Chapter 2
Blaise Zabini was...interested, in Harry Potter, one could say.
He did not like using the word interested, because it simply did not encapsulate the many unique ways in which Harry Potter had forcefully barged his way into Blaize Zabini's life.
Blaise held no illusions about the political state of the Wizarding World. Nor did he hold any delusions regarding his mother's power and subsequent contributions to the unrest that was plaguing the Magical World of the UK.
His mother had raised him with no safeguards.
Not to say he was witnessing gruesome acts from a young age-his mother was from a respectable family, mind you. But rather than shoo him away during her business meetings, his mother had offered him a seat next to her.
And so he had learned. He had learned about Italian Wizarding politics, about the Wizengamot, about the political ideals of those light-aligned and those dark-aligned. Blaise had learned how to carefully craft a flirty, light-hearted persona, had learned how to use his charisma to distract away from his prying eyes and swift mind.
He liked to think he had been succeeding at his little balancing act.
His mother was insistent he go to Hogwarts, to get away from the numerous facades she had to hold within their own house. For as much as she was a politician, she was a mother, too. Hogwarts had certainly been an interesting place for Blaise.
He had kept his cards close to his chest throughout his time in Slytherin. Of course, he had friends, but none were too close. Carefully, he had established links with those whose parents were in the inner-circle, maintaining their trust.
And it had worked, for a while. Blaise had been able to sink into the background, flirtatiously charming his way into secret 'study' groups and perhaps even getting his name mentioned in certain people's letters home.
He was trusted enough for people to come to him with their secrets. And he was not heartless, he listened, he helped as much as he could. But he made sure that people did not discover nearly as much about him as he did about them.
Meticulously, studiously, Blaise had kept up his center of gravity, not even stumbling once.
Except, over the summer, a large wrench had been thrown into Blaise's previously seamless act. He had gone home to Italy, the same as every summer. His mother had welcomed him with a kiss on both cheeks, introducing him to her newest male suitor.
The man had given Blaise a bad feeling, but that had been true with most of the men his mother brought home.
She did not indulge in men for romance, for commitment. She took their money, their power, and eventually their lives. When Blaise had first learned of his mother's endeavors, he had been horrified, Now, though, it was simply something he had made peace with.
(It certainly helped that she always chose to ruin the lives of men who deserved it. Those with too much power had to be humbled, after all. Consequences existed for a reason.)
It was another reason she tried to keep him away from home during the majority of the school year. Blaise was aware his mother could handle herself-in fact, he felt pity for the men who believed otherwise.
Regardless, he appreciated her attempts to shield him during the year. Unfortunately, she could not do much during the summer. If a fling was truly a scumbag, she would maybe only keep him around for a year or so. But if it was a man who was annoying but somewhat tolerable, he could stay for two or three years.
The man that Blaise had met over the summer seemed like the first type of man. Blaise had come home, looking forward to the comforting scent of his mothers perfume, only to be greeted by the utterly nauseating smell of nicotine and alcohol.
Immediately, the man had cemented himself as disgusting. The smell, the way he had been lazing on the armchair in the foyer, the way he looked--Blaise knew that summer was going to be one of the more difficult ones. Especially when the man had decided to call Blaise an...unflattering term related to homosexuals.
He did not keep his sexual preferences a particular secret, but he did expect people to have some modicum of tact. Assumptions were dreadfully disfiguring to one's reputation, after all.
Resigning himself to having to deal with uncomfortable people for a little while longer, Blaise had unpacked and greeted his mother properly. She seemed to be as tired of the man's presence as Blaise was, and he had no doubt the man would disappear quite soon.
Blaise had gone to bed the first night of summer, exhausted but glad to be home. And things had been peaceful, quiet, relaxed.
He had not known how truly disastrous things would become. In the middle of the summer, things changed. He should have known better--should have realized that he could not be so comfortable for so long.
His mother had started coming home increasingly unwell. Sickly, even. She would leave early and arrive back late, pale and shaky.
Political tensions increased, and his mother's absence increased as well.
Blaise tried his best to be there for her, but he honestly had no idea how. His relationship with his mother was built upon a polite sense of decorum with faint undertones of affection and fondness. Their relationship was not reliant on displays of love. It was simply how it worked.
He mostly stayed within his own spaces, venturing around the house once every night to leave water and a warm towel on his mother's bed. He would have done more, perhaps, if it weren't for the presence of his mother's affair.
The man was a violent drunk, apparently. As Blaise had found out the difficult way. He was not the first man involved with his mother to lay a hand on Blaise, but he was the most lacking in intelligence.
It was relatively easy for Blaise to stay out of his way, keeping to himself as much as he was able. He religiously read the news every morning, noting the small developments that were occurring each day.
It seemed as though things were increasingly more serious-Voldemort started re-establishing his presence in the public Wizarding World, and people were urging international associations to pick a side. Blaise had known deep inside that he would no longer be able to remain neutral, especially in Slytherin.
The months of the summer had passed by slowly. Blaise felt both satisfied and dissatisfied with the little amount of things he had gotten done over the break.
On the last day of the summer, right before Blaise was about to leave for the International Floo Travel station, his mother gently cupped his face.
He remembered feeling surprised at the motion. They were outside of the Zabini manor, where anyone would be able to see them easily. The last time his mother had shown such blatant affection was when he had fallen quite ill on a trip to Rome.
It was how he had known something was wrong.
Her hands had been cold on his face, eyes piercing into his own. Her thumb gently had gently caressed his cheek.
"Mio tesoro, mio bambino, it is not safe to return." She had murmured, searching his face for a sign of understanding. His eyes had widened, a single flash of clarity striking through his mind.
He had raised his hands up to cover her own.
"I understand, madre."
And Blaise did understand. He had been taught that the day may come where he would not be able to come home.
And he had known that when that day came, his mother would likely die shortly after.
She had slipped off one of her rings, slowly sliding it onto Blaise's finger. He had watched her do it, breath staying in his throat. Everyone in Italy knew that the Zabini heir rings were powerful and dangerous.
The fact that she had given one to Blaise...did not spell good things.
"Follow the ruby ring, yes? He will not lead you astray. Perhaps he will even allow you to forge a new path."
Blaise did not have time to mentally process the meaning behind his mother's words. He did not have time to question why his mother would tell that to him now, of all times. He simply watched as his mother leaned forward and gently pressed her lips to the ring.
"Stay safe, mio bambino. The Contessa is looking to you for a path to the future. Do not disappoint her." Amusement had shone in her eyes, her lively personality vividly shining through her fatigue.
"The Contessa?!" Blaise had exclaimed, panic covering his face. His mother simply raised an eyebrow, corner of her lips quirking up.
"Ah, tesoro, any more chattering and you will be late. Now go. I will write to you when I am able. I ask you do not write me back. You're role relies on your invisibility."
Blaise had swallowed back his numerous questions, straightening up his shoulders and waving to his mother as he walked away.
He could not afford to be unsteady. Questions were a luxury, and Blaise was well aware that luxury was not something freely given in strenuous times.
The Hogwarts Express was on time, as always. Blaise easily resumed his ever-present facade, lightly flirting with Theo while draping himself across Daphne's lap.
Theo and Daphe were, of course, his closest allies. They were in similar positions as him, and the three of them understood that the person they portrayed in public was not who they truly, fully were.
They never spoke about it. They did not need to. Daphne and Theo understood that Blaise Zabini was both the simplest and most complicated person at Hogwarts.
Draco had joined the compartment, and the atmosphere had become tense.
Later that night, Theo had confessed to Blaise that the Malfoy household had some unique guests over the summer. Lord Malfoy's utter lack of care for the safety of his child was unsurprising, and Blaise could not say he was shocked by this development.
The tense atmosphere in the compartment was dissolved quickly. Blaise made a flirtatious and heavily suggestive comment towards Draco, who had immediately become bright red and quite defensive.
Blaise openly smirked at the reaction.
One of the reasons it was so easy for him to maintain this light, flirty personality was because he genuinely found it fun. Sex had never been a forbidden, unspoken sin in Blaise's house. But in pure-blood culture, open displays of romance were considered degenerate and blasphemous.
Theo and Daphne had more than gotten used to Blaise's lack of shame, but Draco was still as uptight and prudish as ever. Even the slightest undertone of sensuality had Draco up in arms.
Blaise couldn't count how many times he had been lectured about 'appropriateness'. Even the teachers had adjusted to his blunt nature.
(Blaise distinctly remembered in fourth year, when Snape had told Blaise to "be safe in his sexual endeavors". The man had looked so uncomfortable, and especially confused when Blaise told him he didn't need to worry about anyone getting pregnant. Snape had not understood until he overheard Blaise jokingly offering to spend the night in Marcus Flint's bed. Really, Blaise wasn't sure how the man hadn't realized until then. Perhaps he needed to wear a neon sign above his head that said "IM GAY" in bold letters.)
Once Blaise had gotten himself seated at the Slytherin table, he had taken inventory of the teachers. Professor Snape had been switched to DADA, and Professor Slughorn was back.
And, perhaps the most interesting thing to Blaise, Harry Potter was back at the school. Whilst everyone was digging into their food, Blaise snuck glances to the Gryffindor table.
Potter was a mystery. He was endearing, breath-taking, and the utter embodiment of beauty in despair. Not only was Blaise enraptured with Potter, it seemed as though his mother's ring was intrigued as well.
Every time Blaise looked at Potter, his ring pulsed. It was an odd sensation, and Blaise knew he needed to study it more. Magic, unbeknownst to most wizards, was not simply a tool that came into existence when needed. It was similar to air.
Despite his family name, he himself barely understood the full extent of the Zabini rings power. He, in that moment, had silently yearned for his mother's smooth voice to explain things to him.
He had cast away the sensation quickly. It would not do for certain people to learn of his emotional attachments. Nor would it do for him to rely on his mother as though he was a defenseless, useless child.
Blaise had finished his food quietly, allowing his mind to run free with half-baked ideas and barely coherent hypotheses. He had not missed the way Snape's eyes had lingered on him for an extra moment, and he would have to be a fool to miss the glances Dumbledore kept sending to the Slytherin table.
You would think the Headmaster would learn the art of subtlety. Perhaps the man was purposefully making his suspicion obvious.
There were better things to do than attempt to figure out the motivations behind the Headmaster's actions. Blaise would not be surprised if thousands went mad every year attempting to define the enigma of Albus Dumbledore.
Later that evening, Blaise had settled down in his bed, Theo across the room from him. They had been room mates every year so far, which was more than fine with Blaise. He would much rather have Theo be his room mate than a messy, undignified prick.
(And yes, he was directly talking about Draco Malfoy. For someone obsessed with appearance, he sure was a messy roommate. The horror stories from Goyle made Blaise shudder in disgust.)
"Blaise." Theo murmured quietly, tone as serious and solemn as always. Blaise made an affirmative noise, staring at the ceiling. He didn't bother turning his head to look at Theo - it was too dark anyways.
"Things are different, this year. You can feel it, right?"
Bringing a hand up to the ceiling, Blaise stared at the barely visible ring on his finger. The gem was a dark ruby red, swirling with unidentifiable energy.
"Yeah. I can feel it. This year is everything we've been preparing for, hm? Voldemort, Dumbledore, and everyone in between."
Theo sighed.
"Can I be honest?" Theo asked.
Blaise raised his eyebrows in interest at the question. He hoped Theo was aware that honesty and danger went hand in hand, that the truth came with invisible strings attached. Honesty was a dangerous game to play.
"Of course, ragazzo carino. Be as honest as you would like." The statement was light and airy, contrasting the undertone of warning being conveyed.
The sound Theo let out was full of exasperation only reserved for Blaise and his Italian terms of endearment. Blaise fought a grin. He loved being a menace to anyone and everyone around him.
"I don't even want to know what you just called me in Italian. I...am unsure of where I stand at the moment. I feel lost between two equally horrible choices."
Well, that was certainly a weighted statement if Blaise had ever heard one. He was honestly a little astonished that Theo had been willing to divulge that much to Blaise. He supposed, now that things were escalating, one had to put full confidence into their allies.
Perhaps he could share a whit of truth with Theo in return.
"As loathe as it is of me to admit my humanity, I do understand where you're coming from. There were developments over the summer with my mother that require me to take on a permanent residence here in Britain, and I am hoping a new path will appear for all of us stuck in between. Because to be perfectly honest, both Dumbledore and Voldemort have the ugliest wardrobes. I do like to think I would have more standing than to allow myself to be led around by a shriveled up crusty man."
Blaise scoffed after his exclamation, disgust running through him at the mere thought of Voldemort and Dumbledore's collective fashion sense. He doubted either of them even knew what Prada was, much less invested in non-ugly clothing.
He was startled out of his thoughts by a quiet chuckle. Blinking a few times, Blaise couldn't help but scowl, a little offended. Here he was, baring his soul to Theo, and in response he was getting mocked.
How rude. Really, did no one teach these British boys any manners?
"You, Blaise Zabini, are the single most vain person I have ever met. Only you would have the audacity to insult two of the most powerful wizards in the world. I am sorry about what happened with your mother, whatever it was."
Blaise audibly gasped in offense.
"Me, vain?"
He knew he was a self-assured person, but he wouldn't go as far as to call himself vain. He simply knew where his strengths were, and made sure everyone else knew them as well.
It wasn't as though he thought of himself as superior to everyone. He knew there were people better than him. Just...there were not many people better than him.
Theo stayed silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was full of disbelief.
"You really don't think your vain? Seriously?"
Okay, that was it. Theodore Nott was stepping too far. The other boy could attack his family, his name, his intelligence, but there was no way in the seven rings of hell that Blaise could be okay with him calling Blaise Zabini vain.
"I'm ending our friendship." Blaise said, one hundred percent serious despite the way the edges of his lips twitched up into a smile.
In the back of his mind, he couldn't help but feel like he had no right to call himself friends with Theo. Friends were mutually trusting of each other. Friends shared their feelings, their struggles with each other. Friendship was based on mutual care and trust, and Blaise knew one could not form a friendship based upon masks and thinly covered misdirection.
Blaise kept all of his feelings close to his chest. He was afraid that they had been holed up for so long that if he were to break the seal, he may just push away everyone around him. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried, had felt human emotion without a rush of nausea overtaking him.
He was the listener, the helper. He doubted anyone would be interested or even care about his emotions. Blaise knew his purpose, knew why most of his friends kept him around.
He was no fool.
"Oh no, however will I live on without the companionship of the god among men, Blaise Zabini?" Theo said sarcastically.
Instead of responding, Blaise just turned his back to Theo, facing the wall. He shut his eyes, resolutely ignoring the warm happy feeling arising in his chest. Even when Blaise was spiraling, Theo still managed to make him feel like he was wanted.
"Shut up. I'm going to sleep. A face as pretty as mine needs proper rest, although I doubt you would understand." He mumbled, pretending he was on his way to unconsciousness.
He no longer felt guilty for pretending. His life was dependent on it, now. Pretending he knew what he was doing, pretending he was stable, pretending he remembered how to be real and human and alive. Pretending his mind wasn't just a patchwork of schemes and facades.
"Thank you, Blaise, for talking with me. Seriously. Goodnight." Theo murmured.
And then the room was silent. Blaise could hear Theo's breathing even out from the other side of the room. He wished he could feel the blissful quiet of sleep.
Sighing, Blaise buried himself further under his blankets. Subconsciously, he clutched onto his mothers ring, the cold metal unsettling and comforting at the same time.
His mother was going to die soon. And then it would just be him.
The Zabini family name, built up on the throes of power and ambition. Their legacy set on the shoulders of a boy who did not know his future, who did not know ambition beyond surviving.
His ancestors must be rolling in their graves.
It was at times like this, when the room was silent, when there was no light, that Blaise's thoughts ran wild. That his mind traveled to a darker place, to a place that Blaise avoided religiously.
Plunged into the depths of that place, a sudden weight overtook him. He wondered if his mother would be disappointed in him. In the person that he had become.
It was a silly thought, because deep in his chest, Blaise knew his mother was disappointed. He was a useless boy, a weak child who relied on others for comfort and help. He was afraid, he was hurt, and he was oh so fragile.
The very first man his mother had brought home had called him a pathetic little boy. Part of Blaise felt like he was always stuck there.
He had never grown up from that pathetic little boy, cowering away in the corner. He had never learned, had he? Never been able to dry his tears and stand up stronger and better than ever.
No. No, all he had learned to do was push that little boy away into a corner. Lock him in the bathroom and ignore his screaming and crying to be loved. Ignore his begging for someone, anyone to hug him, to comfort him and keep him safe.
Sometimes, the lines blurred between Blaise Zabini and the unnamed, locked up boy in the bathroom. When he was especially lonely, it became easy to feel as though he was trapped, stuck in a constant state of crying and begging.
And no one would ever hear him, because the house was empty, anyways.
When Blaise finally fell into sleep, he dreamt of a boy with a lightning bolt scar, pulling him out of the dark pit threatening to swallow him hole.
The boy's face was shockingly happy, almost as though he was glad to see Blaise. It all felt so...out of place. The idea that someone would be happy to see him, much less expend effort to save him, was unfamiliar and unsettling.
All things considered, being saved was a nice feeling. Especially saved by Harry Potter, of all people. By the boy who was fearless and brave and afraid in every jaw-dropping way.
Blaise awoke from his dream, weary and fatigued.
The dream, of course, was a falsehood. Blaise was not nearly so selfish as to force Harry Potter to care about someone like him--the boy had plenty of reasons to be distrustful of Blaise, and the last thing he wanted to do was to push away the one person who gave him any semblance of hope.
He wished there was a way to contact Potter, to let him know that there are more people supporting him than he thinks. It was an idea worth looking into.
But that would require Blaise to not only lose his anonymity, but also lose the iron tight grasp he had on his emotions.
There must be a way for him to communicate whilst still keeping his name out of the fray. Normally, Blaise would not entertain an idea like this so heavily.
However, his circumstances weren't exactly normal by any means. It was late, Blaise was tired, and all he could think about was the fact that he was drowning and he did not know how he would survive if things went to shit.
Because at the end of the day, that was the true Slytherin spirit, wasn't it? Not bravery, not intelligence, not kindness, but survival.
A raw, human urgency to save yourself.
It was much easier to think about survival when he was Blaise Zabini, free and loose and fun. A risk taker, someone who lived for the adrenaline. Someone who flirted with danger, who held no care for the limits of his mortality, all because he was so sure he could pull himself out of whatever happened.
Survival became harder to think about when he was that little boy, trapped away while he listened to people die, wondering when he was going to be next. When he was hurt and alone, nothing to save him, no one to rescue him.
Sighing quietly, Blaise resigned himself to staring at the ceiling while he attempted to fall back asleep. Theo was an incredibly light sleeper, and Blaise did not want to disrupt the little rest the boy was managing to get.
Everyone in Slytherin knew that Theo was somewhat of a Ravenclaw when it came to academics. Blaise had seen firsthand how he was willing to sacrifice basic human needs such as sleep and food for a good grade.
And a sleep-deprived Theo was something no one wanted to deal with. Not even Draco Malfoy was willing to keep company with Theo when he was like that, which was saying something, considering the significance of Theo's family name.
Malfoy was drawn to power like a moth to a flame. Theo and Daphne assumed he had gotten that trait from his father, while Blaise just insisted Draco had gotten his favorite toy taken away one too many times and started realizing he could just ask his powerful friends to buy him a new one.
Let it be said that Blaise Zabini does not like Ron Weasley, but he does share one thing with the other boy, which is an innate hatred for Draco Malfoy.
Theo groaned loudly, startling Blaise. The other boy's breath evened out a few seconds later, and Blaise found he almost wanted to throttle Nott out of pure annoyance.
Lying still, Blaise felt a wave of frustration run through his nerves. The lack of productivity was what bothered him the most.
He was fine with the lack of sleep--it wasn't anything new for him, after all. But the knowledge that he could be using this time *doing* something, anything, was what frustrated him. Time was something he felt like he was always running out of, and right now it felt like he was wasting a precious resource.
Blaise wasn't sure how long he tossed and turned in his bed, attempting to get some form of rest. As it turned out, he had passed a good amount of time laying down and doing nothing, because Theo's alarm started going off the moment Blaise started losing his already little sanity.
He never thought he would be grateful to hear the grating sounds of Theo's alarm, yet here he was. Theo, even diligent, woke up and immediately shut off his alarm, not even sparing a glance towards Blaise before going to brush his teeth.
Sitting up, Blaise relished in the feeling of being as noisy as he wanted to while he stretched his limbs. As he got out of bed and starting putting together his outfit for the day, he made the executive decision that he was going to be an absolute nuisance to Theo.
The boy didn't necessarily do anything other than be a light sleeper, but Blaise prided himself on being an absolute menace and pest to everyone equally. If someone had annoyed him in some way, they would know.
After Blaise shimmied himself into his outfit (a silk button up, chiffon pants, and a darling gold choker) he combed through his hair with his fingers, frowning a little at the way some strands stuck up. He would put hair gel in, but he didn't particularly want to suffer Malfoy's patronizing lecture about how Blaise was 'following him'.
If his mother was here, she would wet her hands in the sink and then smooth down the strands sticking up, fingers gentle.
But she wasn't here, and likely would never live long enough to smooth down Blaise's hair ever again. So he resigned himself to looking unkempt, pushing down the irritation that came every time he thought about his mussy appearance.
By the time Theo came back to the room, Blaise was sitting on his bed and had put a deceivingly nice smile on his face. Theo, still drowsy, squinted at him suspiciously. Blaise just maintained his smile, mischief dancing in his eyes.
"Why are you smiling? Who did you kill? Please don't tell me you need my help to bury a body. It's much too early for such physically taxing activities. At least let me eat breakfast first."
Blaise's smile widened. He stood up from the bed, holding an arm out for Theo to grab onto.
"Oh, dear Theo, can't I just be happy for once? Hm? Perhaps I'm simply in a good mood from feeling well-rested. Or, maybe I would be well-rested, if it weren't for the fact that my room mate is an incredibly light sleeper. Alas, I suppose he cannot control what he does in his sleep...if only there was a way to get him to understand how his habits limit his room mate's productivity..."
Patiently, Blaise gave Theo a moment to process what he had said, unable to hide his amusement when Theo promptly shoved Blaise's arm, scowling.
"Fuck off. You are so dramatic, you know that? You know, I *would* put up a silencing spell, if I wasn't worried you were going to murder me in my sleep."
Blaise clicked his tongue, walking over to the door.
"You know better. I could do that even without a silencing spell. But I won't, because I would rather not scare off any future love interests. Could you imagine what murdering you might do to my attractiveness? Although, if I find someone who is willing to disregard murder as an offense, then I will likely entertain killing you."
He was casual in his statement, walking down the hall alongside Theo while he said it. Blaise had learned the art of planning ahead a very long time ago. To him, it was important to know how and when to kill your allies, because there was a very likely chance they may turn against you.
Apparently, planning murders was not a normal person thing. Evident by the way Theo stopped in his tracks, turning to look at Blaise with horror.
"Has anyone ever told you that you've lost the plot? Completely and utterly fallen off the bandwagon. My father supported Voldemort, who ultimately killed him, and I'm pretty sure he was more sane than you."
Blaise just shrugged, waltzing into the Slytherin common room.
"Who said I was ever on the bandwagon in the first place? All that bumping around wouldn't be good for my complexion, anyways."
Theo just shook his head, muttering something under his breath. Blaise didn't bother attempting to discern what he was saying, instead excitedly approaching Daphne. She was idly conversing with Pansy, a master in polite small talk.
"Daphne, my darling! How are you this fine morning?" Blaise asked enthusiastically, draping himself across Daphne's shoulders.
She sighed in exasperation, shaking him off. Blaise pouted at her, but she seemed uncaring of his disappointment. His friends were so boring sometimes.
"How do you have so much energy this early. I think you are the only person who isn't utterly dreading the first day of classes." Daphne murmured.
Theo just shook his head at Daphne.
"I think he did some sort of illicit substance whist I was getting ready in the bathroom. It is the only explanation I can think of for his vivacity."
Daphne simply sighed, as though the idea was one she had considered numerous times. Theo's expression turned more solemn as he placed a hand on Daphne's shoulders. She raised her eyebrows in surprise, staring at him.
"Daphne, I am rooming with an actual murderer. Please help."
Blaise made a noise of protest, rolling his eyes.
"And you want to call me dramatic! Daphne, darling, don't listen to a word he says. Planning a murder is not the same as committing one."
Daphne glanced between Theo and Blaise for a few moments. Eventually, she locked arms with Blaise. He grinned, winking at Theo, who stood still looking betrayed.
Interlocked, the two started making their way towards breakfast, Theo scrambling to catch up with them.
"I can't believe you would take his side, Daphne. I feel as though both of you are liable to attempt bodily harm to me at any moment."
Daphne just casually smirked at him.
"That's because we are. Ah, I believe someone wants to speak to us."
Draco Malfoy had decided to insert himself, quite forcefully, into the trio's formation. He seemed to struggle a little to match their pace, but managed to catch up. He was now standing shoulder to shoulder with Blaise, who looked casual as always.
It would do no one any good to show wariness in front of Draco Malfoy. The boy would suck it up like a leech, preying on such emotions.
"Malfoy." Theo politely nodded at Malfoy, who nodded back. Malfoy looked a far cry from his usual poised self, cheekbones gaunt and eyes dull. None of them made any move to comment on it though.
They all knew how this went. Within Slytherin walls, they could be as vicious and venomous as they wanted, but outside of Slytherin, they needed to keep such grievances buried. It was both a combination of putting up a united front and the age old Pureblood tradition of not making a scene in public.
Which, in Blaise's opinion, was quite dumb. If it were up to him, he would slander those who annoyed him in the Great Hall. Alas, he simply had to make peace with verbally destroying infuriating students in his head rather than aloud.
"Zabini. My condolences regarding your mother. It is quite terrible to hear of her condition. Send her well wishes on behalf of the Malfoy family, will you?"
Blaise's easy smile tightened. He had not been aware of his mother publicizing her unwell state, and there was a rather large chance that she had not spread such information. It was likely someone caught wind of her condition and decided to gossip.
The idea that others knew of his mother's medical plights was angering. Malfoy could send well wishes all he wanted, but he would never be the one to care for her. It was obvious he was simply being polite rather than showing true concern for her well-being.
Malfoy could hear about all of the gossip, but he would never know what it was really like. He would never know what it was like to wipe his mother's head with a warm towel, to tuck her into a blanket and hope she awoke magically cured. To listen to her drop glasses because she was barely strong enough to hold herself upright.
He slowly exhaled.
It was no one's fault--the information likely would have been leaked anyways. He had to relax. This was not the time nor the place for such emotional distress.
"Thank you, Malfoy. I will be sure to pass the message on. In return, can you inform your father that his dinner robes look especially flattering on him? I mean, he *does* have quite a volatile personality, but those muscles..."
Like magic, Malfoy's face lit up as though it had just been set on fire.
The boy sputtered, speedily walking away from Blaise. The pit in his stomach was starting to dissolve at the easy change in topic. Anything to switch the conversation from his mother.
"Really? Malfoy's father? Your taste in men is absolutely appalling." Theo looked utterly disgusted by the thought of Blaise finding Malfoy Sr. attractive. He just shrugged in response to Theo as they entered the Great Hall.
"I, personally, have to agree with Theo on this occasion. I don't see the attractiveness of Malfoy's father. Narcissa, on the other hand-"
Daphne did not have the chance to wax poetic about Narcissa Malfoy, because Theo momentarily shoved a croissant into her mouth. Daphne glared at him, begrudgingly chewing on the food and taking a seat.
Sighing in relief, Theo sat down as well.
"Theodore Nott, if I didn't know any better, I would say you were homophobic." Blaise exclaimed, ignoring the odd looks the other Slytherins were sending him. They should know better than to be surprised by his comments at this point.
Theo shook his head in disbelief.
Blaise took the opportunity to snatch some toast off of Theo's plate. The other boy looked unsurprised by this action. Blaise couldn't help but pout. They had both gotten far too used to his antics. He needed to figure out another way to keep them on their toes.
"I am literally bisexual. It's not my fault both of you have horrible taste." Theo muttered.
Daphne, now finished with her food, raised an eyebrow at Theo. Blaise perked up. Daphne only made that expression whenever she had blackmail on someone.
"Theo, dear, need I remind you that you once found Lupin attractive?" She said this quietly, so as not to garner the attention of everyone else at the table. Pureblood's attitude towards creatures was extremely backwards, and any support towards them would probably get you shunned.
Theo scowled at her, cheeks flushed. Blaise wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Theo shoved him in the arm.
"He has a comforting presence, okay! And he has a nice fashion sense. Better him than Lucius Malfoy."
Blaise blinked a few times, narrowing his eyes at Theo. Daphne looked at Theo pityingly, seemingly knowing the grave mistake the other boy had just made. Even Pansy, who was sitting across the table, looking like she felt bad for Theo.
"Theodore. Did you just say that he has a nice fashion sense? Did I hear that correctly?"
Theo's eyes widened in fear. It seemed as though he had just realized the hole he had dug himself into.
"I thought I taught you better than this. I will be owling your mother tomorrow. I am taking you on a shopping day over Yule break. Obviously your wardrobe needs help, if you think mismatched cardigans and sweater vests are good fashion."
There was no way Blaise would allow one of his friends (there it was again, that little voice that whispered that he had no right to call them that) to walk around thinking Remus Lupin had a good fashion sense.
Now, don't get him wrong. Blaise could certainly get behind the aesthetic of Lupin's wardrobe--the academic casual style. But Lupin's execution of said style was...horrific. The man once wore a chartreuse colored sweater to class.
Chartreuse. Anyone who owned clothing with that color should get it burned immediately. Even just the thought of the horrific green tone made Blaise shudder.
Theo groaned, burying his head into Daphne's shoulder. She comfortingly patted his back. Daphne and Theo shared a mutual distaste for shopping. The only person who had ever enjoyed shopping days with Blaise was his mother, and that was because she had taught him all he needed to know about fashion.
Blaise didn't want to think about the way his heart ached, or the way his chest tightened up at the reminder.
"Yes, yes. Poor Theo, having to go shopping with the most fashionable person in Hogwarts. How sad." Blaise exclaimed, waving his hand around dramatically.
Theo lifted his head up from Daphne's shoulder to emphatically glare at him.
"Has anyone ever told you how egotistical you are?"
Sighing, Blaise cast a sidelong glance at the head of blonde hair across the table.
"At least I'm not nearly as bad as Malfoy."
Said boy leaned over at the mention of his name, glancing at the trio with his patented prattish smirk.
"Talking about me, I see. I know, it must be quite hard for you to contain your numerous praises about the famed Malfoy name-"
"I was actually talking about how much I would like to bed your father. I know you Purebloods are stingy about public displays of homosexuality, but I think I look hot enough for at least one kiss."
Again, Malfoy was flustered to the point of speechlessness. Theo and Daphne shook their heads at Blaise and Malfoy. You would think Malfoy would learn at this point that Blaise could easily shut him down at any moment.
Blaise brought a hand up to his chin, thinking.
"On second thought, your father does actually work with Fudge. The crustiness has probably spread to him at this point. Such a shame, too. Oh well."
Malfoy opened his mouth to respond, before abruptly choosing to shut it.
A good idea, because Professor Snape had decided to stroll near the bench they were sitting on. He glanced at Theo and Daphne, before switching his glare to Blaise.
Blaise mustered up the most innocent look he possible could bear. Snape just stared back at him, obviously not believing the act for a second. Eventually, he looked away from Blaise, setting his sights on Malfoy.
"Mr. Malfoy, please see me following your first class period. I have some topics I would like to discuss with you."
With that, he briskly turned around and walked away. His black cloak billowed behind him. Blaise eyed Malfoy curiously. Malfoy didn't look surprised at the meeting proposal. In fact, he almost looked relieved.
Eyes sharpening, Blaise narrowed his gaze. There was obviously something going on with Malfoy outside of his general political alignment, and Blaise couldn't help but feel invested. Especially considering the apparent house guest the Malfoy's had over during the summer.
If Blaise remained content with hearing news at the same time the rest of the student body did, he would be dead before Yule break. Rolling his shoulders back, Blaise offered a relaxed languid smirk to Theo.
"Lets go to our first class. Impressions are everything, after all, and we don't want to show up late do we?"
Theo just pulled him down the hallway. Daphne had since departed them, her first class halfway across the castle.
Blaise had DADA first, along with a few Gryffindors. He couldn't help but feel a niggling hope that a certain Boy Who Lived was in class with him. As grateful as he was for Theo's company, he wanted to solve the ever changing riddle of Harry Potter.
Numerous tutors had informed him over the years that he was relentless when faced with a challenge. And, as Blaise slid into a seat adjacent to the Gryffindor with a lightning bolt scar, he couldn't help but think that Harry Potter was certainly a challenge.
Potter didn't even glance at him, but that was fine with Blaise. He wasn't there to make conversation with Potter, nor antagonize him.
He just wanted to do what he did best--stay silent and observe.
Potter looked like he was struggling to stay upright in his chair. His hair was mussy as always, sticking up in odd directions. From what Blaise could see, his eyes had deep bags under them, skin thin and pale.
It was obvious that his outfit was haphazardly thrown together. Gryffindor robes tossed messily over an over sized threadbare salmon color shirt and loosely fitted black pants that looked seconds away from falling off of his hips, if it weren't for the worn brown belt holding everything together.
Normally, viewing such an outfit on someone would fill Blaise with criticism.
It was an automatic response, and if he could stop it he would. He was the child of a politician and a fashion designer. He was raised in such an environment where the way someone looked, the clothes they wore, could immediately tell you everything you needed to know.
Blaise had been in the public eye almost every time he stepped outside, ruthlessly scrutinized and criticized. The habit of judgement was instilled in him, and it was something he tried to keep to himself. He knew appearance wasn't everything, but in his world, it was certainly a lot.
He immediately was overwhelmed with numerous ideas about how Potter could make his outfit look more put together, but Blaise shook those thoughts away. Potter had more pressing things to worry about, after all.
For some reason, Potter made the messy look work. It was...weird. His mussed up hair framed his face, somehow highlighting how angular his face was. And his clothes, despite the fact that they were two sizes two big, still managed to outline his lean Seeker build.
Blaise didn't think he could find this look attractive on anyone else. He wasn't sure why his mind was so willing to make an exception for Potter. It seemed like no matter what he did, the boy was always present in the back of his mind.
Maybe he could consult Theo about it later. Perhaps he would have some idea as to why Harry Potter seemed to occupy every corner of his mind. It was a little exhausting, if only for the fact that clearing his mind for occlumency would take that much more effort.
Blaise sincerely doubted whoever was invading his mind would want to see image upon image of Harry Potter's mussed up hair, but what did he know.
It seemed like he had been dozing off for perhaps a little too long, because Professor Snape was in the middle of a lecture. He was looking at Blaise expectantly, and it was then that Blaise realized everyone else had their textbook open.
Flipping to some random page, Blaise leaned forward, trying to look like he was paying attention. In reality, he was more focused on side eyeing Potter, who was dutifully ignoring Snape's ever present glare.
Every few seconds, someone would try to antagonize the boy. Whether it be Crabbe making a fool out of himself whispering rude comments to Potter, or Professor Snape calling him out for something minuscule, it seemed no one wanted the boy to actually learn anything.
What was concerning was Potter's complete and utter indifference. Normally, when faced with some sort of unfair comment, Potter would be rightfully protesting. Defending himself adamantly-as he should, of course.
But today, Potter just sat silently. It was unsettling, and something inside Blaise itched to poke at Potter just to get the boy to react.
This wasn't normal behavior. Which meant that Blaise should know better than to take this at face value.
Slowly, Blaise diverting his attention away from listening to Snape. He focused intensely on the magic surrounding him, and his ring pulsed around his finger.
He wanted to enhance his vision and his hearing, and he had been attempting wandless magic recently. Of course, he had been experiencing varying levels of success with the skill, but he had no doubt he would be able to train himself.
Every child from any sort of high standing family attended a ritual rite ceremony. It was always done in private, by powerful wixen whose names had been long erased from history. The purpose of the ceremony was to see just how powerful the child would grow up to be.
It was, if Blaise was being honest, quite a disgusting ritual. The only reason families did it was to make sure their children were going to be suitable heirs. Blaise had heard horror stories of parents disowning children because they were simply too weak.
His mother had taken him when he was around ten. A year before he had gone to Hogwarts. She did not do it to see if he would be suitable, but rather to make sure he was able to gain proper tutelage for his magic.
About a month before attending the ritual, Blaise had been bedridden with the Wizard's flu. They had called in a physician, who had promptly informed them that Blaise's magic levels were much too high for his body to contain.
The influx of magic, he had been told, would make spells that were generally very draining quite painless for Blaise to perform. That is, after he gets a handle on preventing the magic from burning up his core, therefore effectively killing him.
Ever since the ritual, he had been made aware of the fact that magic was constantly leaking out of him. It surrounded him, almost as though it was drawn to him. He had been practicing drawing upon said magic to perform wandless spells, but had yet to manage.
He figured now was as good a time as ever. He felt the magic, attempting to shape it into something tangible.
Whatever the fuck happened was not wandless magic.
Blaise wasn't really sure how, but his hearing and vision had enhanced significantly. To the point where he could hear Potter muttering under his breath, and see the words on Potter's parchment out of the corner of his eye.
He would definitely have to research this later, because he was unsure of what in the fuck he just did. For now, he tried to bury his shock inside of him, focusing on Potter.
Before, Blaise had thought Potter was so focused on taking notes that he didn't want to lose focus and react to the taunts being thrown his way.
Now, though, Blaise could see differently. Potter was writing notes down on the parchment, just not notes about whatever the fuck Professor Snape was talking about.
(In the back of his mind, Blaise couldn't help but silently groan at the lecture he would be getting from Theo later. The boy had no tolerance for any of his friends slacking off during class. It was so worth it though, just to see the way Potter's brows furrowed and his forehead scrunched up a little when he was writing.)
How peculiar.
Potter was writing about concealment charms. More specifically, though, he was writing about researching concealment charms in the library. Underneath that, he scribbled a little comment in parenthesis about also looking into locking charms for everyday items.
Now, Blaise made it a habit to keep out of other people's business. He had a very strict rule he set for himself, which was that he would not get involved unless someone made the first move. It was better for all parties that way.
If Blaise stuck his head into a situation without knowing everything, he would be enemies with just about everyone at this point.
But, he did have an ulterior motive. It would be ultimately beneficial for him to make contact with Potter. Especially if said contact involved him aiding Potter.
(It just so happened that concealment charms were a Zabini family specialty. Part of his fathers patented fashion line had involved pants with pockets that would bite the hands of anyone who attempted to reach into them without previous consent. According to his mother, it had been a huge hit with witch all around the Wizarding world.)
Now he just had to figure out how to get in contact with Potter without all of Slytherin knowing. He knew, in the back of his mind, that this was maybe not the best idea. That reaching out to Harry Potter could very quickly backfire, and have Blaise pleading for his life within seconds.
And yet, the larger part of his mind found he didn't really care all too much.
---------
Classes felt about as frustrating and exhausting as Harry remembered them to be.
Don't get him wrong-he really did enjoy certain academic aspects of Hogwarts. The Wizarding World was full of fascinating information that Harry felt like he could never get tired of. Each teacher had a different style of translating information to the class, and the nuances in the way each professor taught was supremely interesting.
But classrooms themselves were...well, they were difficult.
Harry had always struggled in school, whether it be Muggle or otherwise. Dudley had consistently singled him out as a 'trouble-maker', and teachers simply didn't pay enough attention to notice he was wrong. They simply believed Dudley's lies.
When Harry had been younger, he too had believed Dudley. Believed that maybe he really was a trouble maker, and that was why he was always punished. Now, though, he knew better.
It didn't help that Harry struggled to see things even with his glasses. Although that wasn't a surprise, considering Aunt Petunia had gotten these glasses from the lost and found, rather than an eye doctor. Plus the numerous amounts of times he had received blunt force trauma to his head.
He was looking into eye charms, but from what he found, they were really quite risky. Healing magic in general was dangerous unless you had spent years of going through laborious specialized training--the human body was complex and confusing, and magic could easily get lost.
Harry had briefly entertained the thought of asking Madam Pomfrey about fixing his vision, but quickly thought better of it. She had been nice enough in the past, but Harry knew it was only part of her professional persona. Her position as Dumbledore's only medi-witch gave Harry enough distrust to put him off of asking her for any help outside of urgent care.
He would just have to either wait until he could figure out the more complex medical spells, or get enough Muggle money to get prescription glasses. Although he doubted he would be able to get a summer job, considering the whole mass murderer thing.
(Perhaps he could ask Hermione if she had done any sort of Muggle work in the past. She was more involved in the Muggle world, after all.)
Another issue was the lack of visual explanations. So many teachers at Hogwarts tended to stick to lectures, rather than visuals. Harry could count on one hand the number of classes he had where teachers made use of the chalkboard, drawing up diagrams on the things they were speaking about.
Harry found it near impossible to pay attention for the full duration of classes, especially when some of them had such limited interactive activity.
Learning was enjoyable, but school felt impossible for Harry to keep up with. He tried his best-he really did, and he didn't think he was that dumb-it was just...difficult.
At least it was only the first day of classes. The moment he had walked into DADA, he knew it was going to be an especially difficult period of time to sit through.
Not only was the class mixed with Slytherins, Snape was also front and center. Harry knew his father hadn't been the nicest to Snape, but honestly, he couldn't give less of a fuck.
It was Snape's responsibility to treat his students like they were individuals, and frankly, Snape failed in that regard when it came to Harry. He didn't give a shit about how helpful the man had been to Dumbledore, or how he had almost died or whatever.
Tough luck. Harry had almost died multiple times, and you didn't see him bullying children for what their fathers did.
(Draco Malfoy didn't count. The boy was a menace in his own right, and Harry insulted him because he was a stupid prat who's ego was so big that he had to be trying to compensate for something.)
Harry slid into his seat, ignoring the way his eyes burned from being forced open for so long, and the way his lower back ached from the uncomfortable chair.
About as soon as class started, Professor Snape immediately singled him out. It was snide little comments, muttered under his breath just loud enough so the whole entire class could hear.
Neither Ron nor Hermione were in this class with him. Harry had promised the both of them that he would be fine--if he could survive Voldemort he could survive some schoolyard teasing--but had placated any further worry by assuring them they could walk him to his next class.
Surprisingly, a Slytherin had chose to sit next to him. Harry didn't quite remember his name, really, but he was quite dashing. Generally, Harry tried not to associate with Slytherins. Not out of any sort of prejudice, but mostly because the political jargon they seemed to always speak about made his head hurt.
The Slytherin almost looked like a model. Harry was pretty sure if the boy ever decided to step foot in Muggle London, he would immediately get scouted by some sort of agency.
His skin was dark and smooth, and Harry had half a mind to ask about his skin care routine. He had barely any hairs out of place, dark short curls resting atop a wrinkle-free face.
Before he had the chance to further examine the princely boy next to him, Snape snarkily said his name. Harry sighed quietly, not even paying attention to whatever he was being reprimanded for.
Instead, he decided to take 'notes'. Of course, no one could really tell that wasn't what he was doing-he had managed to cast a wandless illusion charm. Anyone with ill intention who looked at his paper would think he really was just taking notes.
In reality, he was writing a little list for himself. Sometimes, his mind whirled with so many thoughts and ideas and responsibilities that Harry had no idea where to even begin fulfilling them. He found it helped to make a list.
The first thing he needed to do was research charms. Right now, he was carrying his messenger bag around unprotected, and that was a huge risk. Next, he needed to do just a few more experiments regarding his wandless magic...
The list had helped, Harry found. He went through the rest of his morning classes using up all of his energy to stay awake.
Divination was just as boring as always. Harry had seriously considered taking a nap, but Ron had discouraged against it. At least the other boy was in the class with him. Harry didn't think he would be able to survive that class all alone.
And then after that was Potions, which was...odd. Slughorn was a weird man, a weird teacher, and just in general an uncomfortable presence. Harry consciously tried to ignore his comments about Harry's mother, and just his general...grossness.
Harry had never been more grateful for lunch. He had plopped down next to Ron, who was engaged in conversation with Neville about quidditch. Harry hadn't known Neville kept track of professional quidditch teams, but apparently his gran was a big fan.
Once Harry had finished his food, he thought about standing up and making a stop by the library before the lunch period ended. But then, something odd happened.
An owl dropped by Harry. He didn't recognize it, which immediately put him on edge. There was an envelope dropped, with a beautiful bird wax seal on it. Eyes darting around the table, Harry snatched the letter up.
No one else was paying any attention, so he figured he could open it. He didn't really want to deal with any sort of questions right now, not when he himself barely knew what was inside the letter.
It was written in refined, neat cursive. Harry was a little in awe at how someone could make handwriting look like art.
Dear Harry Potter,
I am aware this letter may bring alarm to you. I do not blame you, considering the countless threats you have faced in the past.
I do not wish you any ill intent. I understand if you do not believe me quite yet, however I hope I can prove to you that I only have your best interests in mind. I could not help but notice that you seem to be in need of a spell to keep your belongings safe from wandering hands.
It just so happens that I have a book with a page about that. If you look further into the envelope, you will find a shrunken piece of paper-it is a page from the book. I implore you to make use of the various spells listed.
Of course, you are your own person.
I have to remain anonymous, due to the fact that I would be in extreme danger if anyone were to catch sight of this letter and see my real name.
For now, just know that I am a sixth year at Hogwarts who knows of the war to come, and would like to survive long enough to perhaps speak in person.
Sincerely,
BZ
Lo and behold, the stranger had actually sent a page that was torn out of a book. Harry didn't bother checking for curses or anything. He didn't care all too much.
He fought to hold back a sigh. Not only did he have a Dark Lord to deal with, now he also had a secret admirer who wanted to help him.
Lovely. And who said sixth year was boring?