A Chat
The storefront of Fleur Maxima was of Pansy's design. dark tile floors balanced against pine walls, tastefully lined with imitation vines to balance out the various bunches of flowers strategically around the shop. It read as a mix of classical and gothic like there was a difference, but Blaise wouldn't be caught dead saying anything like that in front of Pansy.
When Blaise had returned to the shop, it was to the sight of Pansy on the verge of homicide. The target? A woman trying far too hard to look like she'd only just graduated high school was throwing a barrage of verbal garbage in her face. "Ma'am, I'm sorry but our policy strictly states that--"
"I am the bride's MOTHER!"
"Yes, I understand that ma'am, however, your daughter--"
"Does not know what she's doing, as we've CLEARY discussed."
"Regardless," Blaise snaps, his tone coated in the honey of customer service fuckery. The woman and her too-tight ponytail jumped as he entered the conversation. Pansy didn't need his help, of course, but the woman seemed like the type to iron her husband's shirts with the scent of cheap wine. "unless you are aware of the passwords, we cannot change your daughter's flower order. Now, if you don't mind, please show yourself out.
"The woman huffed, somehow out of words, despite her barrage a moment earlier, and with an addition of doe eyes, turned on her heel and marched out of the shop.
"Perfect timing, as always, Zabini," Pansy snarked. Blaise sighed. It had been his job to man the counter today, regardless of his (perfectly warranted) exit earlier, the three had a business to run. He tapped the wooden counter, doing his best to look apologetic. Pansy was many things, but forgiving was not one of them.
***
Blaise swung open the bakery door, lost in thought. To the silvery bell tone, he instantly ran into the equivalent of a stone wall. Blaise looked up, ready with a half-baked apology. Unfortunately, he looked right into the bright blue eyes of Ronald Weasley. Snapping his mouth shut, Blaise stepped back, brushing at his shirt just to do something with his hands.
"Sorry," he cleared his throat. He stepped around Ron awkwardly. "Rough day."
"Wanna...take a break?" Ron asked, shooting Blaise a half-smile.
"That's what the snack run is for," Blaise replied. Or, would have replied, if his nod hadn't betrayed him. Stupid neurons, or whatever. Ten minutes later, Blaise found his hands around a small mug in a quiet corner of the cafe, snacks forgotten. He tapped on the side of the mug, sending the caramel liquid rippling gently. If he squinted, he could see his reflection. He should get up, make up some sorry excuse, and hightail it out of there.
"So, teaching?" His voice surprised him. But he was curious. His interactions with objects of attraction were not usually get-to-know-you conversations. And coffee with a former adversary was also...new. It was a step up from hurling insults and hexes in the hallway, he had to admit.
"I'm the second youngest of seven. Youngest boy," Ron smiled sourly into his cup. "with everything to prove. Makes for an interesting classroom experience, right? When your professors think they already know you, just because they've taught your family?"
"I suppose," Tilting his head, Blaise studied the man in front of him. Ron was smart. He knew how to read people, a fact overlooked by even the sharpest Ravenclaw in their years at school. He seemed to know things before they happened even more, but that was beside the point. There were so many people in the house. Between the Weasley's expectations that every parent has, and the validation, something every Gryffindor yearned for-- especially as Dumbledore's favorites-- so many personalities, visions, and dreams crushed anyone that might fall through the cracks even once. It would be hard to keep track of, even with the best parents.
Not that he was the best judge of parenting styles. Saorise Zabini had lived without him as her son far longer than not that he was a mere footnote. When he'd been in school, he was lucky if she remembered to open her home to him every summer.
He sipped his coffee, the sugar a strange sting on the roof of his mouth. He let Ron's words wash over him. All the plans he had for lessons; the prizes he would give to keep the class motivated. Even the chance to live on campus as a professor.
"So," Ron said. "How have you been?" Blaise tried not to think of the layers behind that question. It wasn't a secret that the old wizarding families had long held a feud over the heads of the Weasley family for soiling their Pureblood long ago. Not to mention, there were about one thousand and one opportunities that could have been for him in the Wizarding world, as old and traditional as it was. HE would have been set for life. Still might, if he had the guts to return to Gringotts. There were probably a million and one questions Ron hid behind the phrase. What was Blaise doing, running a flower shop instead of holed up at some fancy Ministry job, hiding behind old mansion walls?
"I've been well," he said, trying his best to maintain his usual suaveness. "I mean, business is comfortable. Muggle technology is rather fascinating. I've enjoyed the learning curve. And Pansy and Draco...they're my family."
"Oh," Ron looked surprised. "You've...d' you ever go back? I mean, full cold turkey on magic? Can't be too easy."
Blaise relaxed his shoulders, chuckling weakly. "No, it's not fully like that." Draco had lost his wand, and a few months of his time in Azkaban for his stunts, but the Ministry had little on Blaise and Pansy's full-on actions besides Pansy's call out in the Great Hall, but they all still had their wands. The choice to move to Muggle London had been Pansy's, in the weeks of trials, reporters, and busybodies that couldn't leave well enough alone. "Easier to lick our wounds where no one knows who we are."
Ron fell quiet, picking at a napkin. "Don't I know it," Blaise felt a pulling urge to apologize or talk about the weather, or something. Instead, he sipped the final bit of his drink in the clattering of everything around them. He slid a few Muggle bills on the counter before making his escape.
"It was good to see you, Ron. Good luck with Hogwarts, again." He smiled as softly as he could, knocking lightly on the table. Ron, to his credit, didn't stop him.