It was his second time in the Ministry. The first had been to register his business, against his mother's preferred method of doing things under the table and dealing with the consequences later, and that too had been a brief visit to Level Two to sign a flimsy little slip. He'd entered and left with the same sneer.

Level Nine, where the Unspeakables lived, was off limits to visitors. Thankfully, neither him nor Theo cared, and Theo told him to keep his usual level of cheer—that is, none —and no one would think any better. Blaise found it easier to navigate through the dimly lit halls, catching glimpses of flesh-melting experiments and even a prototype of a time-turner, than sneaking off the Hogwarts grounds in third year. Wizards truly had little care for security where it mattered.

The short-notice trip cost even more than the one in July (when he'd run from Granger) because of the upcoming holiday season. Blaise arrived at the international portkey station with a letter in his pocket and bottles of wine, not on a godforesaken apology tour as Di Verità had suggested, but an offer to return to a detente.

Theo's office was a box with two chairs. On the far wall was a window charmed to look out at a Tibetan mountain range, and other than that there were few personal touches, except for a poster of a crazed inventor and a photo from graduation on his desk. It included most of their Slytherin class, including rogue Ravenclaws and Slughorn shoving his face in the frame mid-loop. Blaise was standing between Goyle and a seventh-year.

Most of their arms were crossed. None had thought themselves a future was possible, and most were still learning to piece themselves together.

Like he still was.

Theo looked up from his work and nodded awkwardly at the chair across the desk. "Blaise, man. Thanks for coming in."

So awkwardly formal. Blaise set a gift bag on the desk. Theo peered inside, happily confirming it was what he thought it was. The transaction eased the tension.

"So…what brings you here? Not an illegal time turner, I hope," Theo joked weakly.

Theo looked the same as he last saw him—in person, before the floo-call—though his hair was scruffier, and had he lost some weight?

Blaise folded his arms and looked out to the Tibetan mountain.

He felt brittle, like any wrong move would break him.

There was a face he wanted to see, and people he wanted to be around, and his heart was tender and bruised. An injury of his own making, but no one would've known if he stayed there. He could've ignored her letter, left the wards up, blocked the floo.

But he was so, so tired of it all.

So he'd begun with Theo, and would work backwards from there.

Theo appeared to notice that this type of silence wasn't Blaise's usual fare of taciturnity. It was something else. Sorrowful. There needed to be a death of sorts before Blaise could replace it with something else; so Theo popped open the bottle and pulled out a bright neon—was that supposed to be a water bottle?—from under his desk.

"Don't you have a bureaucratic job to attend to?"

"No one will know." Theo sipped the wine out of his sippy cup.

With great effort, Blaise ignored his horror at the desecration of the merlot. The mountainous illusion outside the window transformed into sweeping rivers through valleys in what he guessed was Pakistan. The world was so big and full of beautiful things.

"I was tired."

At first, Theo fiddled with his cup at Blaise's confession. Then his hands scrambled to fidget with unidentifiable and suspicious-looking objects, poke at a notepad half-covered in scribbles. He finally bounced his knees up and down.

Blaise exhaled softly. "Thanks, Theo."

"For?"

He shrugged.

A long moment passed before a twitchy smile crinkled Theo's eyes. "I'm sworn to secrecy about the lad's night, sorry. You won't get anything from me."

Theo would and he did, helped along by his sippy cup's contents. He eased into a rapid-fire set of questions about how Blaise's harvest season went before turning to the extravagant party he'd hosted at a club fittingly named The Stag: huge self-refilling goblets that Goyle got his head stuck in, illusionists and dueling exhibitions, which would explain the quaffle-sized open wound on Pucey's arm if Blaise saw him later, and a room they willingly got themselves locked inside and had to escape through completing a series of magical games on brooms. There was potion roulette with a set of illegally-acquired substances ranging from mild euphoria drops to actual lust potions—someone caught a picture of Warrington and Lucian Bole licking each other's throats, which Warrington was on a rampage to find and destroy—and a game of Wand-ering Hands with the waitresses, where their enchanted toy wands poked and prodded the guests and Draco had to retrieve them without getting too distracted by the huge bosoms.

Blaise laughed at least twice and snorted so loudly he started coughing. Theo started laughing harder until they turned into hacking coughs, tears in his eyes, as he described one of Draco's friends from France finding a pair of knickers tucked in a candelabra and mistaking them for a handkerchief.

When it was a choice, company was growing on him.

The end of lunch hour came and went, and Theo's very busy work for this promotion was utterly ignored. At about half past one, as Theo explained how some hooker at the bachelor night fit Vaisey's broomstick up her...

Blaise caught the scent of her perfume before a sequence of raps echoed.

Theo cleared his throat and awkwardly patted the piles of parchment laying about.

"Come in."

"Apologies, Theo, the—uh," she stumbled, "request you sent for access to the artifacts room is missing a few details."

Theo's eyes widened comically, sweeping from Blaise to the woman behind him.

After a cumbrous pause, the feminine voice added, "This was a free hour according to your calendar. I can come back?"

Theo looked down at his desk. A notepad with scribbled out dates peeked out from under the pile of trinkets. "Huh. It is."

Blaise slid his chair back and stood.

Seeing her face was like bathing in the sunroom after a day of work.

He had inhaled a breath the moment she left and now, finally, he could breathe.

She looked mostly the same. The same standard DMLE on the outside, but the robes were not clasped all the way down. They hung open, revealing a sliver of a burgundy blouse and a brown pencil skirt. Her hair was salvageable, probably from a slower day of work. The cut on her lip from The Daily Prophet picture was gone, and looked to be the epitome of health.

Vibrant brown orbs widened as she took him in as he did her.

"Zabini," Granger greeted, but she stole a glance to Theo. "You know he can't be here."

That was an endearing welcome. Somewhere in his chest, Blaise's heart crumpled and died.

"I wasn't stopped," he offered.

Granger blinked twice at him, once while her brown eyes were trained on his face, another at his arms. The lighting in Theo's office was dismal, but he knew what a flush on her face looked like.

Her cheek dimpled. "Their security is lax, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Did you just arrive in London?"

"Yesterday."

"Ah."

A prolonged pause.

"How is work?" he asked.

"It could be…better."

"Ah."

Upon a second look, her hair was lifted out of her face, the way he'd done it for her, twice. She'd worked out the spell backwards. Pride bloomed in his chest.

"I saw the Karkaroff news."

"Oh?"

"Strangely, the news owls know where Tuscany is."

"Yes. Well. I'm not at liberty to say. Ongoing trial."

"But his testicle…"

"Won't be returning, no."

"Hm."

Another pause.

"Well," she started, voice pitching higher. "Zabini, Theo." She nodded to them both and swept out of the office, those papers she'd brought for Theo still in hand.

"Hermione, the request—" called Theo.

Granger was already gone.

Hold on.

Theo.

Hermione.

If Theo had been talking about—was referring to—Granger, Blaise was going to stab him and then himself. Twice.

"Do you think she's off to report to HR?" asked Theo, sounding befuddled as he was.

It couldn't be. Expression tightening, Blaise shook his head.


"I see you're working on being less arsey to everyone." Theo placed his chin on the back of his hand, the other toying with a straw.

Lunch with Theo had turned into a spend-the-day with Theo, who abandoned all pretenses of concern about his very important work and possible promotion, and instead took Blaise on a tour of the latest coffee shop in Diagon Alley that had everyone and their mother's raving.

The coffee sucked. Blaise had almost forgotten what the English thought were acceptable sources of caffeine.

"Hm?"

"Your conversation with Hermione. Very professional. We might make a bureaucrat out of you yet."

Blaise let out a soft chuckle, ignoring the pain at Theo's use of Granger's first name. "She was stationed in Tuscany, but you knew that."

The corners of Theo's eyes wrinkled. "It was that bad with Pansy?"

"Again, I'm sure you've heard all the details."

Sighing, Theo ran his hand through his hair. "We didn't—Draco wasn't giving us much to go off of, he turns blue every time the topic comes up. We got him drunk enough to mention Granger, so Pansy made some assumptions there. And with the incident with Warrington..."

Blaise forced another swallow of the disgusting muddy water Theo thought was coffee. "It's as you said. I don't use that word anymore."

"That's good—er…so…" Theo fidgeted.

"What?"

Theo combed his hair with his fingers again. Some strands were left sticking up in their wake, and it gave him the effect of competing with a porcupine in spiky glory. "That girl I mentioned. I was thinking…" for what, all of two hours? "I can't believe I'm debating introducing her to you first—yes, you have to admit you're high on the list of people to worry about—but maybe it'll help me get an idea of how to break it to everyone else?"

For a single moment, Blaise felt like he was hallucinating. He put his cup down. Gently. And slid his hands over the menu. Did this cafe serve beer? Or vodka?

"Does Draco's approval make a difference?" There was no point in mincing words. It was Draco's acceptance that used to matter, for all of them. It always had.

"It'll make my life easier."

Certainly. But did it make a difference ? As in, did it damage a friendship so thoroughly it could not be recovered? Blaise was no expert in relationships, but he assumed they were fixable, if one met in the middle.

That was the whole point, wasn't it?

He wasn't sure, given his dearth of experience. But he hoped so.

Theo kept going. "I don't think Draco's objections would stop us, obviously, but she doesn't want that pressure on her. That I give up everything for her, I mean." Fondness softened his pinched expression. "She's incredibly empathetic and smart and said she'd hate it if I sacrificed everyone I loved for her. But I'm not the man everyone thought I was anymore, right? So..."

Blaise didn't hear the rest because his stomach swooped up his chest and out of his throat.

Oh, fuck, no.

He was talking about Granger. Hermione.

Who else would spout that kind of ridiculous logic? Smart? Empathetic?

Blaise's vision dotted with black spots. Theo was gentle. Gentler than any of the men in their circles, anyway. The uncomfortable fixation on owls was a problem, but did that matter when he was softer? Theo would be good for Granger. They'd discuss nerdy Ministry projects, read books, and walk to work together like a pair of muggles—he'd have to tell Theo about her addiction to a local brand of Italian biscuits that couldn't be found anywhere else, and her hopes to free house-elves. Or Theo would know that already, wouldn't he, having worked with her?

"Blaise? The coffee's good, isn't it?"

Blaise's tongue was thick with poison. Sod off, he wanted to say, but he breathed through his nose and looked askance.

He was Blaise Zabini.

Unaffected.

He twisted and cracked his neck.

"You said you're here for a week?" Theo kept speaking. "Luna doesn't get back until Friday. Could you make Saturday work?"

Everything screeched to a stop.

"Luna," he repeated.

"Yeah. Lovegood."

A tiny speck of relief rose in Blaise's chest. "Luna Lovegood."

Theo nodded, waiting for Blaise's assessment. Blaise's single thought was somewhere in the realm of nightmare fodder and gratitude to Salazar himself.

He picked up his coffee and willingly downed the rest of it.

"Alright."

Theo choked. "A-alright?"

"You look like you've seen a boggart."

Blaise smiled. "You looked like you were going to strangle me with my tie a minute ago."

He caught his reflection in the glass. His smile, indeed, was too smooth to be mistaken for sincerity. He rectified it immediately. Ah, Luna, how wonderful. And she was Granger's friend, so it made logical sense, really, for Theo and Granger to be on a first-name basis, and to refuse the company of bad-word users. A Ravenclaw, so she was smart, and a bit loony and prone to fits of bravery, so empathetic.

Yes. Perfect sense.


Blaise spent most of the next few days meeting business partners and running errands for his mother. The initial plan had been to see Theo, then Pansy, and then Draco at the end of the week, but rest of the plans, as of yet, were undeveloped. The initial letter to Theo about lunch had been a careful decision on his part, one that unfolded spectacularly overall, but the other two were reticent and prone to histrionics, unlikely to forgive quickly.

Theo was also unlikely to forgive quickly, but Blaise's easy acquiescence to his request was weighing in his favor. And once he charmed Luna, he didn't think Theo would renege.

For Pansy, Theo suggested sending a letter to propose meeting at Nott Manor later that week for dinner. Blaise saw the benefit in the neutral, private ground. Theo's presence would soften whatever edge Draco had on her, he hoped.

Draco, he'd figure out once he wrung details out of Pansy. He didn't truly believe Draco hadn't given her at least a hint.

As for Granger…she was the final piece that set him in motion, but he could not figure out where she placed in all of this. As he rebuilt the status quo, he wondered: how was she to fit in his life? If she wanted that?

What did he want from her?

Thoughts of her were becoming all consuming. It was unhealthy. He had needed to come here, in part, to dispel of them.

Despite the relatively short distance, England was worlds apart from Italy. In Italy, she'd been alone. Here, she had everything. He had hoped seeing her where she should be—her home— would alleviate the restlessness. It would mitigate the hopes that had begun to starve him from day to night and night to day.

He itched to see her. Touch her again. Just—because she was a friend. He could ask Theo to schedule a meeting and coincidentally be present, or investigate the places she frequented after work.

There were other options too. For example, bribing her boss. Creating a bullshite excuse in his home to require her immediate return. Any of his friends wouldn't hesitate to pursue any of these options, but Blaise was above investing time into endeavors that might not yield results anyway.

Because she might not want it.

Want him.

His migratory thoughts led him from the business meeting he finished that day at the upscale Hotel Arcadia, straight into Granger.

His pulse skipped seeing a head of bushy hair.

As recognition flitted over her face, her hand stilled over the jar of floo powder in the lobby.

"Oh, Zabini." Granger smiled. Robes unbuttoned again, a maroon blouse and black fitted trousers. Practical heels.

"Granger. Odd place for work."

She angled towards him, her small smile turning wry. "Was just deposed by his son's legal counsel."

Igor Karkaroff's son, he connected. "What was it like working there?"

As she shifted her bags around, he noticed her hand had returned to her side.

"A severe shortage of sweets, and if I was harmed in a duel with furniture, I'd be left for the dead."

"We need to work on that humor of yours."

Their lingering near the floo disturbed others waiting for their turn. Guests in the lobby were beginning to turn heads. Blaise heard one whisper Granger's name in awe.

Granger must have heard it too because she scratched her cheek, angling to leave. "It was good to see you, Za—"

He'd barely processed her saying it was good to see him when a young girl on bimbled towards her. She was surrounded by her gaggle of friends. "You're Hermione Granger! Is it true, you're dating Viktor Krum?"

Granger startled. Blaise stared down at the offending intruder, glad to see her shrink under his glare.

"Er—don't believe the papers," Granger retorted. "Where are your parents?"

The group giggled. A few more onlookers hovered closer.

"I think he's a total meathead," piped another girl.

"At least he's cooler than Weasley!" said an adolescent boy.

Granger turned puce, swiveling to face the floo. She shoved her hand into the jar with more force than necessary.

The children, and now their parents, had joined the impromptu soirée.

"Is that Harmony Danger?" said a woman.

"She's dating Viktor Krum," replied a midget who couldn't be older than eight.

"Delightful! How heartbroken Mister Roonal Wazlib must be though…"

"He's not heartbroken!" Granger exclaimed. Her hair began to crackle and fall apart. "And it's none of your business!" The admonishment came out as a half-snarl. The midget and the girl who first approached her began to go glassy-eyed, the ever prescient sign of crying.

Floo powder fell between her fingers and sprinkled the floor.

After the war, Blaise had moments like these. Maybe not in size nor content, but public opining on matters they had no idea about. The week his name was listed in the ongoing war trials, some had gone out of the way to secure a picture of him and then crop up at the oddest times to smite him: at bookstores, public alleys, and once in the loo at the Ministry. He'd received at least two howlers, doubling when the Ministry refused his request to block his mail.

'Hermione Granger, bully' he imagined the cruel Daily Prophet reporters writing if they caught wind of this.

Blaise stepped around Granger and ducked into the floo, raising a brow at Granger.

She lowered her hand, bottom lip wobbling, and joined him. The good patrons of Hotel Arcadia were left gawking as he announced the first place that came to mind that Granger could come with him to.

The toothless bartender, Tom, aging well into his third century cackled at their arrival while the other patrons of the Leaky Cauldron roused from their day drinking to blink wearily.

Right. She'd be heckled here within five minutes. There wasn't a single place in Wizarding Britain that didn't know Hermione Granger, and unfortunately her hair and the general swotttiness emanating from her were too visually distinct. He tried to formulate another plan; his mother's estate? No, preposterous and overstepping by a kilometer. That overpriced posh Indian restaurant Pansy had once told him about near Carkitt Market?

Granger's brain worked faster than his. She was already opening a door he rarely acknowledged on the even rarer occasions he stepped foot in this establishment at all.

She shot him an expectant glance over her shoulder.

He bit his tongue. On the plus side, the irritable brats had unwittingly created an opportunity to meander around with Granger. Even discuss a question or two.

Even if it meant muggle London.

He followed.

It was nothing like muggle Tuscany. Immediately, a biting cold hit his face and hands. He couldn't remember winter in wizarding Britain ever being this frozen. Despite that, hordes of muggles walked about. Then he processed the noises and obnoxious smells, the giant metal contraptions that he assumed were muggle buses skidding across wide walking paths. Granger immediately stalked towards them.

"Granger!"

"The light's red."

He didn't let go of her arm until he was sure Granger wouldn't meet a sordid end under one of those things. And indeed, some pole had a glaring red ambiance to it. Droves of people walked past the beastly contraptions, unconcerned.

Granger darted forward. Blaise stuffed his hands in his pockets and trailed a pace behind.

She kept going. Taking a right, then a left, deeper into the turmoil. At last the lights and buses were far behind them; now they seemed to be in a market square. People sat outside, chatting and eating not altogether awful looking food, bundled up to their chins in thick scarves.

Granger slowed, the momentum in needing to escape apparently having given way into realizing she was directionless.

"They were just kids," he said to her back when she came to full stop.

She whisked around. Her face was not puce anymore, but a gentle pink lingered.

"So? Don't they have manners—haven't their parents told them it's rude to be nosey?" She held her arms out, talking wildly. "It's been months! Don't people have better things to care about?"

"They don't."

"That's not—" she let out a strangled noise and he could've sworn she stomped her foot.

"Granger," he eyed her carefully. They were in the middle of the square, forcing people to sidestep around what probably looked like a spat. One couple even glared and multiple women stared pitifully at Granger.

Blaise led her to an unassuming bench in a corner that looked clean enough for her to sit on, though he didn't join her.

"We were just kids," she rambled as she sat. "Honestly, I can't go anywhere or do anything because of Romilda Vane—should've let Harry ask to suspend her in sixth year…"

"What?"

"Nothing." Granger slumped further, her bag hitting the ground.

It obviously wasn't nothing. It could be the lingering irritation from dealing with a neutering procedure during combat. Merlin knows what Karkaroff's solicitors were putting her through, and he'd read somewhere that Zacarias Smith was representing Granger. Couldn't she afford better? He'd have to see if any of his mother's solicitors would be willing to represent her. They would. He'd make sure of it.

Rubbing his brow, he crouched to pick up her bag.

She spoke again after he straightened.

"I'd like to be known for something other than my failure of a personal life. Is that selfish?"

"You're asking me if something is selfish."

"You're right," she muttered. "It must seem ridiculous."

"Have you thought whether it's simply a matter of everything paling to what few ever accomplish in a century?"

"…is that a compliment?"

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I told you to change departments. I'm not in the habit of telling people twice."

"Thank you for your advice. I'll be sure to pay in galleons next time."

As the wind nipped their faces, their bickering simmered into a shared gravity.

Blaise lowered himself to the space next to her. The metal was sharp and cold. Out of reflex he reached for his wand to cast a warming spell, but it was Granger sliding next to him, knees hardly touching, that stopped him, and not the almost breach of the Statute of Secrecy.

He warmed in her warmth. They were alone, surrounded by hordes of the muggles, and he felt less infected by the colorless, magic-less world when sitting with their world's War Heroine.

"I can't do everything. I can't be everything."

"No one can. There's a human limit to ambitions, you see."

She looked out to the men and women laughing about despite the cutting cold.

"Incidentally, I'm learning that through Ron."

"Good to know Weasley understands his limits," he drawled.

She spared him a chastising glare before her shoulders tensed. He saw the calculations in her eyes, the hesitation keeping her mouth parted but unable to form the words just yet.

Tell me, he could demand. Squeeze her for every little detail that could occupy him when he inevitably returned to his lonely villa.

He swiped at invisible lint on his trousers. "I prefer beer to wine."

She listened in rapt curiosity.

"I only ever drink beer with my mother or my…friends," he continued, ignoring the instinctual distrust alarming in his brain and her small eye-roll. "But I would be shite at making beer, Tuscany has great weather, and we already had property there."

"The calculus is not always so simple."

"No, but you're forgetting the key variable, which is that I wanted to be there. That's where my father grew up."

"Zabini," she took his last name with a touch of awe, "I'm sorry for what I said about your—erm, wallowing. The portraits…"

He frowned, looking down at his unfurled hands. "Completely useless, but probably correct in hindsight."

He wouldn't mistake the sound that left her mouth a giggle, but it was a sliver of amusement.

Her left knee knocked into his right. On accident, of course.

Granger swallowed.

"He wanted more from me than I could give him. He said I was his everything, and I panicked. I was going to be the mother of his kids. A family. A wife, a friend, a companion, a career woman, an at home mom, all at once. I'm...too broken and tired to be all of that anymore. Maybe before the war. Definitely not now. I was hardly a daughter—" She broke off. Small tears welled in the corners of her eyes, and she was blinking furiously to keep them at bay.

"You aren't supposed to do all of that alone, Granger. They're—"

A thousand needles constricted his throat.

This yearning, he finally had an answer for it. In the middle of fucking muggle London, sitting on a frozen bench and half his buttocks lost to frostbite, hoping Granger wouldn't cry.

What did he want from her? Nothing, actually.

What he wanted with her, however, was everything she could give.

She was so infuriatingly lovely, even when sniffling to keep her nose from turning red and little bits of black makeup smudging under her eyes.

His hands curled into loose fists atop his thighs.

"Zabini?"

"They're things you do together," he finished lamely.

He couldn't recognize his voice. Outwardly, he must sound so bored and apathetic. If only she knew his insides.

He just had to have this entire revelation now and no where to put all of it. What was he supposed to do with this knowledge? Follow Malina's advice and put an end to it by marrying her and then finding reasons to hate her in unholy matrimony? Devolve into a sappy moron like Draco?

What was Blaise Zabini supposed to do when he realized he could survive alone, but not if this woman didn't exist in the same world he did, happy and healthy?

Granger appeared to sense the sudden shift in the air between them but wouldn't—and would never, if he had say in it—know why.

Their knees were too close. Their hands, hers resting in her lap and his over his knees, were going to hover dangerously close if they stayed like this.

"Would you like to take a walk?" he asked finally.

She pondered. It was still early in the afternoon, and she, by her own admission, was overworked. She wouldn't shirk work for this, would she?

She could and she did, as signaled by the her tilting her head in agreement.

It was a show of a thing to do together. And he let her be, as she pleased, even when she walked headlong into a bookstore, left with four tomes, and he found himself holding them all because she couldn't very well stuff them into her bag here. They were silent the entire way, except for her pointing out interesting things she thought he didn't know, and he'd make little deriding scoffs to indicate that he did, even though she was correct. The red-light pole thing could actually change colours, she explained, due to electricity and bulbs, and the large boards that provided some color in this grey world were called billboards, calling the public to engage in a great number of atrocious products like skimpy clothes and something called credit cards.

It was closer to three o'clock when they turned to return to Charing Cross Road. She'd only hesitated once the entire way, stopping a random muggle to ask for directions, but was otherwise at ease. Here, like in Tuscany, she was just another wanderer. A nameless face in swarm.

"Did you grow up here?"

She shook her head. "In the suburbs. Northwest London. My father would bring me here on the weekends, sometimes, to watch a movie." Notably, she didn't explain what a movie was.

"Ah."

They stopped at the unsuspecting entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. He handed her the books and returned his hands to his pockets. She shifted her bags and books and robes this way and that way, swallowed by all the things she carried.

A serendipitous outing, but there were no more reasons to linger.

"Good luck with the trial," he said in lieu of a goodbye.

She nodded. "Thank you. It should be quick, mostly a formality. Bulgaria's not eager to leave them free either."

Another pause.

"Thank you for today." She was babbling again. Unbidden, the corners of his eyes crinkled.

"Yes, of course."

Of course, she seemed to mouth to herself. She should know by now she meant something in his eyes, if not the extent of it. He spent an afternoon gallivanting around muggle London just so normal color would return to her face.

She stepped through the crooked door first. It was prescient, really, of the nature of their relationship.

When he entered a few minutes later, Tom was staring at the door, as though he'd been waiting for him. The crooked teeth reminded him of Flint.

"That laddie looked happier." Tom let out a hulking laugh.

Blaise looked at his shoes, deep in thought, and mentally reshuffled the items he'd had on his to-do list for another day. Today, he needed to think and recover.


"If Pansy and your cousin get married, would that make her a Zabini heiress?"

Blaise groaned. "Estio is my second cousin twice-removed."

"Ah, the joys of inbreeding," said Theo, and Blaise was ninety percent sure he wasn't joking.

The Nott manor had changed significantly since he last came, and most of it owed to larger windows. His owlry had doubled in size and the decor hooted with delight. There were tasteful sprinkles of colors other than the previous black and grey color scheme, and Nott Senior's precious grand piano had been shattered and replaced with a life-sized statue of a black horse-looking animal with wings.

"A thestral," Theo explained.

This, notably, was also not explained further.

As the hour wore on and they waited for Pansy's arrival, Blaise noticed Theo grow more twitchy. He turned from stabbing at the salad to picking out leaves with his fingers, and lifting his legs to sit in a crouching position on his chair. He wondered if these new habits were picked up from Lovegood or if they'd always been there and he'd been too careless to notice.

A woosh sounded from the parlor.

"I'll get them," announced Theo.

Blaise set down his fork. Them.

Moronic Slytherins. He was right to think so, when Pansy poked her head into the dining room, followed by another pair of footsteps.

Draco.

Theo looked at Blaise, only half sheepish.

Blaise revisited his stabbing fantasy.

"Well, isn't this lovely," said Pansy. "I was promised a delicious meal. Where's your elf? Hasn't the soup been served yet?"

Blaise and Draco caught each other's eyes. Draco had rounded out a bit, no doubt courtesy of Astoria's good breeding and care, and his skin was a shade above white parchment. Otherwise he was the same, ridiculous blond that Blaise was not in the mood to address and entirely unprepared to do so.

"Blaise," Draco said stiffly.

The fractional tilt of his head was all Blaise was willing to offer.

The dinner progressed in painful procession. Pansy and Theo chatted about every inane item of news under the sun, even moving on to some trite article in Transfiguration Today, which neither would never touch with a broomstick on the best of days.

Blaise took enough sips of soup to be seen as adequately mannered. Theo topped off their glasses with the bottle Blaise brought at least two hours earlier than appropriate. Draco glared at his bowl, as if he'd been dragged along unwillingly and not because he'd conspired with the others like an idiot prat.

"I heard you have a girlfriend," Pansy said to Theo near the end of the third course, which was composed of three shellfish and garlic puree.

Theo startled. "How'd you know?"

Blaise watched Draco's glare twist into a scoff.

Tapping her manicured nails on the table, Pansy looked skyward in frustration. "Druella said she saw you walking with a female. Unless that female was me or some poor tart from the Ministry…you're not entirely terrible to look at, you know. Give yourself some credit."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. But no, you wouldn't know her."

"Give me a few days."

Theo crossed his arms, face pink. Pansy raised a cajoling eyebrow.

Draco tried to spoon the cooling soup into his mouth and gave up halfway. He tried to bite into the shellfish instead but forgot to take off the tail.

The resulting crunch echoing through the dining hall. Everyone looked at him.

"Draco," drawled Pansy, "Stop trying to martyr the food with your eyes. It's a great deal better than the slop Blaise fed me."

"Theo's not the only one hiding something," Draco cut in, speaking for the first time since his entrance.

"Hiding what?" asked Theo.

Draco turned his nose at Pansy, Pansy looked at Blaise, and Blaise set the shellfish aside as the fourth course popped into existence: a delightful array of pieces of steak arranged around a thick sauce. Theo just frowned.

Blaise had experienced a number of moments like these where the prescient feeling of utter shit was about to unfold would crawl up his spine. For example, when a bubblegum pink monstrosity announced herself as the Defense Against Dark Arts professor, or when Adrian Pucey ran into the common room crying about Dumbledore's corpse on the lawn. Now, he thought back to the night he wrote to Theo about his plan to visit London, and wondered what had possessed himself to make such a terrible mistake.

Then he recalled sticky tears and falling asleep in the cellar, curled around letters and newspaper clippings, and braced himself.

He would not be a coward, not today. Not after what he saw of Granger.

"Why don't you ask him?" asked Draco.

"Ask who what?"

Pansy scowled. "Blaise, Theo. I thought you were smart."

"Theo's in love, and love makes people slow," said Draco. "No one's spared, evidently." This, he said with his eyes slanted towards Blaise.

Blaise slid out of his seat and stood up. "A word, Draco."

"A word," Draco mocked. "Kicks me out of his home for asking a question and now asks for a word."

"You insulted my mother," Blaise replied coolly. Pansy watched, rapt with attention, though Theo had the heart to look contrite.

Draco stood too. The unfinished soup splattered bits of tomato over his crisp shirt, but the man only ever wore funeral clothes, so despite Pansy's gasp, Draco remained unruffled.

Other than the growing flush on his face.

"Was that it, or the other woman I insulted?"

"Ohh," said Theo, hands steepling.

"You call that insulting?" Blaise countered.

"I don't know what she told you, but don't think for one second I enjoyed—that I enjoyed watching her—" Draco choked over his words. "I've had to make my peace."

"What about her peace? She still has the scar."

Draco's hands slammed on the table. More soup decorated the table. "Why do you care?!"

Blaise's voice ricocheted up an octave. "Why don't you?!"

"Of course I fucking care!" Draco exhaled deeply, hands curling into fists at his side. "My objection isn't...it isn't her." He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the perfectly set combover. "If you would just let me finish—"

"I don't think I would like to, actually." Blaise threw down the napkin and angled towards the archway. It was all a mistake. Draco wasn't ready for this conversation, and Blaise had miscalculated. There was a new realization afoot, and it would be months before this new Granger-shaped problem could be solved.

"I was there," he heard Draco mumble.

Blaise stopped with one foot in the hall.

"I watched it happen. She kept crying and looking at me for help."

Blaise refused to look at Draco, but his confession was thin and weary. Both were new to the confessions that bruised one's heart.

"Oh, Salazar's balls," Pansy cursed. The prickly brunette had always been too quick for his liking.

"I couldn't do anything even if I wanted to. He—he'd kill me. My father, my mother—"

"Did you tell her this?"

"I—"

"Have you told her this?" Blaise shouted, swiveling on him. "Are you even sorry?"

"Does it matter? What I want to know is, what is Granger to you?"

"Your apology is nothing if you're not sorry."

Clasped hands lifted to his mouth, Theo slid down his seat until most of his torso was hidden. Pansy jumped from her own seat and stabbed a finger at him.

"I knew it," she cried. "I knew it! The weird snacks in your pantry, building a library—"

Of course Pansy had snooped around. He thought he'd seen signs of the tapestry covering the construction being tampered with, but had attributed it to the contractors.

Draco paled to colors Blaise didn't know existed. "You're building a library?"

"Ohh," repeated Theo.

Blaise flinched.

It was all too much, too raw, and too new.

"What she is or isn't doesn't matter. If you think of me at all as your friend, then you'd care half as much as I do about you and the morons you keep around."

"You care?" Draco repeated, disbelief rife in his voice. "The great Blaise Zabini cares? He disappears for half the year and waltzes in expecting us to fall to our knees?"

He refused to look down at his shoes. "I do. I—should have."

A hush fell over the room.

"Gods, you morons," spat Pansy.

The silence grew suffocating, and Draco's shock was unbearable to see.

The floo did not take him back to the Zabini home fast enough that night.