Chapter 22: The scatter of rodents
Blaise uttered a low chuckle as he stepped outside the shop and into the spiky winter cold.
That girl sure could make a hilarious face if she was coaxed far enough!
He snorted and watched as the weather turned his warm breath into white puffs of steam, evaporating into the air.
Typical Gryffindors.
Not bothering to wait around or holding up to their agreement about not wandering off by themselves, he began strolling down the winding village street, taking his time glancing at the various shop windows and snug cottages that he passed, but most of all enjoying a quiet moment alone. Just for a while, without untimely interruptions from pretty little redheads.
Actually, at the moment, he didn't risk interruptions from anyone, since the street was entirely abandoned. The untimely arrival of the Aurors had likely something to do with it; not that he blamed the villagers for wanting to stay away and not getting involved. Merlin knew they'd had enough of black-clad groups of authority invading their privacy and monitoring their every move already.
Amidst his musings, a lone figure passed his peripheral vision between a couple of houses further down the road and his head jerked towards it just as it disappeared, brows furrowed. Wasn't that–
For a second there he was almost certain he recognised the dark mob of hair on his only friend left from his former house; Nott's tall, lanky build and distinct way of walking, deep in thought and shoulders slightly hunched while he scurried away as if he couldn't get out of Hogsmeade fast enough–
Before the ludicrous idea could come to fruition, a noise in the background on Blaise's left, followed by a distinctive curse, drew his attention and made him stop up, curious to the nature of the ruckus and the very Slytherin choice of swearing. Heedfully, he retraced his steps to one of the dark, little blind alleys he had passed seconds ago and gawked around the corner.
Someone – a man – was standing in the shadows, stooping over something on the ground which apparently was of high value to the person who whined and lamented over the accident under his breath. Whatever glamour spell the man had put on himself, it was obviously a poor one as the non-determinable clothes he had worn a second ago suddenly gave way for a visibly tatty and ill-fitting outfit.
The man fidgeted around in chagrin and his face caught the low afternoon sun.
Rat-faced, willowy, sickly-looking... Blaise narrowed his eyes. Wait a second–
He knew that guy.
"What the fuck are you doing here, Dorne?" Blaise snarled lowly, wand ready at his side as he drew himself into his full height and stepped into the closed alley.
Taken by surprise, the man – Dorne – scrambled to pick up whatever object he had dropped on the ground and hide it, before he sprung around and scooted further back into the darkness.
Icily watching the skittish figure before him, Blaise continued, "Thought you'd taken your ratty tail between your legs and skipped the country long ago?"
Stammering under his breath, Dorne's bulging, bloodshot eyes eyed Blaise and then his wand warily. "H-how–how did you– ?"
"Recognize you?" Blaise finished, contempt dripping from his voice. "I have eyes. And ears. Even foul, lowlife little rodents like you get notorious when you have mixed with the wrong crowd and then decide to bail." The rat-faced man looked down at himself as he only just then realized the glamour had lifted. Blaise smiled darkly. "There's a warrant for your head, you know."
Though it really was for his arrest alone, Dorne, nonetheless, gave a minor shudder at the thinly-veiled threat; his large eyes shifting nervously around in his pinched face, indeed like an animal trapped. Then they suddenly spun back to a halt, narrowing into slits as they travelled up and down Blaise's persona. Perhaps recognizing aristocracy when he saw it – after so many years of kissing Pureblood arse – his thin, grim mouth twisted ever so slightly and his entire bearing seemed to change.
Ah, here comes the sycophant, crawling back from his hole in the ground, Blaise thought acerbically. Probably deciding whether to sweet-talk or bribe me into letting him go. Likely both. As if we are actually like-minded beings! He gave a harsh internal scoff.
"Why, M-Master Zabini! I-I thought it was you!" The man fawned in a sickening manner, all but kneeling on one bony knee in dirty ground in front of him. Blaise's upper lip curled in disgust.
"Forget it, Dorne," he spat, causing the face on the man to fall considerably at the prospect of a possible exit to his dire situation vanishing into the thin air. "You'll not get out of this one, I assure you." Eyeing the seedy man like he was a piece of mud on his new Italian shoes, Blaise felt more than ready to deliver him to the authorities and not spend another minute in his presence.
Still, he was somewhat curious why Dorne would risk his life to come back. And why choose Hogsmeade of all places, on the very day it was swarming with Aurors? Could it just be an unlucky coincidence? On top of his poor state of being and even poorer magical skills, the ex-Snatcher seemed rather unqualified for any covert operations he might have sniffed out. Or been so stupid to join. And even a hypothetical, second uprising this early seemed unlikely, what with most Death Eaters jailed or gone. Blaise was confident the ratty man could barely find enough lackeys or brains to come up with something serious himself. Looking the guy over, he seemed as if he was ready to combust from bad nerves alone or actually turn into a rodent any time soon and be squashed under someone's boot. Not that anyone would miss him, for sure. However, he would be a fool to underestimate the ex-minion. Dorne wasn't entirely harmless either.
And what was more interesting: What was the mysterious object he had dropped on the ground? What could be so valuable about it? Perhaps a Dark Artefact of sorts, given the hands they were in–?
"Zabini!" Blaise flinched and cursed under his breath at the interruption as the owner of an indignant, familiar female voice came stalking up behind him. "You two-faced snake! I swear to you, I'll hex your b–"
Ginny stopped dead in her tracks as she took in the two unlikely, tense figures facing off in the alley.
"What the–?" she started, just in time for Dorne to seize the moment of diversion, muttering a short, smug "My cue" and Disapparating with a pop before Blaise could intercept.
The Italian swore loudly, hands flexing into fists at his side. Clearly he had underestimated Dorne's magical abilities. Fuck's sake!
Stepping closer, Ginny looked bewildered, "Who was that?"
Blaise sneered towards the spot where the man had been standing just seconds ago. "Tholbus Dorne."
"Who?"
"Former Snatcher of Scabior's." His lip curled. "I recall seeing him creeping around the castle whenever the Carrows were around. Quite the little sycophant back then. Got away some time during The Battle or before, I suspect." What the bloody hell would he come back for? Blaise wondered again, regarding the empty spot. Or rather: Who would he come back for?
"I don't remember seeing him around the school," Weasley observed with a nonplussed frown. "Was he one of the more high-ranking Snatchers? Didn't look like much."
Emitting a heavy sigh, he turned halfway towards her. "I don't think Snatchers did much in ranks, besides their one or two leaders, including Scabior. They were all basically minions. Brains weren't really their specialty," he spoke scathingly, still irked that 'Rat-face' got away and blaming the redhead for his own distraction.
The girl's lips pursed as she registered his noncommittal mood and folded her arms across her chest.
"Look," she started in a clipped tone, "I am sorry to have interrupted your little Snatch-a-Snatcher-adventure here, but, clearly, it wasn't my fault he got away. If you had just been a little quicker you could have had him right where you wanted him by now! And it was obvious that you hadn't just stumbled into him when I got here. Why didn't you seize him sooner, instead of standing around chit-chatting about 'the good old Death Eater-days', if I may ask?"
Grumbling under his breath, he promptly ignored her and pushed past her to exit the alley.
"Hey!"
Drat. Did this blasted girl ever take a hint?
Keeping up with his long strides, Weasley soon fell in beside him, shooting him slighted glares from the sideline every now and then. Decisively ignoring her, he thrust his hands down his pockets and did nothing to slow his pace.
After a while of walking in strained silence, they soon came to the outskirts of Hogsmeade, near the road leading to Hogwarts, though they hardly registered it as they went on, deep in thought.
"Hey, do you–," she commenced in a lower voice, and he could practically hear the gears turning in that pretty little, if annoyingly distracting, head of hers, "Do you think Dorne's return could have something to do with the appearance of the Dementor?"
A stillness came and went across the muscles of his broad shoulders and he peered down at her briefly, then looked pointedly ahead again. "Don't know," he murmured. "Perhaps."
In the silence that followed, he couldn't help chewing it over in his head. The girl wasn't completely off with that theory. It did seem almost too coincidental that a Dementor and an ex-Snatcher appeared within the same radius of the school so shortly after one another.
There was something brewing in the air and he didn't like the smell of it.
"You know we're going to report this to McGonagall and the Aurors, don't you?" her voice piped up after a moment or so.
"Are we now?" he drawled as he kept on walking, a bitter taste forming in his mouth.
"Don't give me that crap, Zabini," she retorted, "Of course, we are! And you are a Prefect now. It's your duty."
Something inside him snapped and he turned on her, eyes flashing, which brought her to an immediate halt.
"And after that owlshit interrogation last time, do you really think they're not going to cross-examine me – us both! – again? Should I simply keep explaining that I just happened to come across that little scenario back there and hope they'll take pity on me and let me go?" He glowered down at her for a beat, daring her to respond. "Oh, no, they won't suspect me one bit!" He scoffed darkly and turned to walk on, finishing off bitterly, "No more than they already do."
Momentarily frozen in her spot, she blinked, perhaps seeing reason within his justified anger. Then she stalked up beside him.
"Okay! Alright! I get it! It does look highly suspicious," she acquiesced tersely. He shot her a sideways glare that vehemently spoke 'you are not helping' and she pushed her lips into a thin line, rolling her eyes in mild impatience. "I just mean; of course, they are going to be suspicious for as long as that Dementor is on the loose. Hearing of a wanted ex-Snatcher returning as well so soon after the war is not exactly going to make that suspicion simmer down any time soon."
Repressing an eye-roll, Blaise huffed, "Preaching to the choir, luv," and received another irritated glare from the redhead.
"But, with that said," she continued between gritted teeth, "I still think they are going to believe us if we simply tell them the truth: That you happened to spot him and tried to capture him."
"Ah, so you think they're going to be impressed and call me a 'hero' next, because I wanted and attempted to catch an ex-Snatcher?" he jeered, stopping short and threw her a look of condescending incredulity. "For some reason, I don't think they'll give much credit to the 'presumably righteous motives' of someone like me."
"What, because you are a former, self-serving Slytherin and thus cannot be trusted?" she wryly countered, causing him to meet her meaningful look with a pair of raised eyebrows.
Sighing, defeated, the Italian ran a hand across his short-trimmed, black hair. "It certainly doesn't help in situations like these," he admitted.
He had always taken pride in being a Slytherin – despite everything. Like some of his former, more uneasy and frightened House mates during Voldemort's terrorization, he had played along in order to survive, but, in his mind, started to draw a distinguishing line between his House and the true followers of Voldemort. A forceful compartmentalization, you could say. Still, the House name of Slytherin now seemed forever tainted; tattooed on his back – along with its naturally suspicion-inducing disposition – wherever he went. Nothing like Draco's Dark Mark, of course, but still...
Supposed he deserved it.
He let out a cold, humourless laugh as the fatalistic feelings once again overtook him. "And don't forget the most important part: I am also 'a close acquaintance of a certain Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater and son of one of the closest allies of You-Know-Who'," mirroring the words Rowe had spoken in McGonagall's office.
Ginny eyed him in the wake of his solemn words, worrying her lip in comprehensive silence. Tentatively, she moved a hand to his forearm, feeling the prickly warmth of his wool coat and the rigid muscles beneath it. For a second, the sensation sharpened her senses to his close proximity in the biting, empty cold around them. With a shiver, she bit her lip harder before letting it go and took in a deep breath.
"And I'll say this once again, Blaise: I will do anything in my power to make them understand that it was all just a coincidence. That you had nothing to do with those incidents. And that we were both to blame for losing that Dorne guy."
His eyes cut to hers at her sincere tone. He took in her face, folded in those usually well-hid melancholy features he had only been given the chance to witness a few couple of times, combined with a shaky bravado that somehow had taken hold in his mind.
That and the way her lower lip was currently trapped under her front teeth, bringing him back to that day before the Holidays in the Prefects' Bathroom when the shitstorm hit him and he momentarily lost his mind and kissed her and–
Oh, fuck it!
Adam's apple bobbing, he started to turn towards her, an odd sense of déjà vu hitting him, "Weasley... listen..."
Her breath hitched; it was an infinitesimal sound but he heard it nonetheless and his gaze followed the lines of her throat before gliding back up to linger on her face again, eyes searching hers.
He didn't want her pity, he never did, and he was ashamed of the emotionally revealing scenes he had made in front of her that could indicate otherwise. He wasn't an effin' Gryffindor or Hufflepuff!
Swallowing again, throat gone dry, he hadn't even realized he had moved in closer to her, before his eyes caught sight of something over her shoulder that made him pause and abruptly draw back:
An unnervingly familiar, all-black figure was storming resolutely towards them, the Auror's booming voice making Ginny flinch and turn around.
"You didn't show up at our meeting point and it's far past four o'clock! The rest of the group has already left," Warwick scolded irately as she reached them, wand at her side, and her bouncing Jamaican cadence making the words seem all the more vehement. "And what did I say about venturing further than the village grounds without my knowledge or my accompanying you?!"
"Erm…"
Startled and still a bit dazed from the (untimely?) interruption, Ginny was once more at a loss in front of the older witch who was staring them down with a fiery expression that brooked no excuses.
Similarly, Blaise took another moment of distraction from the familiar scents assaulting his nostrils as Ginny had turned around. She stood quite close to him, her back turned; most likely an unconscious action on her part, and he was struck by how he was able to pick up her scent outside. Still, it was quite particular; his subconsciousness trying to pinpoint it: Warm, floral, dewy grass and worn leather and something he couldn't put his finger on. Something that pulled him in and–
He blinked and tore himself from his straying thoughts, focusing in on the fuming Auror as the flabbergasted redhead tried to formulate a coherent sentence in front of him. Eyeing the top of the latter's head, his lips twitched in amusement, before bringing his gaze back to Warwick. Likewise he had to acknowledge that the Auror cut an impressive figure of authority, especially given her relatively young years. Not that age was anything to go by in the Auror Department, what with Scarhead, Weasley's nitwit of a brother and Longbottom presently trekking those halls in the Ministry, Merlin help us all. Also, Warwick was a head shorter than him, though that was still somewhat tall for a woman. Weasley almost reached the same height. Besides, he wasn't easily intimidated; usually he did the intimidation, but this one surely had an aura that made him feel pity for anyone on the receiving end of her ire.
Which, at this moment, were them.
He took a calm step forward and around Weasley, hands raised in a placatory gesture. "Listen, Warwick –" he started, making her stern gaze zoom in on him and narrow in warning, momentarily throwing him off course.
Ginny, however, quickly filled in, somewhat panicky, "We were only, er, taking a walk, talking, not really registering where we were going," she wavered, "and we, well, just ended up here… I guess." She gestured to their surroundings which were more or less the outer outskirts of the village. Cringing, she realized how lame her excuse sounded and looked up at Blaise with a sheepish shrug.
The latter, in turn, simply stared back at her with an unguarded look of surprise, and she couldn't tell if he was disappointed or secretly pleased by her evasive answer. He seemed to sense his noticeable reaction though and his dark orbs changed, regaining their calculating cool and once again scanning her eyes, as if expecting some secret agenda behind her words.
Typical Slytherin.
The female Auror steadily regarded the two students in front of her and harrumphed, evidently not convinced by the answer. "Well, next time, be so kind to let me know beforehand if you intent on just 'walking and talking', okay?"
More an order than a request, Warwick searched their faces, expecting to see unanimous agreement written in them; lips pursed in a way that eerily reminded them of a quietly pissed-off McGonagall.
Blaise then chose to break whatever tension that had crept over him and Ginny. "Of course, Ma'am," he replied smoothly on behalf of them both (apparently), though his overt seriousness belied the compulsory charmer underneath.
Ginny shot him a leery stare. Just how he was able to turn on a plate like that was beyond her grasp. He caught her look (of course; ever the observant one) and suppressed a smirk.
Warwick sternly signalled for them to walk in front of her in direction of the castle, sending her Patronus – in the shape of graceful tigress – ahead to message Rowe of their late return.
As they started to trek uphill, aware of the Auror's gaze boring into the back of their heads a couple of feet behind them, Ginny subtly elbowed the taller wizard beside her.
"Ouch, Red," came the dry protest.
"You are incorrigible," she hissed.
Shrugging in a nonchalant manner – making her once again wonder at his utterly Slytherin, mercurial behaviour – Zabini stuck his hands in his pockets and turned his walk into his usual saunter.
"Can hardly blame a man for responding accordingly to such splendid company." His head gave the barest of tilts to the Auror trailing behind them, though his eyes remained on Ginny, flashing mischievously.
"She's practically twice our age, Zabini," she shot back in a censuring whisper; sneaking a look over her shoulder to make sure the Auror in question hadn't heard her. It was difficult to tell, really, since Warwick's hard expression remained perfectly professional, though she hadn't taken her eyes off them.
Cocking both eyebrows to amused heights, Blaise looked as if he was about to chortle, calmly replying, "So? Do you really think that has stopped me before?" Ginny almost choked on a mouthful of the humid, Scottish air around them. "Besides," he continued, smugness back in full force as he bent his head down towards her; the deep rumble of his baritone purposefully getting under her skin, "I have always had this – thing for older women."
She let out a low grumble and heard his answering chuckle but refused to let him goad her further, instead choosing to stare pointedly at the bleak scenery before them with a squared-off chin.
Though, inwardly, she couldn't help taking hold of the seed he had planted and started speculating, surreptitiously looking him over through the curtain of her hair. Most people likely saw themselves falling under the spell of the tall, cool and regal ex-Slytherin. That guy could talk foxes out of eating geese if he wanted to – with the foxes barely registering the con. She had only observed a certain handful of adults, teachers mostly, who remained blatantly un-charmed by him. Such as McGonagall, but that was also McGonagall, and, besides, Ginny had never noted that the Italian had been anything but respectful – if not slightly apprehensive himself – towards the elder Scotswoman.
The image – of the pompous Italian being thoroughly reprimanded by her former Head of House – brought her some satisfaction, at least.
Blaise, meanwhile, was having a right laugh from her earlier reaction, though he conveniently chose to keep it to himself for the time being. That'll give her something to ponder upon, for sure, he chuckled to himself.
He took in her features from the corner of his eye. Even agitated, the girl looked striking; hair blazing in time with the lightning shooting in her caramel eyes. As he let his gaze glide indolently from her head to the rest of her body, which was moving forward with strained determination, he noticed she was absent any large shopping bags and got curious.
"Where's the bags of gold, by the way? Not gotten cold feet, have you?" She looked befuddled up at him. "The candy, Red?" he rephrased, eyes dropping to her empty hands.
"Oh!" She padded a small leather bag hanging from her shoulder which he hadn't noticed before now, "Undetectable Extension Charm. Wickedly brilliant." A proud grin played on her lips, the earlier animosity momentarily forgotten, "Hermione taught me it."
Eyes going skywards, he huffed dryly, "Of course, Granger did."
"Hey!" came the indignant retort.
He produced a light snort at her pout. She cleared her throat, but he did not miss the unwitting smile momentarily tug at her lips as they continued onwards along the road to the school, trying to ignore the covert glances they kept sending each other.
A question still roamed his mind, however: Why on earth had she evaded telling the truth when Warwick questioned them about their little off-track lapse, especially since she had been so adamant about it, in the first place? Didn't Gryffindors make it their nauseating, sanctimonious mission in life to strive towards the truth – and only the truth?
And it wasn't like she hadn't spilled the beans before...
He stifled the desire to drive a frustrated hand across his head.
Merlin, how he loathed Gryffindors sometimes.
Speaking of unexpectedly misleading characters, the brief image of a possible certain former Slytherin hurrying through the village crossed his mind. No, he was almost certain it had been him. And if that really was Theo, what the fuck was he doing sneaking around Hogsmeade on his own? Why had he declined to come along, lied and said he had 'homework' to do instead? Blaise couldn't help feeling somewhat stung. Though they didn't usually confide in each other about everything they did and where they went, he knew they were on the same page. They both knew it; they took comfort in it and the fact that they never had to admit it out loud (not that any Slytherin would even entertain such a maudlin thought).
Whatever clandestine matter Theo had to tend to – in Hogsmeade, of all places! – that he'd go so far to brave the new school restrictions and an army of Aurors and keep it a secret from him, Blaise intended to find out. Admittedly, he was worried. Being the last left on school, and perhaps entirely, to stay friends with Theo, he couldn't help but worry. Theo hadn't exactly been the epitome of a healthy, well-adjusted student during their final years, definitely hitting rock bottom last year, but Blaise didn't like how his steady drinking had failed to decline since the war and how he always seemed to put on a brave face and carefree attitude. Sure, a weight had definitely been lifted from his shoulders with Voldemort's death and his father's imprisonment, but a shadow still clung to his countenance whenever he thought no one noticed.
Blaise shot a glance at the pensive redhead beside him.
Funny, how alike these two people who had wedged their ways into his life really were.
And... he wasn't at all sure how to feel about the jumble of emotions that accompanied that surprisingly truthful notion.
When they finally reached the Entrance Gates and the two Aurors standing guard – who cleared them once they received whatever secret code word Warwick passed on to them – they walked the rest of the way across the court to the main entrance. Seeing the giant oak doors opened, Ginny frowned in confusion until she spotted a tall, lone figure standing inside the opening to the Front Hall, waiting for them.
Rowe.
Shooting a nervous glance up at Blaise, she saw he too had noticed him.
Oh, boy.
Warwick outpaced them before they knew it and walked straight up in front of them. "For now, I'll explain our absence from the group to the Head Auror," she said and they both breathed out, relieved not to be put in the hot seat immediately. "However," Warwick clarified sternly, "you can be certain you will be called in to explain the real reason for breaking our deal and wander off by yourselves." She regarded them both with narrowed eyes.
Shit.
She didn't believe them. No wonder really, what with Ginny's sad excuse of an explanation.
By Salazar, Blaise chagrined. Did Gryffindors really have to be this bad at lying?
Warwick gave them another strict glare as if to say 'you better not break our agreement this time!' then gave a wordless nod to seal the deal and turned to stride inside towards Rowe. The latter remained eerily patient, waiting for a report with his usual stoic expression in place and sharp eyes glued to their faces as Blaise and Ginny followed behind.
Warily eyeing them from a safe distance as the Aurors started addressing each other in hushed voices, shooting the subjects of their discussion pointed looks, Ginny and Blaise took to the wide staircase, trying not to seem too eager to get away from the intimidating elders.
When they were safely out of eye- and earshot, Blaise surprised Ginny by grabbing her by the upper arm with enough force for her to topple against his chest.
She looked up at him, perplexed and unnerved by standing so close to him. "What?"
"Are we going to talk about the fact that you didn't blurt out the matter of Dorne's appearance as the first thing when Warwick found us?"
Ginny stared dumbly back at him, taking in his serious face. "Um..."
She then became very aware of the body she stood leaning against; the gentle rising and falling of his broad torso pressed against her own, and the proximity turned stifling. She placed her hands on his chest to put some space between them, however, he kept his grip firm but not painful, halting her from moving away and pulled her against him once more. With a small gasp, she came up dry-mouthed as she tried recalling her exact reasoning for throwing that little white lie to Warwick. It didn't help how Blaise's warm breath wafted across her face, while those shrewd, hooded eyes coolly but insistently monitored her response.
He was right: Why hadn't she immediately told the truth?
"I... I just thought it was better to put it in front of McGonagall and, um, then she could somehow gently break the news to Rowe and Warwick..." She gave a wan smile, "No need to stir up the dragon's nest any further, right?"
There was a subtle shift in his slate, stoic orbs, but it was gone just as quickly, returning to his previous mask of put-on apathy.
"Fine." He abruptly let go of her, making her stumble backwards with an affronted glare. "If you really think that is going to lessen any suspicion regarding our – or rather my – involvement in the matter when first it's out there, be my guest," he added in an acerbic tone, gaze blazing as he forced it away from her.
"Look," she groaned, still reeling a bit from the side effects of being manhandled by him. Then, finding her stance again, she crossed her arms, "I'm only trying to do some damage control here. I don't think they'll suspect us anymore because of it than they already do."
"Oh, no?" he replied sardonically, one eyebrow raised.
"Well, no...maybe...," she sighed and gestured in frustration, "How am I to know what goes on in their heads?! Who's to say? But I still think McGonagall will listen and mitigate whatever unfair treatment comes our way. She believes in our innocence. She trusts us."
A quick, cold chortle escaped Blaise's throat and he shot her an incredulous look, still baffled by the naivety of her former House. "You Gryffindors! Always believing in the best in people and their intentions!"
She harrumphed. "Actually, no, I'm sorry to disappoint you there, for once, Zabini. I'm fairly certain the Aurors are harbouring ill intentions towards us, some way or another." She lowered her voice as if speaking more to herself, "I just can't figure out why exactly. Other than needing a post-war scapegoat of sorts."
Gazing back up at him, she was surprised to see the incredulous look had shifted in his eyes and turned more astonished.
Perhaps he hadn't expected her to hold such a critical and candid opinion of the Auror administration, likely given her personal connections to the department. Even now, she felt a flash of guilt saying the words out loud, because it indeed sounded like disloyalty to Harry, Ron and Neville and all the rest of them working there. But she couldn't help feeling involved in the matter – well, she had literally been dragged into it – and facing it alongside somebody who'd bear the brunt of unjustified suspicion for a very long time... someone, she now had come to know more or less; someone whom she knew was innocent in all this... well, it put a perspective on things. She far from condoned the way the Aurors had treated them so far, and she had begun to wonder about what kind of training the Aurors got; how they got recruited and who recruited them. Was Kingsley in on all this? Did he condone the vigilant way Rowe seemed to steer things? Was he even aware of it?
If she was ever to be called partial or subjective in her judgement of the Aurors because of her involvement in the matter and personal investment concerning Zabini, she'd like to see what could be said of Rowe's handling of things!
"Right," Blaise murmured, drawing her attention to him again, "I see. Well, thank you...then," he said without looking at her and grimaced, the words feeling wrong in his mouth when directed towards her.
She blinked as if she'd heard wrong. "'Scuse me?"
"You heard me. You're stalling the inevitable, no doubt about it, but you're trying to help, I see that. In your own fallible, clumsy, Gryffindor-kind of way."
She snorted at his back-handed compliment but was no less impressed that he'd found a shed of magnanimity in himself and actually appreciated her efforts to get them out of this shithole. No matter how futile it was. Though she was far from convinced it would end so dire.
Watching the clearly discomforted Blaise Zabini still standing in front of her, she smiled to herself. A former Slytherin in debt to a former Gryffindor. Now, who had seen that coming?
"Well, fuck me: The great, infallible Zabini just paid a Weasley a genuine compliment. You owe me now, you know, Zabini. You owe me big time!"
She laughed as his expression changed, and she started walking down the corridor towards her quarters, thoroughly entertained by the picture of him grovelling in front of her, when she heard him shout behind her:
"The fuck I do!"