hackthis_archive | Twentysomething

Twentysomething
A Harry Potter story in five parts about getting older, getting over it, getting over yourself, and moving the fuck on.
Rated from General to Adult m/m, m/f

Previous parts here

Chapter IV

Growing up wasn't about getting old; it wasn't even about handling the big issues like death, destruction and dismemberment. Growing up, apparently, was about learning how to cope with things like eating regular meals, making certain that you had clean underwear, and telling Harry Potter than you didn't want to go for a walk in the park, because you had work to do.

"What on earth would we do in the park anyway?" Blaise rose from the sofa, leaving Harry sprawled out alone.

Harry shrugged. "Sit. Read. Feed the ducks."

"Feed the ducks?" Blaise snorted. "Is that a euphemism?"

Harry leered and Blaise rolled his eyes. "It looks like it's going to rain." Blaise moved around the coffee table, resolutely ignoring his window coverings rolling back to reveal a sunny, cloudless day.

The walls of his sitting room glowed with aborted Arithmancy, and Blaise reached out, needing to touch his equations. He was the hands-on sort of researcher, and the warm glow of numerology suffused his skin as he ran his hands along the wall.

"We could do what the rest of the world does, and go for a walk. I've heard it's quite nice, the walking thing." Harry sat up, recoiling limbs that had stretched out the length of the sofa. Harry had very long legs and arms, and he was quite the sight lying in his boxers on Blaise's furniture. It was just Blaise's imagination that the sofa made a sigh of loss. "We could get brunch, maybe go to the cinema."

Blaise wrinkled his nose. "Why walk when you can Apparate. Or Floo. Or fly."

"I've never even seen you on a broom," Harry countered.

"Just because I'm not a Quidditch tart doesn't mean I can't fly; my name is not Longbottom."

Harry cleared his throat, and Blaise waved him away irritably. "Right, yes, Longbottom is your friend -- well, no one is perfect."

"Blaise."

Blaise was so put upon. "I apologise -- are you happy now?"

"No."

"Welcome to life." Blaise went back to studying the equations he'd scribbled at some point during the night. They'd come back to Blaise's flat at some blasphemous hour of the evening -– Blaise was getting too old to stay out until three in the morning –- and then had loud, messy sex until Harry was satisfied and Blaise so wired that he'd been unable to sleep.

He'd come into the sitting room, pulled out parchment, quill and wand, and threatened to hex the first piece of furniture that said anything about his sex life. He'd abandoned the parchment after ten minutes, because he was inspired and inspiration couldn't be contained by mere paper.

Around half-five in the morning, the walls had glowed pink and gold with completed and half-started equations and vectors. Blaise truly thought he'd been on to something, but then Harry had appeared in the doorway and announced that if Blaise didn't get some sleep Harry was cutting off his supply of blow jobs.

And then, to remind Blaise what he would be missing, Harry had dragged Blaise back to bed and sucked him off with enough expertise that Blaise's brain had capitulated at once.

Six hours later though, Blaise was back at it, and his fingers traced the pink glow of an incomplete formula that ran counter clock-wise and stopped at the edge of a completed vector. He had no idea where he'd been going with this idea. "It's all your fault," he said absently.

"My fault?" Harry's voice was tinged with something like annoyance. "You're the one who won't come to the park with me. You can't stay cooped up indoors all day, Blaise, you have to come out and participate in the rest of the world."

"Don't be ridiculous," Blaise scoffed at the wall. He could feel Harry's eyes on his back. "You interrupted me mid-thought," he said pointing at his lost equation as he turned around. "Who knows what brilliance you've thwarted now."

Harry crossed his arms, the muscles in his forearms standing out in relief. Blaise swallowed dryly and gestured to the wall behind him. "I have work to do."

"You always have work to do," Harry said irritably. "All you ever do is work. Did you ever think that the work would still be there later, or are you afraid your brilliance is going to run out?"

"Not likely," Blaise scoffed.

Harry looked smug. "Well then."

Blaise narrowed his eyes. "I don't want to go to the park."

Harry unwrapped his arms and stood up. "It's decided then, we'll go out to brunch."

Blaise blinked. "I thought –"

"I win," Harry winked. "Did I mention that the café is on the other side of the park though?

Blaise sighed. "Why must you persist with this nonsense, Po -– Harry, really."

"Because I want to show you off, is that so wrong?" Harry's grin at Blaise's look of astonishment spoke volumes.

"I am not a pet," Blaise said warningly.

"You're far too high-strung for that," Harry mocked before ducking in the bathroom.

In any relationship there were certain phrases that Blaise never wanted to hear uttered: "I'm joining the Death Eaters, where should I get my mark?" "Your equations are wrong, and the prize goes to Hermione Granger;" "Your grandmother has kicked me out again;" and "I want you to meet husband number three-thousand, five hundred and thirty-six," were among the most prominent.

When Harry sat down next to Blaise on the hideously blinding sofa in his sitting room and announced, "I want you to meet my friends," Blaise actually had to take a moment to respond.

It didn't help that Harry was interrupting him while Blaise was watching Eastenders, a truly tawdry and fascinating bit of Muggle life that Blaise had grown addicted to ever since Harry had decided to give Blaise his very own lessons in Muggle Studies.

The Tee Vee was a hideously creative device that robbed Blaise of all his higher functions, and sadly, it was easy to see why the Muggles loved it so. It was always there, there was always something on, and it had absolutely no basis in reality. Still, the fact that Blaise was distracted by the residents of Albert Square didn't stop his upper lip from curling in distaste. "What if I don't want to meet your friends?"

"Then I want to meet yours," said Harry.

Blaise turned and arched an eyebrow at such an outrageous statement. Harry wasn't wearing his glasses, which he knew Blaise found distracting. Wearing his specs, he was just Harry Potter, that boy that Draco had loathed and been obsessed with. Without his glasses, Harry was the man who made Blaise laugh with his twisted sense of humour and was responsible for 50% of the spectacular sex Blaise was having as of late.

"Absolutely not," Blaise said.

"Are you ashamed of me?" Harry countered, the stormy look that Blaise had come to know rather well etching itself into Harry's features. Blaise hardly noticed the ashtray rattling on the table.

For someone who was supposedly so good and true and all that insipid nonsense, Harry had a fierce temper. It didn't help that Harry didn’t always know how to pick his fights. He would be upset when Blaise wouldn't stay the night, but didn't care when Blaise cancelled plans to work on his research. Draco had hated it when Blaise chose his studies over him.

Blaise made a scoffing noise. "Don't be ridiculous." He wasn't ashamed, he was just –- how was he supposed to introduce Harry Potter to his friends? Pansy, you remember Harry, don't you? He's the one who got Gregory and Vincent killed. Well, not directly of course, but because they were loyal to their families, Harry's mates killed them. And Queenie, you remember Harry don't you? You know how your legs ache when it rains, because you had them shattered during the war for not being a Death Eater? Yes, Harry's probably indirectly responsible for that too.

And Theodore –- Mordred save Blaise when –- if --

Blaise shuddered, and Harry's eyes narrowed. "Then why won't you let me meet your friends? Don't they know about me? Are they curious in the least bit?"

"Why would they be curious?" Blaise countered. "You have a tremendous ego for someone who claims to want to be treated just like everyone else."

Harry scowled. "I never said I wanted you to treat me like everyone else, and call me stupid, but I thought that maybe, if this was going to work, it would be nice if we could all get on."

The table underneath the ashtray rattled this time, and Blaise could feel the air around him crackling with Arithmancy and wards, which was curious as he wasn't feeling particularly homicidal at the moment. He reached out blindly and grabbed his cigarettes.

Being involved with anyone was a trying business, but being involved with a Gryffindor went somewhere past trying and into excruciating. Blaise had spent his entire life surrounded by backstabbing, blackmail, bad-mouthing, and blood magic -- and that was only one letter of the alphabet covered. Being involved with Harry was like learning a whole new language when Blaise had always left the multilingualism to Theodore.

Blaise tapped out a cigarette and began counting prime numbers in his head. Harry's glare was giving him a headache. "You can't choose how I treat you, you do realise this, don't you?"

"I realise that you shouldn't pretend to like me if you don't," Harry snapped. "I can at least expect you to treat me with some respect!"

"When have I not treated you with respect?" Blaise retorted. "And don't answer with anything prior to the last year, either, Draco."

Harry froze and Blaise flinched. "That's the real problem, isn't it?" Harry said coolly. "Malfoy."

Blaise put the cigarette back on the table. "Be very careful what you say here," he enunciated each word sharply.

"You're still in love with someone who's dead, so I don't get a chance, is that it?" Harry's flat tone conveyed all his bitterness and disappointment; when Blaise opened his mouth, nothing came out.

The Tee Vee was white noise in the background, and it did nothing to drown out Harry's accusation, or the voices of years of being told to get over it because Draco was not coming back. Ever. Blaise had spent almost a third of his life trying to keep Draco alive at the expense of actually trying to move on.

Blaise had never claimed to be adept at acceptance.

He picked up his cigarettes mechanically and lit one, and in the back of his mind he heard Harry say something else.

Harry was always saying something, always wanting something. Harry was always so much fucking work.

It wasn't just enough for Blaise to spend actual time with Harry, Harry wanted Blaise to accompany him to sporting events, because apparently, Harry now made a living by freelance consulting for various Quidditch teams. Harry wanted Blaise to have dinner, and go to the cinema, and go to the park, and not spend all day at work. It was tiresome.

Also, Harry was moody and surly. Sometimes he threw wobblers for absolutely no fathomable reason, and truly, if Blaise had wanted that, he could've appropriated several of the books his grandmere kept locked in her Sisyphus' Zombie Protected © safe and tried to raise Draco himself.

Blaise didn't need –-

The sound of the door slamming shut pulled Blaise out of his sulk, and it took him a minute to realise that Harry was gone. The air was still, but aborted magic marched along the runes on Blaise's back. For someone who didn't need anything from anyone, for the first time in an age, Blaise felt rather alone.

The problem with being a Slytherin was an inherent reliance on manners. First and foremost, Slytherin families promoted etiquette and a strict adherence to appearances, so instead of snapping someone's neck, Blaise tended to glare, and while he desperately wanted to slam the door in Ronald Weasley's face he simply stood in the entrance way and looked haughty. "Harry's not home."

Weasley snorted. "Well, that's good. I came to see you."

Blaise covered his surprise with disdain and a rather palpable distaste. Being whatever with Potter –- Harry -- did not extend to mollifying his playmates. Blaise knew he shouldn't have answered the door, but the knocking was incessant, and Blaise, unlike some, had manners. Not for a moment did he think Harry had forgotten his key, not at all. "You're paying me a social call?"

"I want to talk about Harry," said Weasley.

Blaise sighed. All anybody wanted to do anymore was talk about Harry. All Pansy wanted to talk about was how Blaise was not dating Harry. All Queenie wanted to talk about was the black-haired man that Blaise wasn't dating.

His Grandpere had ratted him out to his Grandmere, and she wanted to meet the new Mr Zabini he wasn't dating, too. In fact, the last time Blaise had gone to brunch, his grandmother had shown him a tiny cauldron of chameleon eyes, dried hemp, decayed rabbits' feet, and elderflower root, and announced that all she would have to do to find out for herself who Blaise was shagging was add water and stir in a star pattern.

Blaise had got the hint.

The only person who didn't want to talk about Harry was Theodore -- probably because Blaise hadn't actually got around to mentioning the Harry business just yet. At first Blaise hadn't said anything, because really, how shameful was it to have hooked up with not just any Gryffindor, but Potter? Also there was nothing to tell. And then there might've been something to tell, but he kept putting it off, because Theodore was busy and Blaise wasn’t a girl, and it wasn't important. Or maybe it was.

Weasley was all gangly limbs and ginger hair. It made Blaise's eyes hurt, and he rubbed his temples. "Why am I not surprised? Did he send --" Blaise paused.

If Weasley's temper were half as bad as it had been in school, the question was moot. If Harry had gone bitching to his mates, which Blaise had always thought was his way, there would be fisticuffs already.

"Did he what?" Weasley asked suspiciously.

"Did he ask you to do this?" Blaise lied effortlessly.

Weasley looked truly pained. "I don't want to have this conversation anymore than you do," he said, his tetchiness palpable. It was –- curious. How could anyone possibly have any objections to Blaise? Idiotic Gryffindors. Idiotic, self-righteous Gryffindors who thought that Blaise couldn't –- couldn't be involved because he was living in the past.

Blaise stepped back, and Weasley strode through the door of Harry's home as though it were his own. The protective wards in Harry's house apparently extended to Weasley, because Blaise had a moment of supremely violent thoughts on Draco's behalf, and then felt the magical equivalent of a slap on the face.

Weasley smirked when Blaise stood there and rubbed his cheek. "Yes?" Blaise said pointedly. The door was still open, letting in a cooling breeze from outside. Blaise hadn't even noticed the weather outside. He'd gone from being indoors at one flat to indoors in another flat to indoors at Harry's house. "You wanted to talk about Potter?"

Blaise leaned against the wall, straightened the cuffs of his grey Oxford, and immediately lapsed into standard Slytherin-defensive formation: refer to all outsiders by their surname.

Weasley frowned. "You don't actually call him Potter, do you?"

"I don't think what I call him is any concern of yours."

"That's where you're wrong," Weasley said, his tone taking on a slightly menacing tenor. It did nothing for Blaise except amuse him slightly. "Everything Harry does concerns me."

Blaise cocked his head thoughtfully. "Are you two -– do you fancy him?"

Weasley face twisted into a rictus as though he were suffering constipation or heart palpitations. "No! Merlin, no, but you -– you know that. Harry would never cheat on anyone, even you."

Blaise righted his head. "I don't know anything of the sort -– Accio cigarettes!"

Weasley stumbled slightly as Blaise's cigarettes flew out of the sitting room, around the corner, and smacked Weasley on the side of the head before landing on Blaise's outstretched palm. Blaise just smirked. "Sorry," he said, his eyes letting Weasley know that he wasn't sorry in the slightest.

Weasley growled deep in his throat as Blaise lit a cigarette and puffed thoughtfully. Harry had truly dim-witted friends, but they were loyal, that was –- not so different from Blaise at all.

They stood in the hallway opposite each other, and Blaise looked out of the front door at the cars passing by, their N-Jens and the hum of the Tee Vee the only sounds for several minutes.

"If you hurt him, it would really fuck him up, again. Just so you know," Weasley blurted out.

Blaise looked down at his bare feet and the dark wood of Harry's front hall. He did not choke on his inhalation.

"Whatever happy-go-lucky face he's giving you, it's just that, a face." In his periphery Blaise could see Weasley's hands balled into fists. "Those scars still hurt, and he's -– he went through a lot to get here. If you mess that up, you'll be really sorry."

Blaise didn't like blatant honesty; it made him itch -- but he knew a threat when he heard it. "Are you threatening me, Weasley?" Blaise let the sardonic tone speak for itself. He didn't fear Weasley; he'd already known true fear in his life. He'd also seen the scars that spidered along the left side of Harry's ribcage, and from the inside of his elbow and along his forearm. It was as though something Harry had been carrying had exploded in the crook of his arm.

They didn't talk about that.

"He didn't talk for six months after the end of the war." Weasley's white knuckles spoke volumes, but his tone was all even acceptance. The sort of acceptance that came from dealing with the same issue over and over and knowing you'd never win. "The nightmares were so bad that they sedated him for the first month. He heard voices; he was violent; he couldn't be left alone for almost a year because he kept hitting furniture. Do you know what it's like to see someone shatter their wrists by pounding against the wall?"

Blaise ashed his cigarette on a square of sunlight by his left foot. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you should know what you're getting."

Blaise peered up at Weasley keenly. "You think I'm going to run away," he said automatically. Blaise didn't say that at the moment he was more likely to get thrown out; that wasn't Weasley's business.

Weasley looked him right in the eye. "I think that anyone in their right mind wouldn't want to get involved."

Blaise tamped down on his surprise. "Some friend you are."

Weasley shrugged. "I love Harry; I love him enough to want to see him happy."

Blaise took a drag of his cigarette. "In layman's terms, minus the messy emoting, if you please."

"He was angry for a long time after the war. Really angry."

A muscle in Blaise's face twitched as he realised that the wards in Harry's house might not have been to protect Potter from other people as much they were there to protect him from himself. "You think I'm in danger."

"I don't think you are, but I wouldn't put money on it."

When Blaise thought about all the things in the world to fear, Harry didn't even make the top 50. "People change," he said pointedly. "They grow up and move on."

Blaise resolutely did not think about fighting with Harry.

"Only if they want to." Weasley paused. "I remember how it used to be."

"I remember too; this is better." Blaise was slightly shocked to realise that he actually believed that.

"Are you sure about that? I don't think the dead would agree. D'you think Malfoy would agree with you?" Weasley paused. "You know Harry was obsessed with him for, like, a long time, right? And knowing Harry I don't say that lightly."

Something in Blaise's mind began buzzing; he stood upright. "You think he wants me because he couldn't have Draco."

Weasley shook his head. "No, but that's what Harry says about you."

The buzzing in Blaise's brain was deafening, and he absently put out his cigarette on the wall. "Do you want some tea?" he asked suddenly.

Weasley did nothing to hide his surprise. "With or without arsenic?"

Blaise shook his head. "As though I would insult arsenic that way, Weasley, really."

They both looked over when the sunlight from the open door went dark. Harry stood in the doorway holding a newspaper, and he looked from Blaise to Weasley and then back again. "There're no bodies?" he asked, doing nothing to mask his astonished tenor.

Blaise snorted derisively. "As though you would be able to find them in this mess."

Weasley snickered. "Very funny, Zabini."

"I try." Blaise was full of false modesty.

"Tea?" Weasley reminded him.

Blaise couldn't help noting the look of shock on Harry's face as Blaise led Weasley into the kitchen. It felt good to surprise someone again, like using parts that had fallen into disrepair; Blaise would have to do it more often.

Blaise wasn't a girl; he didn't need to discuss his relationships (either one of them) ad nauseam. The problem with being the only one of his friends in relationship, however, was that what Blaise wanted tended to be irrelevant. That was how he'd been tricked into spending an evening at Pansy's flat, under the guise of a House Elf cooked meal and promises of absinthe and tonic. All Pansy wanted to do, apparently, was talk men.

"So, how's that Quidditch stamina working for you?" Pansy said, resting her chin on her hand in the manner of someone expecting salacious gossip.

Blaise sunk back into the cushions of Pansy's damask sofa and groaned for the tenth time. "Pans, you are not suffering from a lack of sex, why are you grilling me as though you work for the Spanish Inquisitorial Squad?"

"I dated someone who worked for them once." Pansy tucked her legs underneath her, and sighed. "Octavio Ramon Estes. He was -– he had interesting tastes."

Blaise winced. "If this is where you tell me about hanging from the ceiling and flogging your partner with Liquorice Laces, please don't."

Pansy waved her hand dismissively. "That was Johann, and that was completely different. He was an "artist", you know how odd they can be."

"I'll take your word for it," said Blaise, taking another sip of his absinthe and tonic, light on the absinthe, heavy on the tonic. In their early twenties, Pansy had made her mark on the social scene by throwing absolutely scandalous absinthe parties, which Blaise remembered nothing about. On occasion, he heard about what he'd done, but he would deny shagging Ernie Macmillan or riding any unicorns in Bermondsey to his grave and beyond.

"So," Pansy began coyly and Blaise took a larger swallow of his drink. He'd told Harry he would stop by, but the way Pansy was looking at him, Blaise was going to have to go heavier on the absinthe and then he wouldn't be going anywhere. "I had the most extraordinary owl the other day."

Blaise did nothing to hide his boredom. "Is this the part where I ask from whom?"

"Did you miss me, is that it?" a male voice interrupted.

Pansy's mouth didn't move at all, and Blaise's heart tripped in his chest as he narrowed his eyes at Pansy. "That's quite the parlour trick you have there."

The familiar voice carried on. "I leave you alone for a few months and you fall apart. Blaise, I expect better of you, you know."

Blaise took a quick appraisal of his accoutrement. He looked as stellar as always, which could only mean one thing; he heard the vertebrae in his neck crack as he tried to turn all the way around without moving the rest of his body.

"Theodore," he said evenly, resolutely not getting excited as he shot a scowl at Pansy over his shoulder. "You owled Theodore?"

Pansy's smirk was all teeth and glee. "Well, someone had to tell him what was occurring. You didn't want him to read about it in the papers, did you?"

Blaise set his glass down very carefully. Theodore's grin was all droll amusement, stretching from ear to ear as he paused in the entranceway of Pansy's sitting room to remove his travelling cloak. "I understand you've been consorting with the enemy."

Blaise wasn't the sort to wax rhapsodic about someone's looks, but sometimes he forgot how stunning Theodore was. It wasn't that Theodore was any more vain than Blaise was (or than Draco had been) it was just that all his features -- the high cheekbones, the bright eyes, the mouth -- melded together into something that wasn't typically gorgeous or breath-taking, but something preternatural that made Theodore seem as though he'd been created instead of just being born.

If Theodore had been female, he would've ended up the subject of fairytales like that Squib girl, Snow White. Actually, that wasn't a very smart train of thought as Theodore's little sister had looked just like Theodore, and then she'd been killed in a blood sacrifice by their father.

That was a bit of a sore subject with Theodore.

Thankfully, there'd been that whole bit with an apple that Draco had poisoned and the dwarves, and now Alexandria was living happily in Denmark with some deposed pureblood.

"I would hardly call it consorting." Blaise worked extraordinarily hard to keep his voice neutral, even as he rose from Pansy's sofa and embraced Theodore.

Theodore smelled of smoke, Earl Grey and soap; Blaise might've held on a fraction too long.

Eventually, Theodore held Blaise at arms length and studied him critically. "Blaise, how, in the name of Aristotle, am I supposed to finish my studies if I can't trust you not to run off with fucking Gryffindors?"

Blaise let the immediate urge to sulk wash over him. He didn't sulk. That wasn't his way. He also fought down the urge to cross his arms -- that was so Harry.

"No one told you to leave in the first place," he said tartly.

Pansy snickered behind him. "I can see that you two have a lot to discuss -- I think I'll just go down the pub. Please try to keep the blood off the floor and the walls. I just had them papered, and Ruby will be seriously displeased if you stain the furniture with bits of your brains."

Blaise raised a knowing eyebrow at Pansy's speech and looked down to see Theodore's wand resting in his right hand. Great minds never stopped thinking alike, and Blaise smiled at Pansy's shriek of real alarm as Theodore hexed her mid-Floo.

"Jelly Legs?" Blaise asked amiably.

"We're older now," Theodore said sagely. "We're beyond such things. We're mature. I hexed her clothing red and gold."

Blaise laughed as he sat down. "Some things never get old."

Theodore smirked as he pocketed his wand and took up the space beside Blaise. "No, some things don't, but we do I suppose."

Blaise's smile dimmed. "Speak for yourself, I don't feel a day over twenty."

"Still having those headaches?"

"At least I still have both of the eyes I was born with."

Theodore let out a laugh of real amusement. Blaise was no longer disconcerted by Theodore having one blue eye and one green eye -- if anything it only seemed to enhance his unnatural good looks. "Touché," Theodore said, stretching out next to Blaise until their thighs were pressed together.

Blaise looked down at where he could feel the heat from Theodore's leg, then up at Theodore. He'd missed this level of comfort; he didn't have this with anyone else anymore. He had Harry -– Harry was different.

"So," Blaise moved to the edge of the sofa and picked up the absinthe to prepare Theodore's drink. Theodore moved with him.

"So," Theodore answered, his voice low and easy -- somewhere between seduction and mass murder.

Blaise kept his eyes on the quantity of absinthe he was pouring out. "How's university?" he asked, stoppering the decanter and picking up the slotted spoon.

"It's fine," Theodore said perfunctorily, and Blaise's fingers paused over the cubed sugar.

People who had experienced major trauma –- the end of the world; holding their lover's broken body and knowing they were dead, watching their father sacrifice their beloved sister –- tended to be fine.

'Fine' only meant that they remembered that once upon a time they weren't horribly fucked up, and maybe, if they kept saying they were fine, one day they'd actually believe it, again.

Blaise was fine after Draco died.

Queenie was fine since Bevan left her; Pansy was fine after Terry Boot broke her heart, because she wouldn't betray her family during the war. This was why Pansy would only visit Circe's Three Pigs when she knew he wouldn't be there.

Blaise knew fine, and fine was very much not good.

"I was going to tell you, you know," Blaise said steadily resuming preparations.

"And yet you didn't." Theodore bypassed the tonic and handed Blaise the water.

"What would I say, exactly," Blaise countered. "Oh, and by the way, I'm shagging Harry Potter. You do remember Harry don't you? Black hair, fabulous backside, blew up half the country, and killed or sent everyone we know to prison, yes, that's the one."

Blaise didn't even realise his hands were shaking until Theodore took the water away.

"I want you to be happy with someone who is worthy of you -- this person isn't worthy of you," Theodore spoke as though they were discussing the weather, and something in Blaise's stomach plummeted.

He could take massive rows and broken furniture. He could take shouting and screaming. Theodore didn't tend to argue in that manner though, and Blaise licked his dry lips. "So I should just keep pining around my flat, doing fuck all with my life in hopes that you'll decide you really do fancy boys and be with me? That's not going to happen, Theodore, I've given up the ghost on that one."

Theodore was quiet for several seconds, but he reached past Blaise to pick up his drink. "Why Potter, Blaise, out of everyone? Why not someone –- anyone -- else? Do you still miss him so much that you were reduced to this?'

Blaise's blood went cold. "I wasn't reduced to anything," he said coolly, turning toward Theodore only to reach past him for his own drink. Theodore's breath was warm against Blaise's ear as Blaise brushed against him and picked up his glass.

Blaise's drink tasted of nothing, and he crossed the room to throw it out in one of Pansy's potted plants. He turned back to find Theodore standing right behind him.

"This comes back to Draco," Theodore said evenly. "You know Draco was fixated on Potter, and you're transferring. You know how he felt, and you decided you should experience it for yourself, is that it? Do you think Draco was going to leave you for Potter, and now you have to know why?"

Blaise quivered with rage, his hands tightening around the glass in his hand. He said Theodore's name quietly, but Theodore didn't seem to, or be willing to, hear him.

"Blaise, Harry fucking Potter?! He's a fucking nutcase! Do you remember all the reports about his wobblers and dissention in the ranks that resulted in all those people being sent to St Mungo's because he might've possibly Imperioed them? Do you remember the mess outside Birmingham where he was out of control and killed fifty-three people?!"

"Theodore!" Blaise didn't hear himself shouting, but he felt the hoarseness in his throat.

"Draco got himself killed not for the Dark Lord, or because he was sorry about Dumbledore, he did it because of fucking Potter! Because Potter didn't think he was worthy of his fucking attention! Because Potter didn't think he was good enough for him!"

Something clicked over in Blaise's mind; it was one thing to suspect, but another to have someone say it aloud.

Theodore carried on. "Do you know who killed Draco? It was Potter!"

Blaise didn't even realise the glass had shattered in his hand, until Theodore glanced down and the blood drained from his face.

Blaise flinched when Theodore touched him. "Oh, Blaise," Theodore said softly, trying to get a better look at Blaise's hand.

"Do you really believe that?" Blaise's voice seemed detached from his body. "That Draco did it for Potter?"

Such a sacrifice was impossibly selfish and fool-hardy. Prove yourself through the ultimate act of I Am More Worthy Than You Will Ever Know. It was a plan of utter idiocy.

It was perfectly Slytherin.

It was also exceptionally Gryffindor.

Blaise had always thought that Draco had died for him. Or for his mother. Not for some fantasy of some boy who wasn't even comparable. The real Harry Potter wasn't worthy of such worship; he was just an average man, carrying out an average life, as though he'd woken up one morning and decided that he didn't want to live up to anyone's expectations anymore.

Perhaps that was what had drawn Blaise to Potter in the first place.

Blaise closed his eyes when Theodore pulled him down and kissed his forehead. "Draco wasn't brilliant, but he wasn't that stupid."

Blaise gripped Theodore's wrists and opened his eyes. The shards of glass embedded in his hand pressed their way into Theodore's skin, and Blaise saw his eyes dilate with the pain. "Do you think Potter killed Draco?"

Theodore sighed. "I think Draco killed Draco, but what I believe doesn't matter, it's what you believe that's going to matter in the end."

Blood smeared on Theodore's cheek when Blaise touched him. "I don't know what I believe."

Theodore peered at him keenly. "Yes, you do."

--On to Chapter V, Part I-—

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