degrees outside. It'd sooner turn into goo than disappear," she muttered, yanking on the doorknob.
A letter waited for him in the owlery the next day.
Zabini,
I talked to the Ministry. You still need a pass (please don't do as Theo says), but they've removed you from that god-awful list. The world of muggle caffeinated delights will miss you.
Best,
-H.G.
Granger,
Never do a Slytherin a favor.
Thank you.
Do not call that monstrosity caffeine.
-B.Z.
Zabini,
Why not? Even the grinch in green can muster some form of gratitude.
-H.G.
Granger,
Whatever the hell that is, add that to the list of creatures I decidedly am not.
Because then they're in your debt and they'll pay you back—with interest. You won't like the terms.
-B.Z.
Zabini,
Why ever not? I thought they liked to play to win?
-H.G.
He tapped his quill, sitting on the floor of the owlery next to his mother's favorite shears, one leg bent. It was nearly midnight. A stunning snowy owl fluttered about impatiently, waiting to return and finally sleep for the night.
Finally, he penned,
Granger,
I do.
-B.Z.
Blaise was a man of restraint. The baser impulses that ruled so many—even the temper that strung his classmates by their necks—were foreign to him. He often thought Salazar himself would've been proud to see the kind of restraint and slow, molasses-like approach of the Zabinis. They worked so slow that people mistook strategy and deliberation for laziness. That's what led to five of his fathers so busy looking for the obvious threats that they overlooked the simplicity of an obedient wife delivering a drop of poison in a cup of tea.
He was also not a noble man. Zabinis waited to see what would win out and diversifying their assets accordingly. Whichever side had won in the war, he would've thrived. His mother's unfortunate fate aside, restraint did not mean a lack of desire. Fame, power, pleasure—they didn't deny themselves, they only sought it in the best way possible to optimize for success.
And Granger…
How would they even work? Besides the obvious problems, he lived countries away and her pitiful job had her running around the continent due to fathomless Potter loyalty.
The mere thought of it rubbed him raw. He squeezed his forearm roughly where he remembered her scar.
Blaise was also a man of pride. Obviously. And it was taking time to fully come to terms with the fact this was in Granger's hands, ultimately. He could control nothing here: not his feelings, not what he wanted, and not what she wanted.
After Granger, nothing disastrous happened for some time. The days dwindled and Blaise could count on his two hands until the Malfoy boy would become Lord Malfoy, without his supposed best friend at his side, and time would continue its march into another year.
Despite himself, he ducked into the owlery every so often. He ignored the twinge of pain when he saw the empty letterbox.
Oddly, Pansy's silence was the worst. Her letters had stopped entirely, and the woman had entirely too much to say to last a lifetime. And at least her updates contained a modicum of the life he vicariously lived through, though the admittance was troubling.
But of course, who would use his mother's once-a-month guest pass, without his permission, but her? One weeknight, after a late errand, he stopped short at the sight of his mother's parlor.
"Mother, why is Parkinson squatting on a bed of silks?"
Malina stroked her fingers through the girl's silky black tresses. "You never bring a guest."
"For good reason."
Draped across the couch, Pansy slowly rolled her head in his direction, a sardonic grin on her face. She waved a booklet full of fabric squares at him as though rolls of fabric didn't cover every inch of the room. "What color?"
Blaise shot her a dour look.
"Get out."
"I will not."
"How dare you speak to her like that? She's my guest," protested Malina.
Blaise called Mippy. The elf appeared with a cup of tea, served it to Pansy, and insisted with a pout that she was a guest.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Helping you. Her frumpy house-elf clothes and hair might've been acceptable at Hogwarts but…." she made a derisive noise.
"These aren't for me?" Malina tugged Pansy down until the girl's head was in her lap.
"No, no, Mrs. Zabini. We'll deal with Blaise's problem and then we'll get you a nice evening gown."
"He's got many problems."
"That he does."
"Leave, Parkinson."
"You can't possibly let her attend Draco's wedding looking anything less than how she did at the Yule Ball. Can miracles happen twice?" Pansy angled a sage green sample of silk at him. "Even Bulstrode managed to glow in this color."
After a few seconds of Pansy's noncommittal humming and bile rising up his throat, Blaise unsheathed his wand and vanished the room's contents. The sudden loss of weight in her hands sent Pansy tumbling to the ground. Malina slumped back on the couch.
"You fucker!"
Blaise breathed heavily through his nose. He wasn't going to the wedding and neither was he taking Granger, visions of her draped in lovely silks and red pigment swiped over her lips aside.
"Ahh, are you embarrassed?" From her place sprawled on the floor, Pansy still managed to taunt him. She harrumphed. "I suppose you're right. Painting a zebra's stripes doesn't make it a unicorn. A mu—" at Blaise's flashing eyes, she stressed, "A muggleborn wife would ruin you to my scandalous lows."
"Wife? Which wife?" asked Malina.
"I don't have a wife, mother. Parkinson, if you do anything to Granger unless it's to grovel, I'm not above putting your engagement on the line."
While his mother mouthed the name Granger, as though trying to recollect who was who in his life, Pansy sat up slowly.
Blaise tucked his hands in his pockets, eyes flinty as ice as Pansy's neutral expression took on touches of self-satisfaction. A smirk curled her lips.
"This is a new look on you. Cute. You won't even do anything about it, but you've never done anything anyway." Pansy rested her chin on her hands, and despite being on the floor, Blaise felt like he was being stared down at. "Have you apologized, then? Her halo of goodness redeemed you and all's well?"
A moment passed. She broke out into laughter at his silence.
"Oh, look at you! So she hasn't forgiven you but you're already…what, suffering a guilt complex? Or do you think she should be falling over her feet for being the one to finally bring you back?"
"It's not—"
"But it is. Let me tell you something." Pansy got to her feet and made her way to the couch to collect her belongings. "You're not special. You're not even first. Theo made amends months ago. Did you know him and the Irish git get drinks together sometimes? And Goyle works at Oliver sodding Wood's broomstick shop?"
He fingered his wand. There was an unusual cruelty to her words beyond her usual reserve of insults.
Like she was trying to provoke him to act, not just anger. Anger was gratuitous, they knew. Which of them didn't ride a constant wave of deep-rooted anger at their world?
You've never done anything anyway.
Ever since he received that letter from Granger in Tuscany, all he'd done was act. He wanted his friends back. He wanted to restore the status quo. He was strategizing again, trying to optimize for success and reorganize himself around the Granger-shaped problem having morphed into a Granger-shaped aching want.
He'd seen the stray ink blots on her letter too. If he could dare to—hope—he had her rankled as she did him. She was a creature that craved answers, and had one question left.
It had to be on purpose. She may be a bullish Gryffindor, but she was bone-weary and tired now. Maybe for once she was waiting—and for once he needed to act.
But how?
Wand slipped into his trousers, he strolled to the floo. "Mother, when Parkinson's done gossiping, send her through the floo."
"One more bit of gossip, Blaise."
Blaise chucked a fistful of power at the fireplace.
"The Karkaroff trials begin Monday. Got that tidbit from whichever Patil twin works at the Prophet."
Malina's exclamation, "Oh! The war heroine!" was the last he heard before he dissipated to the nearest bar for a drink.
He went home and penned a letter to Theo.
At first, Blaise wondered what it was that Theo saw in Luna Lovegood. Lovegood was terribly chatty. Too much for his tastes. Too airy and groundless—Theo would call it optimistic—and her fashion sense was too loud. It surpassed attention-seeking and landed squarely in the realm of bizarre.
Theo snuck endearing eyes at her every so often, especially when she mentioned Crumple-Horned Snorkack with a loud pop around the letter p. Blaise wondered if his infatuation was just a matter of Luna being talented with her mouth. But when Luna sauntered off to the restroom after they placed their orders, Theo's legs knocked into his under the table. Blaise's vat of beer nearly upended into the next booth.
The choice of dingy restaurant was on purpose. No one here knew what a Sangiovese was, to say the least.
"Isn't she great?"
Blaise held back a grimace. Great wasn't the word he would use, but Luna was good for Theo. Theo was already a deviant. Orphaned, willingly working back-breaking hours (supposedly) for the Ministry. Only his last name and lifelong friendships kept him from being ostracized.
He wondered if that would hold after word of his ongoing dalliance with Luna became well-known.
None of this he could say out loud, of course, least of all to Theo, when he had his own...Granger-shaped want.
"Of course," Blaise answered smoothly.
"Thanks for coming." Theo stared down at the crusty placemat. "I didn't think you would."
"Neither did I."
Theo scowled. Secretly, Blaise savored the cheap beer.
Then Theo plucked at the placemat he'd been trying to burn holes in. "I think I'm going to tell Draco."
Blaise suppressed a choke. "You dumb fuck."
"It can't be worse after your revelation." True, that, and a reminder why Theo was sorted into their house despite acting like a closeted Ravenclaw half the time. "I should have figured," Theo continued incessantly on the topic. "It makes sense now. The way she fled my office…why Draco was such an arse."
At that, Blaise had to disagree. No one had it 'figured'. Not even him. It remained true that when Draco had visited, there was little to nothing between him and Granger. A mutual respect, burgeoning curiosity. But it'd remained there.
"Pansy is a vapid tart."
Theo frowned. "Pansy is a friend. You know what she's been through. She's just trying to help."
"And doing a shit job of it."
"Like she knows better. The world abandoned her after the war. She doesn't want the same to happen to you. Be grateful."
Before Blaise could feel suitably chastised, Lovegood bimbled back to their booth, kitschy glasses perched on her head.
"Thank you for waiting. I found some stray wrackspurts and had to shoo them away." Smiling, Luna sidled next to Theo, not close enough to be inappropriate but too close to be mistaken as platonic.
"Where did you send them?" asked Theo.
"Flushed them down the toilet. It would be bad for anyone here's brain to go fuzzy."
"Too right."
Blaise thought Luna was far too gone to avoid brain-fuzziness but wisely kept silent.
"Zabini," she started, hands folding over the table as she leaned forward, "We told you about how we met,"—it was a brief story about Lovegood traipsing through the Ministry library for Quibbler business and finding Theo struggling with a stack of books— "It's your turn. How is Tuscany? Have you seen the blibbering humdingers?"
While Theo snuck him an apologetic look, Blaise shrugged.
"No, can't say I have."
"Are you sure? Hermione said she saw some in your vineyard."
Though he tried to keep his face neutral, Theo's forceful look was hard to miss.
"Though she might have been joking," Lovegood added. At least Lovegood's variety of insanity was self-aware, much like his mother's.
"Granger does have an odd sense of humor," he conceded.
Soon, Luna was sidetracked by the arrival of a giant shepherd's pie. Blaise and Theo's food followed. Conversation moved like a lagging train, stopping and starting with awkward pauses in between. Theo and Lovegood were on the same track for the most part, but Blaise was utterly at a loss when she spoke at length about her work finding and documenting rare creatures and her penchant for knitting. His stomach sank as he realized that his mother and Lovegood would get along grandly.
Theo was subtle in his touches. A stroke across her fingers here, a gentle nudge there to distract her while he stole a piece of her pie, and all smiles when she said something Blaise supposed was a joke.
He tried to imagine himself and Granger like that.
Impossible. Granger would sooner point a wand at his neck if he tried to steal her food (see: The Popcorn Incident), Blaise would never let himself resemble a dopey idiot, and they would never be left alone in public. Even Lovegood received a few double-takes.
And all those problems in addition to the torrent she'd face from his sort.
After their meal, he walked with Theo a few paces behind Lovegood. Lovegood skipped down the alley. They were on a narrow route diverting from Diagon Alley that few folks frequented.
"Do you know what you're doing here?" he asked.
"We've talked about it." Theo shoved his hands in his pockets, watching his girlfriend sniff a windowsill covered in dying plants. "She doesn't care. She just doesn't want me to blow up my life."
"She doesn't seem to understand the severity."
"Is that…concern I hear from you? Sweet mother in heaven."
The muggle verbiage earned Theo a sour glare. Meanwhile, Lovegood poked at a shriveled leaf, shrugged, and moved on.
"Listen, about Hermione…" There was a frown in Theo's voice. Blaise stiffened. "I won't tell anyone. You just—do things at your pace. If that's what you want."
"Have you all colluded behind my back again?"
"What?"
"Nothing," he muttered.
It was the universe, or something, telling him, he supposed. He did want. He didn't know how to want yet, or what to do, and it felt as though he was running out of time, for no logical reason.
Perhaps it was because Granger might be gone again, to France or Denmark or the other.
Perhaps it was because Pansy tore into him, and he hated to admit she was right.
Perhaps it was because Theo being gentle, like an old soul. He would brave the firefight alone, whether Blaise was there with him or not.
Or perhaps it was all of the above, and Granger's edifying words to just live with it, and not allow himself to miss out on life.
"Actually, Theo, schedule an appointment with me."
"Like a date?"
"Piss off."
News of the trial was made public on the Sunday edition of the Dairy Prophet. Technically, the Wizengamot calendar was public information and accessible through a simple call or visit to the Ministry records, but Blaise assumed the delayed press release was to temper overcrowding. Karkaroff was the first dark wizard on trial in over a year, and he was a household name, too.
Pansy's little…favor, he admitted, amounted to Blaise being among the first to arrive before the sudden rush as the clock hit the start of the work hour.
"Appointment with Unspeakable Theodore Nott."
The lady in the visitor's office looked put off but acceded. Her fingers trembled, too, and he almost hoped Granger hadn't scared the poor woman witless. Whatever she'd done to the office had them shooing him away within seconds. He overheard clumsy visitors behind him pleading for a pass admist whispers of the trial worming through the crowd.
A rabble grew at the entrance to the courtroom. Wizengamot members tried to organize the herd. Unaware of the trial, Theo had already scheduled an off-site he was unable to get out of, so Blaise would be alone today. He found a seat in the back behind some Durmstrang graduates he vaguely recognized from the Tri-Wizard tournament.
Soon after, the room overflowed. A rash of Weasleys secured a block near the front, including their Potter and Lovegood adoptees. Ron Weasley was there too; initially Blaise guessed out of a desire to temper the press on the breakup, or also curiosity about Karkaroff.
Blaise remained in the shadows, even when Viktor Krum walked in and joined the Weasleys. Rumors sizzled.
The trial proceeded much like his own and other's had except in length. Over the next two hours, the Ministry presented their case and called forth witnesses including multiple Aurors, Head Auror Robards, then Potter, and finally Granger.
He hadn't spotted Granger at first; she was sitting in a chair hidden from the main circular area. Her heels clinked loudly enough to cut through the torrent of whispers at her name's announcement. Neat plait, robes buttoned to her neck.
The only signs she was nervous were her chewed through nails and whitening knuckles as she clenched and unclenched her hands. Her eyes took in everything, sweeping around the room as she took her place at the podium.
"State your name and title," said the Chief Warlock.
"Hermione Granger, a curse breaker in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
Swearing her in, the Head sat down, leaving Smith, Granger's counsel, to begin his round of questions. These ones Granger answered with ease as they were meant to elucidate the Wizengamot on what she saw.
When Karkaroff's counselor stood up, her chewing resumed. The counselor was tough, digging into her testimony and questioning every detail.
"Are you certain the defendant wasn't acting under the influence of the Imperius?"
Granger's eyes narrowed. "Individuals under the Imperius curse display the signs similar to catatonia. Glassy eyes, delayed reactions—"
"Please, Miss Granger, none of the muggle speak here. This is a wizard's court," said the counselor.
A collective scoff came from the Weasleys. Granger frowned as she looked at them, and they nodded encouragingly. One—the twin?—even threw up a fist. The unease on her face began to dissolve.
Then her eyes caught on Blaise.
He didn't know what she saw on him, but what her smile lacked in size, it made up for in luminescence. She straightened her back and snapped at the counselor.
"I've been in direct combat with imperius'd individuals in the heat of war. I think I'd know what it looks like."
Some members of the Wizengamot coughed while the counselor abandoned his line of questioning for a new one.
Arrogance suited her, he thought fondly.
Igor Karkaroff was sentenced to life in prison, to be carried out in Azkaban instead of in Bulgaria. His son Petar's trial was tomorrow, and no one expected any forgiveness then either.
The crowd erupted in cheers. Granger's many friends and supporters gathered around. Potter and Krum high-fived.
Blaise didn't wait to see what Ron Weasley would do, opting to wade around the top aisle until he hit the staircase, descending straight through the exit. The main halls were stuffed with people. He decided to head through the empty narrow halls towards the loo that would then loop around to the atrium.
After he had turned the first corner he heard clacking footsteps followed by a shout of his name.
"Zabini!"
Granger wheezed. She'd run down the hallway to catch him.
Eyebrow inching high with surprise, he curled his hands in his pockets. "Granger. Congratulations."
She straightened, running a hand over her frizzy plait. "Thank you. It was going to be an open and shut case anyway, but it's nice to see a Wizengamot without corruption." A pause. "With less corruption."
He nodded once.
He wasn't sure what else to say, or if there was something to say. But it also didn't appear that Granger had stopped him for a quick hello because she lingered. He took the opportunity for a quick glance-over. Muggle clothes were not bad. Only on her, however, and he would not admit either on the threat of death.
Granger's plait frizzed further as she looked away.
"I thought you figured out the hair spell," he ventured finally.
She tugged at a curl. "Sort of. I guessed Acuminus Crinale, but it doesn't last as long and it dries it out."
"Close." He wouldn't rob her the joy of trying. "Try Greek."
"Oh! Kalon Stephane?"
"Kalonexis," he corrected, pulling out his wand. A quick swish later, most of her hair had been lifted into a neat twist except for the curl she was pulling.
"The -nexis suffix, for a temporary condition. The Porter book. Why didn't I think of that?"
"One second, Granger."
She stopped her mumbling and held a breath as he lifted a hand to her face and swept the last curl behind her ear.
Pure want stuck to his throat.
"Temporary," he agreed. "Your natural hair is nice too, even if sentient."
If he wasn't mistaken, he heard her breath catch. "Nice?"
"I said sentient."
"No, you said—"
Her jaw softened as his fingers dropped to her chin.
He was stepping out of line, but he couldn't stop. It was addicting. She was addicting. It was a cold winter outside, and she was so warm despite his cold fingers. Her mouth pulled taut like a bow.
"Zabini…"
Something akin to panic briefly flitted in her eyes until they darkened, subsumed by something else. Her mouth forming his name brushed across his middle three fingers. Her eyelids started to fall, and she was so, so close, he could clasp her chin and angle her just the right way, steal more from her than she'd already given him in retribution for what she'd taken from him.
He almost— almost—pulled her to him again.
"Hermione! Where'd you go?" A flash of red appeared in the hall.
Granger lurched backwards.
She looked as lost as he felt.
"Are you coming tomorrow?"
Though he hadn't initially planned for it, he nodded slowly while securing his hands safely in his coat pockets.
Ginny Weasley hardly acknowledged him as Granger retreated to her friends, where she belonged.
His hand burned for the rest of the day, thinking of how for a moment, she'd been strung along forward too.
Theo came the next morning. When he saw Blaise, he immediately sidled up to him. Then Lovegood joined their side, and she had no qualms about leaning her head against Theo's shoulder while plucking invisible humdingers out of his hair. Half the Weasleys shot incredulous looks in their direction. Otherwise, everyone was preoccupied with Krum and whatever else was happening on the courtroom floor.
"I thought you had a promotion to worry about," said Blaise.
Theo blew him a raspberry. "I do, but emotional support means more."
"Do you need emotional support right now?" asked Lovegood, tightening her grip on Theo's arm.
Blushing, Theo scooted closer into Blaise until he was nearly sitting on his thigh. Blaise desperately hoped no one mistook them for a throuple, or whatever the hell naughty, traumatized purebloods were up to these days. He also didn't want to know what Lovegood's brand of 'emotional support' entailed.
The proceedings today followed yesterday's. The crowd was thinner because Karkaroff Junior was not as famous nor crazy as his father, despite having become a dungeon master,
The difference, however, was that Granger scanned the crowd prior to stepping up to the podium. Blaise's heart twisted; could he assume she was trying to find him? It was hard to tell. The witch seemed more tired today. An undercurrent of exhaustion laced her testimony.
Lovegood and Theo kept a steady stream of commentary, hissing when Karkaroff's missing testicle was admitted as evidence and gasping when Petar Karkaroff's counselor banged on the table. Granger retaliated each question with precision, faltering only a handful of times.
Petar, unlike his father, stood deathly still in the cage in the middle the entire time. There was crazy, and there was stoic, but he struck Blaise as neither.
An odd premonition coiled in his gut.
"And would you say you're thorough with your work?" asked Petar's counsel.
"My supervisor's quarterly report says so."
"You've had no injuries during the scope of your job?"
Granger rubbed her brow. "I'm a curse-breaker. Curse breaking has inherent risks."
"Then your injuries are a result of the inherent risks of your job, wouldn't you say?"
Her, bleeding in his sunroom. Blaise bit back a grimace.
"No," Granger said smoothly. "There are risks of de-warding dangerous artifacts, and then there's dueling a known Death Eater. I should think the difference obvious."
The counselor's mouth twitched. Backtracking, he glanced over some papers before clearing his throat.
"Your previous assignment was in a similarly situated home, wasn't it? The DMLE presents a record here of a severe shoulder injury about five months ago."
"Was that when she was in Tuscany?" whispered Theo, leaning close enough for his hair to tickle Blaise's cheek.
Granger scoffed. "I fail to see how that's relevant."
"Your words, Miss Granger, are that there are risks inherent to the job."
"As I said, dealing with dangerous artifacts are inherent to the job, but hiding a dark wizard—"
"Isn't that also what you're prepared for in the DMLE? And seeing as the previous home was also owned by an ex-Death Eater, I see no reason why Petar Karkaroff should be liable for the two battery charges, when he was acting in the midst of a skirmish."
Tension wore thick through the crowd. "He's got a point," Blaise heard the nearest purple-robed bastard mutter. Where was that idiot counselor of Granger's? Shouldn't he object?
Stiffening, Theo's knee knocked into his.
"Theo?" Blaise grit out.
"Yeah?"
"Get off my lap."
"But it's soft."
"I'll castrate you."
Granger's voice lifted above the tense whispers. "Correction for the record: not a Death Eater. Za—the homeowner didn't take the mark."
"Neither did Petar Karkaroff. But you of all people know not taking the mark does not make one light."
Blaise's blood curdled while Granger's face turned into stone.
"This is not a trial about who is dark and light. Petar Karkaroff aided and abetted the escape of a known dangerous man that, might you remember, was sentenced to life yesterday. Those remain the facts, regardless of my injuries or not."
The counselor raised a coaxing eyebrow. Blaise knew that look of a predator finally sinking its teeth into its prey. "Do you waive the charges of battery, then, Miss Granger? Or do you insinuate that the DMLE will initiate charges for every injury on the job?"
Half the crowd let out a hiss. Theo leaned back in his seat as Lovegood's flighty demeanor took on an angry edge.
Don't look at me, Blaise begged internally.
Granger didn't look, but she squared her shoulders. "I fully emphasize returning to the facts. That is all."
Without waiting to be dismissed, she stepped away from the podium. The Wizengamot called order before the audience could make their displeasure at the counselor's unctuous tactics loud and clear.
Frowning, Lovegood craned her head towards them. "He didn't sound very nice."
"He isn't," Theo grumbled. "Enoch Bramblethorn. Same guy who represented Lucius Malfoy the first time."
The Chief Warlock's gravelly voice announced they would adjourn and need an extra day for deliberation. As the counselor smirked, shuffling his papers together, Petar looked completely at ease.
Blaise steepled his hands, lifting his forefingers to his lips.
For all his misgivings, he suddenly understood the pull to act. If only because the price of standing by was simply—inconceivable.