A/N: *Edited 03/09/18*

Chapter 11: Expecto Patronum

"You can't be serious!" Ginny exclaimed when she saw where Blaise had led them, the Tuesday they had agreed to meet.

He sent her a smug smile. "Oh, but I am. It's much quicker this way."

"Yeah, and a lot dirtier," she muttered under her breath, which he apparently caught as he gave a low chuckle (probably finding an innuendo in that somewhere, the perv) and gestured down the black hole under the momentarily petrified Whomping Willow, throwing out his hand in mock-courtesy.

"Ladies first."

He received a searing scowl but she complied. Ginny Weasley was never one to back down from a challenge and a little dirt didn't throw her off, after all. Still, a little warning ahead would have been nice, she scoffed inwardly, looking down her new sweater, but what could you expect from a former Slytherin?

Once down the narrow hole, she dusted off the dirt the best she could (though the task seemed utterly futile) and took a quick look around the cave-like surroundings, immediately thinking of Harry, Ron and Hermione's third year going down here ... Of Lupin's hiding place when in transformation. She shuddered in the dank cold.

Blaise followed behind her only seconds later.

"This way," he said, his already lit wand guiding them into the clammy darkness, leading to a wider stretch that gave away the visibly human-made and frequented path leading to Hogsmeade. She had never thought of taking this way before, but, apparently, others had and so had Blaise, it seemed. It came as somewhat a surprise since she'd never taken him for a person to place his aristocratic genes anywhere near such a dirty, humid place just for a short-cut, but, on the other hand, he was a Slytherin and probably had been dragged along Draco's gang once or twice on some of their shady affairs.

Bending to look into the blackness of the opening, Blaise mumbled something under his breath. "There should be some torches here – ah!"

A wordless swipe from his wand lighted a torch on the one side of cave-like wall and the magic quickly spiraled onwards, igniting the next one a couple of meters away and so on, throwing a sparse light on the nearest surroundings of each torch, deepening the view of the tunnel.

"It should cut the walk to Hogsmeade about twenty minutes short, give or take, but even less to the Shrieking Shack because it will lead us right to it," he stated matter-of-factly, his head directed towards the tunnel.

She merely nodded and they started off in unison.

The crooked tunnel stretched and narrowed like the Parisian catacombs, the low, uneven archways making their necks give the necessary duck every now and then (well, mostly Blaise, with his tall form), while the darkness and dankness got heavier, the atmosphere becoming close to claustrophobic. It didn't help that their walk was done in utter silence. Ginny stumbled every now and then over a root or a rock in the sparsely lighted dark, walking shoulder to shoulder with Blaise – even bumping into him a couple of times in the cramped, narrowed space. After about ten minutes of slightly rugged walk, she had no idea how she must look, feeling as if at least half a bucket of dirt, roots and spiders clung to her skin, hair and clothes.

She shot a look at Blaise and grumbled. Even in the darkness, his dark skin and attire gave nothing away, looking as refined and polished as ever. Yet, his somewhat hunched body in the low tunnel made him seem … well, not like him. Less intimidating. And there was something about his face, even from this angle. A haunted, numb look she had only seen in momentary flashes before.

"You do know they still haven't caught all of the Dementors yet, right?" he suddenly said in a somber tone.

"What?!" she squeaked, looking up at him wide-eyed, their surroundings only adding to her alarm. Of all times and places he had to say a thing like that – here!?

"Yeah," he continued darkly, not meeting her gaze as an involuntary tremor ran down his neck. "They say the ones not caught still roam the places of Dark Magic; where … You-Know-Who spent most of his 'cozy-time'. Rumor has it one or two have been spotted in Transylvania. Though, it's just rumors." Even though Draco had confirmed sightings in Bulgaria, but he didn't want to tell her that.

Ginny gawked at the sculpted profile of the former Slytherin walking beside her, almost hoping to see that he was pulling her leg or something, but his solemn face, lighted only by the seldom torch in the distant, filled her with dread of his obvious truthfulness.

Dementors. She gulped. But how? Hadn't the Ministry and the Aurors been out there? Ron and Harry must know of this. They would be the first ones to go out in search of them, she was sure of it!

… Wasn't she?

"Of course, they haven't caught all of the Death Eaters yet, either," Blaise stated in a ambiguous tone as he kicked a random stone along the path.

Ginny nodded glumly. "Yeah, I've heard." Reading about sporadic sightings of former, less known Death Eaters and Voldemort sympathizers in Eastern Europe, South Africa and South America in the Prophet had been enough to chill her blood during the hot summer holidays.

"I don't know why it comes as such a surprise to people," he continued with a hard, bitter edge to his voice, as if speaking more to himself than to her. "It is always like that right after a war; not all sunshine and fucking flowers just because it has officially ended. There is always going to be an uncomfortable aftermath, always some who manage to escape the noose, always some who wants revenge or profiteers from the chaos. Even the supposedly 'good guys'. No one comes out 'the hero' in war. Nothing is black and white. Just look at the second Muggle war; the Nazis that managed to flee to South Africa, even with help of the Americans, and live like parasites for decades before they were caught. The Russians' continued run of the concentration camps, killing thousands, mostly kids and old people, simply because they felt they had the right. The self-justified, public punishments of people who had been too weak, too scared to resist the Nazis. People who simply tried to survive the war."

The silence left in the wake of Blaise's impassioned speech was thicker than the grave, interrupted only by the soft flicker of the lit torches and muffled sounds of their footsteps on the soft ground.

Ginny dared a glance at the wizard beside her.

She couldn't recall she had ever heard him say this much before, and she was once again stunned by the scope of his intelligence and obvious references to a world she thought he despised. More so by the genuine emotion caught in his throat. The obvious implication to his own situation and so many others like him who had been too scared to fight Voldemort, too weak to risk their loved ones if they hadn't joined. Most people believed Death Eaters to be as bat-shit crazy as Bellatrix, as bloodthirsty as Greyback, as sadistic as the Carrows or as delusional as the Malfoys. It was so easy to condemn everyone else alongside the closest and most known followers of Voldemort, despite most of the lesser known wizard families had been threatened into coercion and submission and hardly could be called Death Eaters. The articles relaying this sensitive subject had steadily been popping up in the wizarding newspapers every now and then - despite immediate outrage and protests against such a notion. It was still too soon to publicly sympathize or pardon anyone who had been connected to the wrong side. Those who suggested the former were often the most brassy, truth-seeking (and infamous) of journalists, and those who held the latter sympathies were often people connected to the accused, having to witness their shunning and its consequences on a daily basis.

Most people just wanted the black and white justice that so often got caught up in … feelings. There was so much anger. Understandably so.

Personally and morally, Ginny was at a loss. Having been in the middle of the storm, facing the worst of wizarding criminals and human beings, and in the question of survival of herself, her family and friends, she had been forced to separate friends from foes. The heroes from the villains. Now, trying to function in the uncomfortable, chaotic aftermath of war - as Blaise so bitterly, sarcastically, yet accurately put it – she, like so many else who had been on the 'good side', was faced with a much more intricate truth of the past and the present. During Voldemort's rise, simply knowing who was good and who was bad was enough. Now, after his fall, it didn't matter anymore. No one got off scot-free or unscathed from their responsibilities and actions, no matter your side in the war.

Yet, they had just been kids caught in a maelstrom. The way war ripped away innocence was indescribable. It had carved deep, permanent scars in all of them and she never wished for her own, future children to one day experience the same. It could all so easily happen again if they weren't careful not to let their rage and hatred against those who'd wronged them fester and grow into something they couldn't control. Yes, pardon for those atrocities seemed too easy, too inappropriate at the moment but the 'eye for an eye'-rhetoric seemed the most barbaric of solutions. Once they went down that road everything they'd fought for in the war would be lost. And who would they be then?

Realizing how cold and numb her fingers had become in the frosty underground dankness, she rubbed them together, trying to chafe some warmth into them. Blaise still hadn't looked at her, staring straight ahead, but seemed to sense her cold discomfort in the stillness of the tunnels.

"Almost there," he simply said.

His voice brought her mind back to the present and she looked up at his face as if seeing it in a new sort of light.

It showed both defeat and determination, wear and youth in a rare mix for such a young, vital man. His height and bearing gave off an obvious, aristocratic upbringing with a streak of arrogance, but presently and most recently, his broad shoulders had seemed slightly hunched, his lean muscles tense, the aura of arrogance turned into defensive bitterness, his face haunted by the things he had seen during the war that she couldn't even imagine. The mirror had cracked within; he was decaying and he knew it, yet trying so hard to hold it off, to keep it at bay, just like he had with the destructive forces of Voldemort. There was still fight in him, there always had been it seemed, but the fight was partly built on the acceptance of certain destruction. And he was all alone fighting it.

Ginny blinked, her heart doing an extra skip.

He was so beautiful, so devastatingly beautiful and tragic at the same time that for a moment her heart ached for him - with something more than pity. She didn't know what or why but in that moment she decided she wouldn't be one of those people who immediately shunned all those who had been on the wrong side - 'had' being the operative word - and that Blaise deserved a chance to not be fighting alone anymore. Not in a world that was all for humanity. And Blaise was human, she realized (it felt like a mental slap; as if she hadn't really thought so before). So painstakingly human here in the sparsely lighted, mouldy darkness of the tunnels, walking side by side with her; she who was painted more as a 'war hero' than a human herself. She wasn't invulnerable either. She couldn't carry the whole world on her shoulders anymore than he could, though it felt like that sometimes.

Sure, he wasn't one to have suffered the worst – neither had she – but that didn't mean he had experienced anything good either. It had been war, after all. No one escaped unharmed. He might have used cruelty towards her and her friends once, taunted with Dark Magic back when they were still all kids and didn't know what would come, but she couldn't imagine him – seeing him in this light; a young soul withered beyond years – as one to have used Dark Magic with volition and glee when Voldemort's power rose. In her mind, she saw him bent and coerced, threatened and tortured, subdued and forced. Whatever he had done to survive she couldn't think of it any longer and hate him without seeing his face as it was now; downtrodden and remorseful, filled with shame and self-hate. The cracked mirror reflecting in his eyes in the light of the torches.

No, she couldn't hate him. She wasn't delusional either. She just … saw him. For the first time.

Strange. As if their relationship so far had built up to this very dawning moment.

"Blaise?" she prompted softly, his name having a whole new taste and meaning rolling off her tongue.

He didn't look at her but kept a concentrated gaze directed ahead of him. "Hm?"

"Do you –," she choked on the words, "do you ever think it.. will get better?"

He froze, whipping his head towards her. "I –," He opened his mouth but nothing else came out as he gave her a confused, scrutinizing look, then drew his lips into a tight line as he seemed to be thinking hard. After some silence, he cast his head down in a defeatist manner. "I don't know, honestly," he sighed and looked at her again, eyes fighting the conflicting emotions but not quite succeeding. "I think it will take time. Those.. wounds won't heal like any other wound. Everything at the moment seems to be a reminder of everything – everything bad - and keeps ripping it up. I –," he faltered momentarily and shifted on his feet in the hollow dark. "We're all trying to heal, aren't we? I mean, I guess we all hope it will get better and maybe it will, but we can't be sure, can we?" He stated the last one as if it was more a rhetoric question than an actual one; the bittersweet, harrowing acceptance emanating from it.

She stared back at him, trying to come up with a retort somehow but failed. She felt pathetic, really. He was right. Her unfailing optimism before the war had suffered a fatal crack with Fred's death and what once had been so second-nature to her was now a sad smile in face of reality. She wasn't sure if she would ever return to her old self, if she would ever truly heal, but she tried – she had to! – even if she began wondering whether she would ever be happy again.

She suddenly had to look away, feeling tears forming in her eyes and not wanting him to see them. However, he too had averted his gaze as if he knew this, the grave expression on his face even more pronounced when she had collected herself and shot him a glance when they started moving again in silence.

Finally, a well-needed distraction came in the shape of the nether structures and pillars of an old house surrounding them; a wobbly staircase by the end of the tunnel leading up to a hole in wooden floor where natural light dimmed thinly down from above.

Blaise crawled up first and she followed. Lifting herself up onto the dirty, dust-covered floorboard of the Shrieking Shack, she couldn't help but notice how he staunchly avoided touching her in any way possible and she didn't know whether to feel disappointed or relieved about that.

Standing up beside him, she felt her battle senses preparing for any potential dangers lurking in the dark, howling corners of the house, their recent conversation of Dementors still fresh in memory. She pulled out her wand to have it ready, just in case. Blaise merely shot a look at her motion and then nodded as he slightly raised his own and gestured towards the staircase beside them. She followed as he stepped towards it, battle stance subtly exuding from his body as well as they silently crept up the creaking, windy stairs to the third floor and came upon the room where Harry had met his godfather in the flesh.

Blaise's deep, velvety voice was the first to break the dust-infused air as they stood by the threshold looking into the room, thrown in an ochre-colored light either from the late afternoon sun or the stained, mottled sheets that covered the decrepit windows.

"Well. It's doesn't seem as spooky as it once did, does it?"

She felt obliged to agree. Having lived through the hell of a war, the once so ominous aura of the Shrieking Shack held little eeriness in her eyes now when faced with it. Rather than haunted it seemed lonely in its desertion, the creaking caused by the wind howling through its shabby, unprotected structure rather than potential Dark beings roaming the place. The layers of undisturbed dust on every horizontal surface and object told that there hadn't been anyone here for a long time; not man, ghost or creature. War had seen to that.

"So," she finally spoke, still glancing around the room. "You think we should just bring them here and tell how it all went down and then call it a day?"

"Hm?" he hummed distractedly then seemed to focus in on her question. "Oh, yes, let's. I've no intention of exploring this house any further," he grimaced as he gave a mild shudder that reminded her of the Blaise she knew, pocketed his wand and stepped into the room with a less tense demeanor.

She mirrored his motions and went to the old, battered chaiselong in the corner of the room. Her brother had sat there once, with a torn-up leg, screaming for his stupid rat that turned out to be none other than the Voldemort sycophant and Gryffindor-traitor Peter Pettigrew. She grimaced and shuddered at the memory of having that bastard of an Animagus as a pet in the family for so long; of occupying the same space as him, blissfully unaware that they had a killer and a Death Eater in their mix.

"How long do you think?"

Now it was her turn to be distracted. "Hm?" She turned towards Blaise who stood by the stained, partly broken windows at the other end of the room, trying to have a peek out through the rotting shutters covering them.

"How long do you think it'll take? This. Telling the story of 'Black's Bad Luck' and all that crap," Blaise gestured mockingly, a pungent note to his voice that spoke Slytherin in every, familiar capacity but which barely hid the obvious weariness in his voice too.

She knew he couldn't care less about Sirius or coming here and telling his story to the First Years, but as with everything else he had done this term he did as requested. She suspected he likely felt it necessary to try and restore some of his dignity and not do anything to jeopardize his reputation or taint it any further by doing everything by the book. Prefect duties, Quidditch introductions, asking for Patronus lessons and now this. Despite the subtle discomfort and unwillingness to partake in such tasks and activities were written in his arrogant, carved features, he actually made somewhat of an effort to be on the good side of things. Everything had been for the sole purpose of trying to become someone other than an Ex-Death Eater; of establishing something of a name again, a life and a future without being a total outcast for the rest of his life.

Once she would have called him an outright ass-kisser; for greasing his way into the good graces of the winning side of the war, thinking he could escape judgment and punishment that easily.

Now she knew better.

He didn't show it – at least, he took great effort in order not to – but he was weary to the bone. He didn't want anyone's hate or pity. He just wanted to be left alone and did so by building a perfect image around himself of the 'ex-villain' ready to atone for his sins. His Slytherin side coming of great use here, of course (she doubted any other House was made for such spin doctoring skills) – maybe of too good use, since he almost did himself in while doing it. All his lazy, bored arrogance and swaggering indifference didn't fool her anymore. The question surrounding regret of one's actions in times of war was not as black-and-white as it appeared to be; she knew (and he would probably admit it too) that he most likely would have done everything the same, despite wanting to do it differently but simply being too scared otherwise. But she knew that this outer image of silent shame and repentance and that awkward old coat of bored arrogance he put on, something new and something old, were more than just a part of him. They were, most importantly and in true Slytherin fashion, his safeguards against condemnation, blame and humiliation; clinging to his own damn, stubborn self-reliance; his last pillar of pride left, while blatantly disregarding and shoving away his own feelings. Far away - for no one to see.

Only, she had seen and he knew. They both knew. And she wondered if that was what simultaneously scared him away and drew him to her throughout their chance encounters, confusing her so by his contradictory behavior? And if it was the same with her?

"Helloo? Weasley?" Long, strong, elegant fingers snapped across her field of vision. "Are you in there or should I be worried you've spent too much time with Loony Lovegood?"

Snapping her out of her reverie, she almost squeaked when she found the tall, former Slytherin standing right in front of her, shooting her a slightly arrogant, suspicious look that could be mistaken for worry if it hadn't come from him.

She looked away. "I'm, um, fine," she mumbled and forced her distracted brain to concentrate on where they were and why they were here.

Right, Ginny, focus.

Taking a step away, physically distancing herself from Blaise who was still looking at her with an odd expression, she schooled her features to those she had almost perfected during the last couple of months as Head Girl when handling the inquisitive, younger students.

"Right," she cleared her throat and pulled forth a small notebook and a pen from her shoulder bag, having prepared for this likelihood and their forthcoming trip. She didn't even bother mentally slapping herself for being so painfully like Hermione in this moment; since becoming Head Girl she had started to acknowledge that some of her friend's vices from school proved to be virtues in the end. Learning it the hard way, no less, and it didn't help that she was somewhat ashamed to have taunted Hermione prior for her overly studious and prudent tendencies. Not that she had ever admitted that to Hermione (though she probably should).

"I guess we should start by going over Peter Pettigrew's betrayal of the Potters and how Sirius ended up in Azkaban," she started scribbling down, then halted, looking up in contemplation. "Or should we begin with the Black family and their history in order to explain how Sirius was even more mixed up with the wrong crowd before he met James? Or is that biting off more than we can chew given how complex their family tree is?"

Blaise snorted beside her.

"Gee, Weasley, you're beginning to sound awfully like your bloody Mud– Muggle friend," he commented wryly, however the too close stumble across the 'M' word didn't escape any of them and an awkward, incensed silence ensured.

Ginny snapped her lips shut into a thin, angry line from verbally chastising him and instead sent him a scathing look, while he was wise enough to look away, at least, moderately ashamed.

"Right," she grounded out between her teeth, making him flinch, as she viciously scribbled down on her notepad. "Starting with Pettigrew it is."

Scribbling a couple of angry notes to herself about contacting McGonagall before long in order to set a date for the trip, she closed the notebook with more force than necessary and stuffed it into her bag.

Blaise was still standing in silence a couple of feet from her, hands buried in his pockets and shoulders tense. She couldn't quite look at him yet.

"Sorry," he muttered lowly but it was clearly meant for her to hear and it sounded more genuine than anything she had ever heard him say.

The anger seeped from her shoulders and she shot him a scrutinizing glance. He did look rather remorseful standing like that, she thought to herself.

"It's – alright," she sighed. "Just... don't say that word. Ever again."

He merely nodded pensively and that seemed enough. For now. After all, he hadn't actually said the word, but the quick correction might just be because he was in her presence. Though, given his history with blood supremacy, she couldn't quite blame him if he slipped once, but if he did it again she didn't think she would be quite as forgiving. She couldn't help a sliver of disappointment attaching itself to her heart. She had hoped he had let go of his old beliefs. But who was she kidding? To change the stripes of the tiger this soon after the war would be a bloody miracle!

"Is it me or is it suddenly colder in here than before?" Blaise's voice broke through the tension and her musings like a knife, his whole body giving a quick tremor as he looked around towards the windows for the source, probably thinking it was a change of weather.

Then a plain, physical shiver went through the both of them, like a clammy hand running from the back of the neck and right down the spine.

Ginny gulped.

That wasn't just any cold draft and it certainly wasn't caused by a change of weather. She knew this cold and what followed; this suffocating stillness of icy death surrounding them and advancing listlessly, yet all the more disturbingly.

Subconsciously, she wrapped her hand around her wand in her pocket and turned to take a defensive stance towards the door behind her. Blaise seemed confused and oblivious to the cause of her sudden tense stature, yet stepped towards her turned back, probably about to say something about her acting like a paranoid house elf – when the Dementor appeared out of the dark before them.

Blaise's large, long-fingered hand clamped painfully down on her upper arm, and she felt the fear and panic surging from him as he instinctively pulled her backwards, making her stand close to his body as they stared in terror at the frightful thing before them.

The Dementor advanced with a sickening, silent grace, rendering everything in slow motion. Even the smallest speck of dusts hovered frozen in the air as the creature seemed to fill the entire room with its ghostly, hooded presence of death and blackness, blocking them from their only exit point out the room – unless they were to throw themselves out from the shuttered windows from third floor. Yet, the Dementor was already too close, too quick for the senses to respond properly in time and before Ginny had even contemplated how they could escape through the windows behind them, the horrifying, faceless being had opened its – mouth and started … sucking.

Ginny felt as if her lungs were being pierced with icicles and languidly torn out from her body as the Dementor feasted on every last happy feeling she had. She gasped in helpless horror as she tried to resist and back away with Blaise still in tow close beside her. She managed to shoot a glance at him just as the Dementor's attention turned, feeling her heart giving a sickening lurch. He had his head thrown back in a gruesome angle and his mouth opened in a voiceless scream as the Dementor hovered above him like a parasite.

He's succumbing too quickly!, she thought in panic, her muddled, happiness-depraved mind and body desperately trying to form the priced memory of her family – Mum, Dad, Percy, Bill, Charlie, Ron, George…Fred – everyone gathered at the Burrow, happy and laughing, but the memory wouldn't stick and she grabbed for her wand in her pocket, she fumbled and suddenly stumbled backwards, Blaise – still clinging to her arm with a surprising strength considering everything – going down with her and they fell to the floor and he practically fell on her, momentarily breaking the Dementor's occupation with him and – oh Merlin – it was coming back to her!

No! Nononono! This can't be happening!, Ginny screamed inside her head at her own foolishness; for letting her guard down enough to not feel it before it happened, as they scrambled on the floor and she stared in horror into the hooded, sucking emptiness so close, so close above her and felt like she was being drained dry, succumbing to the numbness.

So far gone, she hardly registered how Blaise grunting came about half on top of her and managed to push himself up and off her somewhat, severely weakened however, yet with the Dementor momentarily occupied with her he had just enough time to pull out his wand and in a surprising last bout of strength, he half-turned, crouching almost protectively over her on the floor, wand raised with trembling determination towards the dark, cloaked creature above them.

Crucial seconds that felt like eternities.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"

And then everything happened at once and in slow motion, as if in a dream. A dream too real to be a dream.

In the midst of her near unconscious state, Ginny saw the most beautiful panther she had ever seen springing gracefully from Blaise's wand, fiercely and swiftly like only a feline predator could, attacking the Dementor in a blast of pulsing silver-blue light, fleetingly blinding them all as the Patronus hit the recoiling creature, forcing it backwards and vehemently chased it away out through the door, the black and still coldness disappearing with it, giving way for the last rays of light from the afternoon sun through the bolted windows of the room.

Once gone, the specks of dust finally settled and the floating, incandescent panther calmly returned to its two breathless, stunned onlookers with an all too familiar, bored look that spoke 'Well, that wasn't so hard', sat down and started licking its silvery paws like a content kitten who had just taken down its prey.

What the –?!

A/N: Aye, a small cliffhanger, folks, but I won't leave you hanging for too long ;)