French Sensibilities
Blaise lounged on the bed, revelling in the simple luxury of being somewhere that smelled like Draco again. The familiar sandalwood and rose and something clean seemed to fill his nose, leaving him more settled than anything else possibly could.
But still, something itched at the back of his mind, a nagging sensation that told him he was forgetting something vital. He shifted in the bed to look over at Draco, where he was dressing for some very-important-and-also-very-secret-whatever-he-did-during-the-day.
Though every Slytherin knew the importance of plausible deniability, that didn’t mean they had to like it.
So he watched as his fiancé patted his forearms and pockets, one hand going absently to pat at his right breast, where he kept a silver tin of black cigarettes.
That’s when the itching stopped.
There was no smoke. The sharp, acidic, clove smell of Draco’s specific brand of cigarettes was gone.
“Draco,” Blaise called idly, having no trouble keeping an even and casual tone, “When was the last time you smoked?”
Draco’s eyebrow twitched, the only sign he’d heard as he continued to get ready, “Don’t know.” He also spoke casually, though it was probably more distraction and a sense of security than any attempt to deceive Blaise.
Blaise sat up, feeling something in his chest drop, a long forgotten alarm ringing, “Seems like something you should know, doesn’t it?”
Draco turned around, crossing his arms, “Who are you? My father? Going to ask how much I’ve been spending while you’re at it?”
"Well, how much have you been spending?" Blaise asked, more on autopilot than
anything. Something was wrong, Draco had been smoking since he was 13, a nasty habit he'd picked up from his mother when they took their trips to France. It was the only thing Blaise and Draco's father had ever agreed upon. Both of them of the firm opinion it was a nasty habit that didn’t belong outside of that awful place.
Blaise had grown to find the smell almost as comforting as the rest of Draco, if only in familiarity.
Draco had smoked at least once a day for as long as he'd had the habit, for him to suddenly drop it with no explanation was . . . worrying.
This wasn’t a polyjuiced stranger, Draco had already proved that through a thousand little behaviours only Blaise would know, ones Draco himself had no idea even existed.
“Alright,” Blaise said finally, “Doesn’t matter, just surprised is all. Anything fun today?”
Draco studied him for a moment, but evidently decided it wasn’t worth pursuing, “Not unless you consider endless hounding by Potter.”
“Well, I know some who would.” He replied, getting up from the bed and crossing the room to Draco, “But alas, you should never meet your heroes.” Blaise reached out to smooth Draco’s lapels, pressing them flat, even if they were already pristine, “When will I see you today?”
Draco seemed to study him again, looking for any final sign Blaise was unnerved, but even in the current circumstances, Blaise was much better at keeping his head level out of the two of them, “Later, Fleur is coming, and I quite think she’d like to see you.”
“Oh, I love Fleur, did she send word yesterday?” Blaise asked, leaning back onto the wall.
His fiancé smiled, seeming to relax fully at the topic of his favourite friend, Blaise included, “Last night, the harpy, she didn’t say when either.”
Blaise smiled back, count on Fleur to skim under the wire, “Alright, let me know when she gets here, I’ll be there.”
“I know,” Draco said simply, taking Blaise’s hand in his own for a moment.
“Well, off I go to defend my very existence to Gryffindors, wish me luck,” He sighed, dropping Blaise's hand and walking to the door.
Blaise watched him go, some sense of resigned deja vu making a home in his chest. But as always, the only choice was to either let Draco walk away, or condemn him to a slow and quiet death.
Merlin, when did he become the maudlin one?
So Blaise took a deep breath, and prepared for the day.
Getting ready alone was fairly new to Blaise; Draco had always been a night owl, and subsequently the farthest thing from a morning person one person could be, which meant usually, Blaise would dress and get ready while Draco slept, and then he’d wake his fiancé. The fact Draco was now the one getting ready and waking him was . . . odd.
Everything was so strange now. Blaise just wanted to go back.
Alas, who else would disprove the Slytherin stereotype of cowardice? Certainly not Draco, loved as he may be.
Another strange thing was the fact Blaise had nothing to do. At school, he’d have classes and parties and quidditch, at home he’d have galas and afternoon tea and time with Draco.
Here, there was nothing.
Blaise might not have the connection to Grimmauld Place Draco did, but he was the future Lord Consort, so it would help him in small ways, a fact Blaise and Draco had been delighted to discover in their childhoods at The Manor.
So, Blaise knocked politely on the wall, “Hello, I need to speak to Potter, if you’d be so inclined.”
There was a long pause, but eventually a door swung open, and he could see the third floor room Potter and his friends had claimed. They were all sat in a circle, murmuring to each other in conspiratorial tones before all noises stopped, Granger whipping around to look at Blaise.
“Wha- How long have you been there?” She asked, looking dismayed.
“Long enough,” Blaise replied, mostly to be difficult, “I sensed conspiracy and came running.”
Potter and Weasley donned twin glares, “And? What do you want?”
Blaise took a moment to remind himself to keep the animosity to a minimum, Draco had already taken up the role of enemy, it was his turn to be friend, “To talk.”
He cut his eyes to the side in a faux-guilty expression, “Without Draco.”
Weasley immediately looked suspicious, but Blaise could tell he had them hooked. It pleased him so that he could still hold an audience by the throat, even now, “He’s . . .” Blaise took a long pause, “Being a bit difficult at the moment-”
“When isn’t he?” Weasley snorted, and Blaise once again reminded himself that he needed these idiots, even if he’d rather gouge out his eyes than listen to the weasel talk about his fiancé.
“Draco’s got his reasons, I’m sure of it, but he’s surprisingly tight lipped when he wants,” Blaise continued, “And I’m going to go insane if I don’t do anything, so, I came to enlist your help.”
Granger squinted at him, just short of a sneer, “Enlist our help? So you think you have more of a lead than we do?”
Blaise let his eyebrow twitch, even though he’d been trained to disguise the tell since he could talk. Slytherin subtlety wouldn’t work here.
It was almost too easy. When he was lying to fellow Slytherins, there were layers upon layers of deception and truth, here, all he had to do was look very, very faintly guilty and they thought they had him cornered.
“I had thought the Gryffindor pride would lessen when there was a war afoot, but if you’d like this to be a race between schoolmates instead of the life-or-death situation it is, than by all means-” Blaise bowed, just to be a dick, “I’ll take my leave.”
He spun on his heel, slowly putting his hand on the doorknob.
One, two, three.
“Wait!”
There it was.
Potter’s voice rang out, obviously annoyed, but Blaise could work with that.
“Yes?” He turned, making sure to force a beaten, pitiful expression onto his face.
Potter bought it hook, line, and sinker, “What do you know?”
Blaise could practically see the saviour complex kick in.
“Not much,” Weasley snickered, and Granger sighed, “But The Dark Lord is a traditionalist, and you’d have trouble finding someone more familiar with pureblood culture.” Blaise took a careful seat on the floor next to Granger, by far the most tolerable of the trio.
“And if we did want to find someone more knowledgeable?” She asked, giving him a poorly disguised look of distrust.
Blaise smiled without humour, “Draco’s downstairs, I could fetch him if you’d like.”
The trio looked at eachother, having a silent conversation, before Potter’s face scrunched in discomfort, “Fine. You know about the Horcruxes, we need to find them.”
“Succinct.” Blaise noted, his voice heavily laced with sarcasm, “So, where are you staring, is there a specific order? There will be seven, I suspect.”
“How do you mean?” Potter asked, leaning forward.
Blaise stopped, staring at the Gryffindor, “What do you mean? The idiots gone and made more than one, obviously. If it’s not one, it’s seven.”
It was Granger's turn to ask now, “Yes, but why?”
“Have you all taken bludgers to the head? Or are your professors just that daft? Do you truly not recognize the importance of seven?”
They all gave Blaise blank looks, so he continued, “The seven points? Sacred seven? The Seven Pillars of Magic?”
Granger cried out, slamming her hand to her forehead, “Oh! How could I have forgotten! I’m an idiot!”
“Weasley?” Blaise asked in a grave tone, “You’re a pureblood. Tell me you remember the Seven Pillars.”
The redhead's mouth went flat, “I’m not. And I don’t bother remembering any of your lot’s nonsense superstitions.”
Blaise reared back as if he’d been struck, “Nonsense superstition?” he repeated, “Try as you fucking might Weasley, you will always be a pureblood. You can preach about fairness and equality all you’d like, but the fact is, you were a part of the Sacred 28 once, and the magic knows it.”
Weasley laughed, “I’ve never been a part of your little cult.”
“Oh no,” Blaise laughed back, “But yet you feel it. I know it. No matter what you do, who you marry, what your politics are, you, Ron Weasley, are a pureblood.” Blaise jabbed a finger into Weasleys chest, “And you've nearly doomed us all by denying it.”
“How are silly childs lessons going to doom us?” he mocked, though his face had gone an alarming shade of red.
“Ronalds right,” Granger interrupted, “Seven is a common number in many creation myths, even for muggles.”
Blaise sighed, annoyed, “And have you ever wondered why? So much of muggle myth is wizard fact, something your lot likes to forget. We are the creation myth, Granger, we’re the demigods of old, the prophets and oracles and creatures muggles sing about.”
Grangers mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged, so Blaise continued, “The Seven Pillars of magic,” He looked around for a quill and paper, finding some abandoned near Granger’s feet, “One, word-”
“The incantation itself,” Granger explained.
“Two, motion-”
“The direction of which the magical energy flows.”
“Three, channel-”
“The tool used to direct the motion.”
“Four, intent-”
“The caster’s purpose for the spell.”
“Five, Element-”
“Earth, air, fire, and water.”
“Six, power-”
“Natural magical talent.”
“And seven, blood.”
“That one never has an explanation,” Granger huffed.
“Because it doesn’t need one.” Blaise muttered, genuinely dumbfounded, “How did any of you pass Magical Theory?”
The trio looked between themselves, but only Granger spoke, “I told you-”
“It’s a practical class’ Yeah ‘Mione we know!” Weasley cried.
Blaise felt his ire rising, “You haven’t taken Magical Theory?”
Potter began to look defensive, “It’s an elective!”
Blaise buried his face in his hands, if he hadn’t hated Dumbledore before, he did now. Magical Theory was the class meant to correct muggle-borns and half-bloods lack of knowledge, a compromise between the two extremes of the school board. Weasley, being a pureblood, should have been brought up with the knowledge, but evidently the Weasley matriarch decided being blood-traitors meant she could neglect her children's culture and knowledge.
“Granger.” Blaise pleaded, she had taken every OWL test, hadn’t she? Surely she must have made time for one of the most basic classes offered.
She had the gall to look sheepish, “It’s not a NEWT, and Pavarti said it was basically a free period-”
“Pavarti Patil,” Blaise began, “Is a pureblood, who grew up magical, and had parents who cared about her success-” He said the last part with an unsubtle sneer at Weasley, causing the redhead to go even redder.
He was cut off by Potter, who was glaring at Blaise, though he hadn’t interrupted any part of the explanation.
“So it’s not just a myth or superstition, there really are seven pillars of magic?” The saviour asked, green eyes drilling holes into Blaise.
“Yes.”
“Then what’s blood? Hermione didn’t give an explanation.”
“That’s because there are none.” She huffed, annoyed.
Blaise sighed again, “Like I said, you would know if any of you bothered-”
Potter’s glare heightened in intensity, and Blaise abandoned his rant.
“Blood is the most basic principle. Simply put, it is magic. There is no magic without blood, and no blood without magic.”
Granger still didn’t look satisfied, so Blaise continued, “Have you ever heard of someone getting stripped of their magic? The Wizengamont and old houses used to use it as a punishment, before the ministry was a thing and outlawed death sentences. Magic is a part of every wizard, regardless of blood status, we wouldn’t exist without it. On the other hand, magic wouldn't exist if we didn’t pay it back.”
“What do you mean, pay it back?” Potter asked.
Blaise looked away, stories of gruesome spell flashbacks and botched sacrifices running through his mind, “Any spell of real power has a price, sometimes its physical blood, sometimes it’s a piece of your soul, or sometimes a piece of your magic.”
Blaise thought suddenly of Pandora Malfoy. A distant cousin of Draco’s, from the Japanese branch of the family, “Or sometimes your life.”
“A blood sacrifice is the most surefire way to guarantee your spells go through, and one of the only ways to gain more raw magical power.” Granger quoted, her gaze far away.
Weasley looked sick, “I’m not sitting here and listening to you preach about Dark Magic! You can sacrifice children all you want-”
“Don’t even start! We’re not the ones using child soldiers!” Blaise argued.
“Oh yeah? And Malfoy’s just here for kicks?” He shot back.
Blaise smiled, “One man, here not by choice, versus the,” He paused for effect, pulling an exaggerated face of confusion and concentration, “Three here, who need to be dragged away kicking and screaming? Stellar argument, Weasley.”
Weasley had been cornered, and they both knew it, “You make it sound so simple, but that's how they get you, Dark Wizards. Blood will make you more powerful, sure, but the spell never tells you how much. You could bleed yourself dry, and if the spell doesn't think it’s enough, it’ll drain your family too. It never ends.” He hissed, face now an alarming red.
“That’s what you’ve been told, is it?” Blaise asked, “The reason the magic keeps taking, is because none of you have ever given anything. Your magic is starving, has been for generations, ever since you rejected your blood and became traitors. I could do a spell right now and give only a drop, because my family knows what it takes to keep magic. My family knows the meaning of blood, we’ve been giving for generations. It’s why your wand keeps breaking, and none of the creatures in your Burrow have helped you, even when you’re obviously in need of it, and you live on ancestral grounds!”
Blaise was snarling now, leaning into Weasley’s space, “You’re a Blood Traitor, and that has consequences.”
Weasley looked between Potter and Granger, “Fine,” He spat, “You lot stay and see if you can learn anything from this Death Eater scum, I’m leaving.”
Weasley stopped in the doorway, looking back at Potter for a moment, “I’ll be downstairs.”
Granger stood, “I’ll go talk to him.”
Blaise noted she didn’t take a side, neither apologising for Weasly’s actions nor glaring at Blaise.
Begrudgingly, he found he respected it.
With Granger's exit, it was only Blaise and Potter, which Blaise found uncomfortable at best, but he was a Zabini, awkward wasn’t a word in his vocabulary.
“So, I was right about the seven horcruxes?” He asked.
Potter frowned, “Yes, you were,” he took on a more thoughtful expression, “Do you know what they could be?”
Blaise sat back on the floor, managing to grimace only slightly, “No, I’d assumed you’d have a lead, and if you’ve got one, you’ve got the rest.”
“How so?” Potter asked, annoyed.
“I mean, the magical signatures on a piece of soul? It’s insane,” He looked away, toying with a stray piece of string on the floor, “That’s where Draco’s got a head start, if he can find even one of them, the rest will practically fall into his lap.”
Potter sighed harshly, scowling at the floor, but didn’t reply.
“So,” Blaise continued, “Where to first?”
Silence.
“You do have a hint? Don’t you?” He asked.
Potter looked away.
“Don’t tell me,” Blaise began, “That you were just going to tramp around Britain hoping something showed up?”
More silence.
“Oh my Salazar you were.”
“Listen-” Potter cut in.
“No!” Blaise exclaimed, “Granger approved this plan? I know being the golden boy of Gryffindor skews your perspective, but really?”
Potter obviously meant to argue, but the door opened suddenly. Potter jumped, hand immediately going for his wand, while Blaise got to his feet.
He lightly tapped his foot twice, and was met with an answering two creaks from the wooden door, “Well, Potter, as much as I’d like to stay and hash this out, I’ve got a prior engagement.”
“What?” Potter asked, dumfounded, staring at the door in thinly veiled suspicion.
Blaise sighed, “Nothing.”
Dealing with non-magical people could be so tiring.
Blaise walked out of the door, not into the hallway, but into the master’s sitting room, where Draco was fixing the collar on his robes, which were a completely different set than the set he wore that morning.
Already used to the more unusual aspects of both Draco and his magical house, Blaise simply moved to help him.
Not that he needed too, Draco was more than capable of fixing his own cufflinks, curse his ambidextrous nature, “If you’d warned me earlier, I would’ve changed too.”
Draco snorted, “Your robes wern’t scorched, what you have on now is fine, besides, I only just got the wards request.”
“Scorched?” Blaise’s eyebrows shot to his forehead, “What could have possibly-”
“Draco!” A heavily accented french voice called, Fleur sweeping into the room with Kreature hot on her heels, “And his wonderful fiancé too! Ça fait longtemps, dis donc!”
“Bonjour, Fleur,” Draco replied, looping one of his arms through Blaise’s as he opened his other to his old friend.
Fleur immediately shot into both of them, wrapping her arms around their shoulders and squeezing tiger than someone as fragile-looking as herself should have been able to, “I’m so glad to see the both of you! I was so worried!”
She stepped back, taking inventory of Blaise and Draco, “Blaise, my dear, it ‘as been too long, I see Draco ‘as corrected ‘is mistakes.”
Draco smiled, “Only some of them, and who knows what may happen yet?”
Only Fleur and Draco’s parents brought out this side, all of the old european houses were pretentious and borderline shakespearean at the best of times, but when confronted with another french person, Draco practically became a poet.
Yet another testament to the fact Draco hadn’t been replaced by a polyjuiced stranger. Blaise needed to get Fleur alone, she out of everyone would understand his concern for Draco.
“My fiancé is prone to overcomplication,” Blaise said simply, “Hello, Fleur, how have you been?”
They continued like that for a while, with small pleasantries that somehow never felt empty when Fleur spoke them, until Draco stood suddenly.
“I’m terribly sorry, give me a moment,” He excused himself, walking out of the room with barely a backwards look.
Rather than the offence Blaise expected, Fleur looked at him with a sombre expression, “Things are serious then?”
Bliase hesitated in answering, but this was Fleur, the closest thing Draco had to a sister, “Yes. Yes, they are.”
Fleur smiled, though it wasn’t happy by any means, “I ‘ave always wondered, why do you not ask ‘im to stay?”
“It’s not my job to ask,” Blaise replied simply, “If I did, he’d probably follow me to Italy that very day, but then where would we be? I ask him to leave, he has to live with the knowledge that The Dark Lord is still out there, and angry with him.” He paused, looking at the cufflinks of his robes, the same bright silver as his fiancés eyes, “I love Draco, but if I give him any reason to leave, he’d take it in a heartbeat.”
“Thus, you protect ‘im from ‘is own cowardice.” Fleur finished, her tone completely devoid of any mockery, but rather filled with understanding, “He is lucky to ‘ave you, Blaise Zabini.”
“There’s no luck,” Blaise laughed, “Just two very smart mothers.”