Blaise Zabini & Lily Potter
By the time Harry finds him it is almost curfew. The second floor girl’s bathroom, Harry thinks, is no place for a teenage guy. (A lesson to keep in mind.) But he digresses. He is just glad to have found Blaise at all.
The first question on his tongue is a pitiful “are you mad at me and is it my fault and if it is what can I do to change it,” but, upon second thought, he decides not to voice it.
Kneeling beside the sink, looking up at it, is Blaise. His arms are lax at his side. His eyes are clouded and locked at one set point. Harry images a black void tying him to the spot. Blaise does not look at him when he comes in.
Blaise does not even seem to notice that he entered at all.
Even if Harry didn't know him so well, it is a sight obviously concerning. Harry kneels beside him, gently taking Blaise’s limp hand in his own. He locks their fingers together. “What’s wrong?”
Blaise turns his head to look at him, a slow rotation. It is chilling. It is also a start.
“What’s wrong?” Harry repeats. He is reminded of Erada. When the future calls the body answers.
“Something,” Blaise says, his throat thick with a build up of saliva. There is a sticky texture to his voice. Wrong. “Something is going to happen here.”
You do not speak in that tone if that something is good. So many bad prophecies lately. Harry wonders what that’s all about.
He wonders how it’s all connected. If it is at all.
“Can you say what?” Harry asks, voice gentle. His mind is swarming with pieces of a puzzle whose shape he just can’t quite make out. The Minister. His father. His power. Seers. Seers, Seers, Seers, so many of them. His own death, which a part of him must have known is coming, even before he was told about it. How can something so outrageous be so unsurprising at the same time?
“I…” Blaise’s eyebrows furrow. “I can’t.”
“That’s alright,” says Harry. It might not be. “We should go to the kitchens. Grab you a snack, okay--?”
“You don’t get it,” insists Blaise.
What Harry gets is that Blaise has been here all day. What Harry gets is that something will happen here. What Harry gets is that that’s it. There is nothing more that can be known and, at some point, Harry must stop caring. “You’re right,” says Harry, still holding his hand. “I want you out of here and out of this funk. I only care about you right now. Do you get that?”
“If you care about me,” says Blaise, “then I need you to care about this.”
Harry huffs. At the very least, he tells himself, he isn’t mad at me. “Okay. Alright. Why can’t you explain your omen?”
“Cause…”
“Mhm?”
“Cause,” he looks back at the sink. “Cause of things I can’t say, either.” His mind can make out the black void, tethered and exhausting the space. He has no idea what it means, what the details entail and what this sink means or hides -- but the fact that he can’t say it to Harry means a lot more than anything that could be shown.
Tom. It always comes back to Tom and if you ask Blaise, that isn’t fair. He’s cursed him and now Blaise’s tongue is far too tied to say what needs to be said. It isn’t fair. It is Blaise’s fault, too. Forgiveness is hard when the perpetrator is yourself; when the act of unkindness is still ongoing.
“Do you want me to write that down?” Blaise laughs, just a little. This is Harry’s version of caring. Blaise… appreciates it, like he does with everything Harry does.
“If you would,” answers Blaise. He watches with still vacant eyes as Harry unzips his schoolbag and starts flipping through his books for his journal. He watches with vacant eyes and a warm, overflowing heart.
What did he do to deserve this? To deserve such love, kindness -- consideration, even when there is little to consider? It’s not fair. It’s not right. Blaise does a lot for Harry -- does what he can; and, always, there is something new to be done, some new threat to fend off, some new injury to recover from -- but it is not what he does that matters…. But what he does not.
And he doesn’t do enough. (Though he is not alone in that matter. Tom. His mind circles always back to Tom.) He does not tell Harry about his own bodysharing; did not move to tell Harry the truth about Tom as soon as he heard it. Ego. Overconfidence. Merlin. What was it that came over him? The same thing that has been coming over him for years -- the pink, large stench that smothers his mind and half of Harry’s heart. Or is it just Blaise? He remembers telling Harry that he doubted if he was himself; if his power made him a different person, saying so completely unaware of who it was he was talking to.
Maybe, thinks Blaise, I am the problem. Maybe it is not Tom or Lily or the things I know -- but the fact that I know them and do not say them. I am the problem because I am the constant.
(The constant, of course, alongside Tom. But he supposes his bigotry cannot die with self-reflection.)
“I have something to tell you,” says Blaise. Harry stops uncapping his ink jar, setting it on the ground beside him with a soft clink.
He puts all his attention on him. “Okay,” says Harry. (Even his voice is attractive; even his voice is more than I deserve, thinks Blaise, almost disparaging in it.)
“You’re going to be mad,” says Blaise. His voice, despite this, is casual. He must set off no red flags. He does not know how Lily has stayed undiscovered this long, but if he had to guess, it’d be a variation of what Blaise had already experienced. Lily takes over; Lily gets someone to erase Harry’s memory. He needs Lily not to take over. If that is in any way possible, then it would be so because Harry has a heads up that Lily doesn’t.
He knows Harry well. It should not be too hard.
(But, then again, Lily knows Harry well, too.)
“Is that a promise?” Harry says, laughing. He shrugs, smiling. “Whatever it is, I'll get over it.”
“You always do,” says Blaise. Guilt has made itself a home in his heart. He can see it, spiraling, surrounding his heart of gold and green. He will not let it fester. “Don’t you?”
“So, go on. It’ll be alright.”
“You need to do something for me first.”
“Anything.”
Don’t say that. But that is their underlying principle, isn’t it? Harry has given his heart to him. Bet his life on it, despite their argument and disagreements. And Blaise had said he would do the same. Had wanted to. So, so bad.
When, he wonders, did that change?
It didn’t, decides Blaise. It never should have.
“Block your mind,” instructs Blaise. “It’s yours, alright? Gaurd it. It’s yours. Act like it.”
Harry’s smile turns weird. It looks confusing and odd but not off-put. Not unbelieving. Not betrayed. How long that will last, too, Blaise wonders.
“Do you trust me, Harry?” He shouldn’t. But Harry does. And in this moment -- the calm before the storm -- it is a good thing.
“Of course.”
“Then guard your mind. As well as you can, as strong as you will.” Will. Blaise hopes it is a factor. He hopes any of his confessions will see the light of day but a part of him wants to doubt it. Grasping on straws is never as strong an argument as people say it is.
“Alright. If you say so.”
“Yeah. Yeah, yeah, alright.” Blaise takes both of Harry’s hands in his own. Where to start? Three years ago? Every lingering day since then?
Tom, Blaise decides. He will start with Tom. (Because it always circles back to him, doesn’t it?)
He chooses his words carefully, speaking in a way that will not activate lip-locking charm but still able to get his point accordingly. “I talked with Tom Riddle while you were on trial. I’ve been thinking about the things he’s said ever since.” Not a lie, not the entire truth. That’s their norm and nothing about it is new. This cycle is just that. Everything about it is reused.
“And,” continues Blaise, “I need to tell you something. And you're gunna be mad. And you’re going to have a right to. In advance… In advance, I’m sorry, Harry. Okay? I’m sorry.”
“Blaise--? What are you--”
“You, when you were younger, had all these doubts. About your personhood. About your identity. Who you were and who you weren’t. I suppose they might still be there. We were young then but we are young now. And you were confident, in the end. Were confident enough to reassure me and confident enough to move on. Move forward. Do the things you wanted to do -- regardless of these thoughts, intrusive and sorted as false, that you were not yourself. That the words leaving your mouth were not yours, but something close. And for letting you believe a lie for years -- years, Harry. Merlin. Too many years. -- I am sorry, too.”
“I’m not sure I’m following.” And why, thinks Blaise, does Harry sound amused? Like this is some sort of prank? Like what Blaise has been harboring for years is something to laugh about?
He doesn’t get it. “You are following,” says Blaise, patient, patient, because he owes him that, for all the lies, for all the misfortune. For all the harm inflicted he might have been able to prevent. “You just do not want to be.”
“You’re saying I’m not myself,” says Harry. “Right?”
“You are yourself -- but you’re also someone else,” says Blaise.
Harry humors him. “Who, then?”
“Someone close. Your mother. Lily. I talked with her, years ago.”
“I don’t remember anything like that.”
“You wouldn’t.” His voice catches at the end.
Harry rubs a hand down Blaise’s back soothingly. “It’s alright. Whatever happened, or you think happened -- I forgive you. It’s nothing to get worked up about--”
“You don’t believe me,” accuses Blaise.
Harry blinks. “I never said that.”
With you -- you, who I know so well, too well -- you didn’t have to. “Why don’t you believe me?” Blaise thinks he sounds as desperate as he feels. “I need you to believe me -- why don’t you believe me?”
Harry sighs, dropping his hand from his back. “Because it’s crazy,” says Harry blankly. “Because it’s impossible. Because possession is impossible; because body sharing is impossible. Because I know better than anyone that, sometimes, the mind makes up things it wants to believe. I know that the mind is not reliable.”
“But I am.”
“What?”
“But I am reliable,” says Blaise. “Aren’t I?”
“You are,” assures Harry. “That’s not what we’re discussing, though--”
“It is, though. You must understand that it is. There’s no way it can’t be.”
“I think you’re ashamed of me.”
“What?” Where did he make that jump? It is, Blaise would hope, an unfair jump to make.
“I think,” says Harry, looking to the side, “That I’ve made a lot of decisions that you don’t agree with. Or don’t one hundred percent support -- and that’s fine. I am radical so other people -- my people -- don't have to be. This talk of putting myself in danger; discouraging me from doing so again. Agreeing to stay at Hogwarts during my search, something you do not want to do. And I love you. I love you for these decisions. But with this,” he gestures to the bathroom around him, “This avoiding me for a prophecy you can't even tell me, this confession that sounds more like a fairytale or a botched medical mystery than any sort of truth? I am not dumb, Blaise. Or not dumb enough. I can put these pieces together. You want these actions not to be mine -- you want them to be Lily’s. Close… but not me.”
“No,” says Blaise. “No, no! No, I’m not -- why would you… Harry, I love you. I would do anything for you. That’s why I’m telling the truth.” How could anyone be ashamed of loving Harry Potter? Tom Riddle is an exception only because he is a disgrace.
“Then how,” says Harry, “is what you say possible? Possession is medically and magically impossible. Bodies can fit only one soul. I am myself, and you must know it because even I do. Face it, Blaise. Shame is more likely than anything you’ve said.”
Less likely, yes. But not impossible. Never is a lie; incapability is a liar. Not Blaise. Blaise is proud of Harry. Blaise does not agree with every decision he makes or with every word he says -- but love does not limit itself like that. Love is loud. Love exists in spite of.
But it is not Harry’s fault for doubting him. For grasping at straws. Blaise is just as guilty. If not more. Because he’s right. What is more likely; something that should, by all means, be impossible? Or the duality of man showing itself again?
No. It is not Harry’s fault. Blaise deserves his dishonesty -- deserves all that and more.
Right now, though, fault does not matter. Yeah. It doesn’t. You can talk fault and blame all you want but right now?
Right now, Harry does not believe the truth he has an inherent right to, and that’s all that matters.
“Lily,” says Blaise. He addresses it not to Harry, but to the woman unknowingly beside him. Her name is a call; a powerful summon. He can see the effects immediately, but slight. The way Harry tilts his head, the loosening of his posture. “Lily. Why? Why are you doing this? Talk to me, Lily. I want a reason, Lily. I thought you loved him. You told him you did.”
Harry is starting to look annoyed. Angry. “Blaise, cut it out. It’s not funny anymore.” It never was. Not for Harry and not for Blaise because they say or do warrants laughing.
“It’s not,” agrees Blaise. “It’s not funny, right? Right, Lily? It’s not funny how you treat your one and only son like he’s not his own person? How you push and shove to keep yourself in a life you have no right to live? No, Lily. It’s not funny. I’m not laughing.”
Blaise sees the pink creep into his eyes the moment Harry feels it. And because he is prepared, it is a fight and not a total takeover. Harry grunts, bending over himself. He holds his head in his hands. “What--?” And then, in a voice feminine and to only Blaise familiar, “You are far too curious, Blaise, for your own good.”
“What about his?” says Blaise, but he’s not even thinking of the comeback. He hovers over Harry’s now trembling form. “Are you alright?”
His head snaps up. A strong pink glow swirls and his iris. A terrified green is in and out of focus. “You’re not -- you weren't--”
“No, Harry. I wasn’t lying.”
Harry gasps, squeezing his temples. “Get out. Get out -- you’re hurting me--”
“I need to,” says Lily, sympathetic. “I’m sorry. I need to tire you out.”
“Why? No. No, this is my body. I am me. I have that right. Get out! Get out!”
“I need to take control of your body,” she answers, ignoring his pleas.
“No,” says Blaise. “You don’t need to do anything. You can’t hide your existence forever.”
“I know,” says Lily. “I won’t have to.”
Harry groans, curling in on himself. “It hurts, mom. I thought you were the good one. Why are you just like dad? Why are you just looking to hurt me? I loved you. I love you.”
“Your father is…” she starts. She doesn't finish. “He’s something. But I am not him. I do not want to hurt you.”
“Then,” says Harry,” stop.”
“What are you going to do to him,” asks Blaise, “if you take control?”
“What I have to,” says Lily. “I will erase his memory, of course.”
“No!” Harry shoots up, standing on wobbling and untrustworthy feet that are working with and against him. “No -- you can’t make me forget. I don’t want to forget! I can’t forget! Blaise -- stop her!”
Blaise raises his wand but before he can cast any spell, Lily says, calm as ever, “Touch us, and I will make it worse.”
Blaise holds his wand for a second more before growling. “It’s no use. Anything I hit her with hits her too. And you’re a hostage.” A hostage in his own body.
Harry screams through gritted teeth. “I am not going to forget! I will not forget! This -- this’ll stick! Fuck you! Fuck you! I’ll do it myself! I can do it myself!”
And Blaise wants to believe in him. Wants to put his faith in his beloved. But he sees the black surrounding him and knows bad things are to come. In this situation, there is hardly any need for guessing. “I didn’t think things through,” he admits, soft. It’s true. He knew that summoning Lily to try and take over Harry would provide proof but he did not know -- and had no way of knowing -- if Harry’s defense would keep her out.
Evidently, it did not.
“I’m sorry, Harry,” says Blaise. “I have so many things I am sorry for.” He hurts the one he loves so much. That isn’t fair, either.
“I’m sorry, too,” chokes out Harry. “I’m so fucking sorry.” Blaise cannot imagine the discomfort. A stranger in his skin. An invader.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Harry.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Harry yells with a raw throat, body moving in harsh, jerky ways. He must know this is a fight he can’t win. “Get proof -- okay! Get proof! And show me again! Show me! Show me! I can’t forget! I can’t ever forget again, okay!?”
“Okay,” says Blaise.
Get proof.
It is a smart idea. With proof, he needn’t provoke Lily to disprove anything. And he’d be able to get other people in the know using it.
“I love you,” says Blaise. “I love you. I’m sorry.”
Harry chokes, the green in his eyes almost gone. “I love you too. So -- much--”
And then the green is gone and pink is here. The discomfort, the awkward way he held himself, is gone.
“Follow me,” says Lily. “And he will know pain like no other.”
And Blaise says Okay, knowing there is nothing else to do.