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 V – Part I

Blaise wasn't a morning person, or a needy person, or the sort of person who passed on out someone else's floor in an absinthe-induced stupor and slept there until the next afternoon.

Blaise was independent, and self-sufficient, and this was why he Apparated home with Theodore at three o'clock in the morning after Pansy came home with her latest bit on the side.

The fact that Blaise could've Splinched himself didn't really occur to him until later on in the day, as he stood in the bathroom, peering at himself avidly in the mirror, and putting himself to rights. There were circles under his eyes and stubble on his cheeks, but the most pressing matter, in Blaise's estimation, was his hair.

Blaise cut his own hair. It was a small thing; he could've just as easily had Queenie do the honours while he sat on a kitchen chair and they debated whether Hippasus was really the father of the irrational number. He could've simply magicked his hair to the barely-there length he preferred, but at some point, after the war, Blaise had become fond of Muggle clippers and their soothing hum when turned on.

Whether Blaise cut too close or too far, if he held them wrong and nicked the nape of his neck, it was all his own doing. Controlling the little things made it easier to deal with the everyday chaos.

"You missed a bit on the left, behind your ear," the mirror said helpfully, extending itself away from the wall so that Blaise could see the area in question.

Blaise nodded and folded his ear so he could get the neglected area. "It's quite nice to have Master Nott visiting," the mirror carried on. "Don't see him as much as we used to."

Blaise narrowed his eyes at the mirror and turned off the clippers. "Theodore has a life of his own," he said pointedly as he brushed the hair off his shoulders and turned on the bath.

If mirrors could've shrugged, Blaise's mirror would've shrugged. "I was just saying is all; I didn't mean anything by it."

"No one ever means anything by it," Blaise snapped. "It's always 'I was just saying you don’t get out enough, or you need to get laid, or you need to get laid by someone else, or could you move on, but just not in this way. Bollocks to all of you."

"I was just trying to help," the mirror sniffed. "We just want you to be happy, is that so wrong? I thought you'd got over all this nonsense –- where's Master Harry anyway?"

Blaise glared mutinously at the mirror as he got into the bath. "I have no problem with seven years bad luck for breaking you into a thousand pieces."

"Yeah, but that wouldn't solve anything!" the mirror retorted over the running water.

"Yes, but I have no problems with instant gratification," Blaise shot back as he turned off the taps. "Besides, martyrdom is overrated!"

Blaise held no truck with heroes, or being heroic, or wanting people to respect you because of who they thought you were. This was why he'd never bought into The Legend of Harry Potter in the first place. Sacrifice was for fools, the truth was for masochists; all Blaise wanted to do was live.

The mirror went silent and Blaise finished his bath in peace. He toweled off quickly and padded softly into his bedroom to get dressed.

There was something extraordinarily comforting about Theodore making snuffling noises in Blaise's bed while Blaise pulled on the distressed jeans Pansy had nicked for him at some event and a black cashmere jumper his grandmother had signed his mother's name to last Christmas.

Blaise paused when Theodore rubbed his nose with his fist. Theodore slept on his stomach, hands fisted in the bedclothes, and his body sprawled on the right side of the bed.

Long before Harry or Draco, Theodore had been by Blaise's side; sometimes Blaise forgot that. Sometimes he thought Theodore forgot, too. It was probably better that way.

Unrequited love was tedious.

In the kitchen, Blaise busied himself with getting the tea and coffee in order. He didn't actually make the tea or coffee, but Theodore had become very interested in coffee since he'd moved to Switzerland –- something about the prohibitive cost -- and on occasion Blaise liked to mess about with the contents just to see Theodore twitch.

Picking up his own perfect tea, Blaise went into the sitting room and sat down on the sofa. For the first time the minimalism of the room bothered Blaise, and he thought of putting in a Tee Vee. He could just imagine the uproar when he brought home yet another Muggle appliance. With the clippers and the food processor –- an extraordinarily amusing gift from Queenie –- that would bring the grand total of Muggle items to three.

"I can't believe that you're up and not working -- this really must be serious. Are we certain you haven't been Imperioed?" Theodore's voice was gravelly with sleep and vague suspicion, and Blaise turned up one corner of his mouth in amusement.

"Ever the pessimist, Theodore," Blaise said by way of greeting.

"Someone has to be." Theodore yawned and pushed up the hem of Blaise's Falmouth Falcon's kit to scratch at his stomach. Blaise took a quietly perverse pleasure at Theodore wearing a shirt that Harry had bought for Blaise. "I save all my optimism for the law."

Blaise snorted when Theodore crossed the room and practically sat on Blaise's lap. "Am I suffering from a sudden lack of furniture?" Blaise asked, pushing Theodore off his leg and onto the sofa beside him.

"Must be the hangover," Theodore said, sprawling out next to Blaise. "I keep promising myself that I'll stay off the absinthe, never works. Was the sex good for you, too? As though I need to ask -– of course it was."

Blaise fixed Theodore with a piercing look. "I beg your pardon?"

Theodore gave Blaise his most guileless look, and Blaise's mind began whirring back over the last twelve hours -- then Theodore smirked. "No fooling you then," he said taking a sip of his coffee.

Blaise's glare died away almost immediately. Theodore's wrists were braceleted with fresh, red scars, and Blaise opened his mouth to inquire before remembering an evening spent with heads bent together, getting progressively more obliterated on absinthe, while Theodore plucked glass out of Blaise's palms and whispered spells to fix the damage.

Theodore always wanted to fix the damage for everyone else, but he'd moved to another country to fix his own. Blaise exhaled through his nose thoughtfully.

"Is this really what you want?" Theodore spoke into his coffee mug.

Blaise took a sip of tea and stared at his Arithmantically-covered walls. "I have no idea what I want."

Theodore snorted. "Yes, I think that's perfectly evident, but if this is what you think you want -- then so be it."

Every fibre in Blaise's being stilled; Theodore never approved of anyone. "You never answered my question about Harry."

Theodore looked up from his coffee. "You call him Harry."

Blaise shrugged, and Theodore's eyebrow arched. "And you're shrugging. He's completely undone you, hasn't he? Soon you'll be reading the Quidditch pages and scratching yourself in public."

Blaise smirked to himself; Theodore was clearly hungover if he hadn't noticed that he was the one wearing Quidditch paraphernalia.

"Let's not be overly dramatic," Blaise said evenly. "Do you want to meet him? Today?"

Theodore scoffed derisively and bumped his thigh against Blaise's. "I'd sooner take out my other eye."

"Fabulous. I'll make tea for three then and expect the Mediwizards?" Blaise bumped Theodore's thigh with his own in response.

"If you wish."

Blaise scratched the side of his neck absently as Theodore took another sip of his coffee and put his feet up on the table. "Wasn't that in that children's story about that Hufflepuff who ran off with that Gryffindor idiot? What did he call himself? The Dread Pirate Roberts?"

Theodore made a face and moved his hips off the sofa to extract a squished box of cigarettes. "No, that's as you wish."

"Oh, so you're not secretly telling me that you love me?"

Theodore made a face. "Of course I love you, don't be daft. Don't you think I would've done something unspeakable to Potter otherwise?"

"Everyone wants to do something unspeakable to Harry," Blaise replied absently.

Theodore's moue of distaste was priceless. "Oh, please, do not ever mention your sex life to me again, are we clear?"

Blaise got up abruptly. "I have to go see a man about a spell," he said, looking around wildly for his wand, or his keys, or perhaps his shoes.

Theodore took one look at the determined expression on Blaise's face, and slid down on the sofa, covering his eyes with his left hand. "Great Salazar save us all."

There came a time in every wizard's life when they had to accept the fact that they had no control over anything whatsoever. This wasn't the sort of lesson that came easily, left its imprint, and then carried on. Acceptance was not one of Blaise's strong points, but he had runes and dead lovers and scars enough for even the hardest lesson. As much as it pained him, he'd come to realise that magic was an imprecise art. People wanted to believe they could control it, harness it, and use it for their own ends, but magic had a life of its own, and all a wizard could do was try to direct it where he wanted it to go.

Blaise had a better sense of direction than most of his peers –- at least he thought he did –- and he repeated this when he found himself on Harry's doorstep with one white pill in his pocket and a hint of burned parchment in his nose.

The receipt from Nocturne Alley had burned pink in the flat of his hand, but Blaise wasn't the wistful sort, so he hadn't taken note of the wind's direction as it blew away.

He hesitated only for a fraction of section before drawing the proof Harry had given him to open the door, and it struck him that Weasley obviously must've had the same proof, which meant he'd knocked only as a matter of etiquette.

Harry had the door open before Blaise had finished drawing his set of stag horns, and Blaise did not flinch at the magnitude of Harry's grin. "I thought you were going to come round last night." Harry stood in the doorway in his ritual habiliment –- low-slung trousers and a shirt that had seen better days -- his hair a riotous mess on his head.

"I didn't know I was on a clock." If Blaise's voice was a bit sharper than he'd intended, Harry took no discernable notice. No sooner had Blaise stepped inside than Harry had him against the wall, fingers splayed out over Blaise's breast bone and his mouth pressed firmly against Blaise's own.

Harry kissed him hungrily, and Blaise stiffened momentarily before relaxing against Harry's mouth. "The bed's getting to be too big without you kicking me in your sleep," Harry muttered against Blaise's lips.

Blaise's hands instinctively gripped Harry's hips and pulled him between the spread of Blaise's legs. Harry moved easily, resting his hands on Blaise's shoulders as they snogged leisurely.

"I don't kick," Blaise lifted his head away from the wall to follow the warmth of Harry's lips. "I simply keep you in line. If you had your way, you'd be all over the bed, and I'd be on the floor."

"There's this thing calling sharing," Harry mocked, rubbing his thumb against the stubble on Blaise's chin. "You should try it sometime."

Blaise made a derisive noise. "Compromise is not a Slytherin sport."

"Oh, so you do play sport." Harry smirked against Blaise's neck.

"Everyone thinks they're amusing today," Blaise huffed, pushing Harry away so he could get his bearings. The wall was warm against his back and his runes thrummed under his skin patiently, their magic a presence he'd come to associate with comfort.

Harry's smirk slipped into a questioning look. "Everyone?"

"It turns out my friends are as curious about you as you hoped they'd be," Blaise said easily. He didn't even have to glance at Harry to see the look of astonishment warring with smugness.

"Does that mean—" Harry began

"Do you fancy a cup of tea?" Blaise segued seamlessly, slipping away from the wall and heading towards the kitchen.

He didn't even have to look down to know when to step over Harry's muddy Quidditch boots or which place had the creaky floorboard. He'd come to know Harry's home like the hairs on the back of his hand or the fibres on the sofa in his flat, and he was going to ruin that. Deliberately.

Actively seeking out the truth was one of those lessons that no one had taught Blaise when he was younger. It was a lot easier to argue over the stupid things than it was to ask what you wanted to know. If you were a Slytherin, and you knew nothing but repression and tact, you were forced to resort to drugging people, because, well, it was easier.

The kettle was already warm when Blaise touched it, but Harry made a point of tossing out the dregs of the tea in his mug. "So, you told your friends about us," Harry began boldly.

Blaise rolled his eyes as he pulled out the tea, sugar and milk. The refrigerlator was another extraordinary object, but at least Blaise had seen one before in his grandparents home. It was a large white box that hummed; they kept it in the kitchens, and his Grandpere had even let him take it apart just to show him there was no magic involved.

"I see you just get right to it, don't you?" Blaise's tone defaulted to sardonic as he pulled his favorite mug out of the drying rack. "Did you hear the imprecations in your sleep? Were your ears burning, is that it?" Blaise flinched as a chair squeaked against the linoleum. "Do you want me to go deaf?" he said, making their tea by rote.

"You're just fucking with me now," Harry's good-natured tone sent a shiver down Blaise's spine, and he swayed slightly when Harry's foot slipped up his calf.

Blaise snorted as he turned around and handed Harry his tea. Harry's grin really was blinding. He seemed genuinely happy; Blaise had always been suspicious of people who went around looking as though they'd been hit over the head with a Cheering Charm. "I only fuck with you on days ending in 'y'," Blaise teased.

Harry laughed and took a sip of his tea. Blaise took a sip of his own, watching Harry over the brim. Nothing changed. Nothing exploded. The house didn't kick him out. His runes didn't even tingle.

"Do you know Pansy Parkinson?" Blaise asked.

Harry nodded, reaching behind him. "Accio biscuits!"

Blaise watched as the biscuits rattled their way out of a cupboard, knocking a box of pasta onto the floor, before finding their way to Harry's hand. Harry balanced his mug on his thigh and opened the packet of chocolate digestives. "D'you want?" Harry asked around a mouthful of biscuit.

Blaise shook his head.

"She, ah, she used to date Malfoy," Harry said mid-chew. His legs were sprawled out before him invitingly; it was distracting. It didn't help when he wriggled his bare toes.

Blaise blinked. "Only for three weeks. In sixth year."

"I remember seeing them together," Harry carried on blithely. "When I was hiding in your compartment on the Hogwarts Express."

Blaise set his mug down on the counter. The hag who'd sold him the tablets said they worked fast, but this was remarkable. "Why were you hiding in our compartment?"

"I wanted to know what you were up to," Harry said casually. "I thought Malfoy had his Dark Mark. You sure you don't want a biscuit?"

"No, thank you," Blaise said.

Harry just nodded. "Do you remember Slughorn's Club? It was the first time I remember really seeing you, too. I knew who you were, but it was the first time I'd ever really looked. I wasn't sure about the, uh –" at this Harry made a vague waving gesture that could've been him summoning a hippogriff or a reference to his homosexuality.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "You were overcome by my dashing good looks, yes, I know, everyone is. Did you find out what you wanted to know that day on the train?"

Harry shrugged and took another sip of his tea. "No, but sneaking around always turns out that way. I was there when Snape killed Dumbledore because Malfoy couldn't do it, and all that did was fuck me up even more."

Blaise peered at Harry closely. Being an adult meant that theoretically, Blaise had to know what was important, how to choose his arguments, and what to let slide. Being a Slytherin meant knowing that most people would sooner be bled dry, hanging upside down by their ankles, than give a straight answer.

Blaise had never believed that Draco had killed Dumbledore, but Draco had never confessed otherwise. This was –- this was mind-boggling. "You were there?"

"I was watching; I have an Invisibility Cloak," Harry paused. "It used to belong to my dad."

"And all that time I thought Draco was delusional," Blaise muttered to himself. "You were there when Snape killed Dumbledore?"

A thousand questions roiled in Blaise's head wanting to be the one asked. How could you have just stood by? Why were you *there*? What were you *thinking*? How long did you have nightmares? Why aren’t you *dead*? How are you even *close* to normal now?

"Why didn't you kill Snape? Everyone knew you were Dumbledore's favourite; you must've wanted revenge." Harry didn't bat an eyelash at Blaise's audacity; it was almost worrisome.

"I didn't get a chance; but don't think I wouldn’t if I thought I could get away with it."

Blaise could feel the incredulity on his features. Gryffindors were just as lethal as Slytherins –- perhaps more so because of the façade. They could certainly hold a grudge. All that nonsense about Gryffindors being brave and true and forgiving was utter bollocks.

"You really hate Snape that much?" On some level it was difficult for Blaise to reconcile the Harry before him with the person who seemed, on all levels, to be a stone-cold killer. But people said the same thing about his mother, and he didn't love her any less. It was just a part of her, not all of her.

"He's done nothing but make my life miserable since the day we met," said Harry. "He deserves to suffer for all the pain he's inflicted on the people I love."

"Yes, but he was Crucioed—"

"That's not even close to what he deserves." Harry was relaying his opinion as though they were discussing the weather, and he thought they should carry an umbrella; it was extraordinarily peculiar. Blaise had never seen Veritaserum at work, but by all accounts people tended to be less forthcoming. It was possible that the pill had a relaxant. It was also possible that the pill wasn't what the hag had said it was.

That was the problem with buying things from Nocturne Alley, there was always a chance you were going to get short-shrifted. And that was if you were lucky.

It occurred to Blaise that he could be doing something exceedingly wrong to Harry's mind. Weasley had said Harry wasn't particularly stable, but Blaise had to know. This was his only chance; Harry was being exceedingly obliging right now, but when this wore off he was going to remember what Blaise had asked. What he had said.

"You didn't kill Snape, but you did kill the Dark Lord. Did you kill Draco?"

"I killed 53 people in Birmingham," Harry said flatly, setting his mug and digestives on the floor.

Blaise stilled his features. There was something off. Harry was prevaricating; Blaise could feel it. Unless Blaise's paranoia was getting in the way -- now that he had something to lose, he could actually feel it slipping away like the counter between his fingers. "I didn't ask you about those people; I asked you about Draco. Were you there? Did you do it?"

Harry peered at him from underneath his fringe, and Blaise's heart began to beat erratically in his chest. It hurt.

"You did it. You were there." Blaise heard himself speaking, but the vowels felt too round in his mouth as though he couldn't quite figure out how to say the words.

"I was there." Blaise's neck cracked when Harry unfurled from his chair and stood before him. He seemed taller than normal. "Yes."

Blaise's vision blurred. He tilted his head back until the blast marks on Harry's ceiling were just ink spots.

Blaise knew it was physically impossible for a heart to break, but it could just stop. It could just give up.

The first time Blaise had his heart broken, he'd wished he were dead. If he'd known he was going to live long enough to have his heart broken again, he'd have done the honours himself. "You killed him," he said evenly.

"That's not what I said," Harry's voice was dead; the air around them still. "I said was I there. I said I killed 53 people in Birmingham. I never said I killed Draco Malfoy -– you weren't listening."

Blaise met Harry's eyes; they looked as flat and lifeless as his own felt. "How can you say I wasn't listening?" he hissed. "You said you were there. You said you killed 53 people —" and then he stopped.

"And the gnut drops."

"Why didn't you just tell me?" Blaise hadn't pleaded with anyone in five years, ten months and some-odd days. He could feel Harry's eyes piercing his chest, hunting for that stupid soul that he didn't believe in.

"If that's the end of your inquisition, you can get out of my house. Now."

Blaise took a step forward. "Harry."

"You come to my house; I let you in. And you try to drug me." And just like that, the air currents changed. What hadn't been charged before, now, crackled sharply.

"You weren't -–"

"When people spend enough time trying to poison you, you start to know what it's like. You take precautions. You make antidotes." Harry kicked the packet of digestives at their feet viciously at same time that the walls shook.

Plaster fell on the floor, and Blaise put his hand on the counter to keep his balance. He'd never feared Harry. He began to wonder if now was the time to start. "I had to know," he said defiantly.

Harry's eyes narrowed and the veins in his neck stood out. "I WOULD'VE TOLD YOU EVERYTHING YOU WANTED TO KNOW! ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS ASK!"

Every fibre in Blaise's being stood at attention. "I did ask," he sneered. "And now I know -- the great Harry Potter was in love with Draco Malfoy, only he was too ashamed to admit it. So you killed all those people instead!"

The walls trembled, and Blaise felt the lino under his feet quake. A bit of plaster fell on his shoulder.

Harry scoffed derisively, the spitting image of Draco in Blaise's mind. "I never loved Malfoy. I felt guilty because I thought his death was my fault! Those people died for my guilt! Just like everybody else!"

Blaise opened his mouth, but Harry was on a roll. "The only Slytherin I ever loved just tried to drug me, so you'll excuse me if I don't show you the way out!"

Blaise stumbled slightly when the counter behind him vanished, and just like that, he was on the kerb. Again.

He looked up when there was a crack of thunder, he hadn't even noticed the grey clouds overhead the morning, and for a moment he remembered what it was like to feel real fear.

And then it began to rain.

The last time Blaise saw Draco was on cloudless day with the first blue sky they had seen in three years.

During the war, the days were all pretty much the same –- green sky, black clouds, nothing living as far as the eye could see -- the months only differentiated by the grey snow or the ink-like rain.

It was cold indoors, because magic was just asking for trouble, and neither Blaise nor Draco had any idea how to use the fireplace without setting the entire flat on fire. In their last dwelling, Draco had left the stove on in effort to heat the house, and they'd blown up the entire building when Pansy tried to smoke a cigarette she'd pilfered from Queenie.

They'd all gone their separate ways after that, because it was clear that if the Dark Lord didn't kill them, they were easily going to kill each other.

The second sign of the apocalypse on this winter day were the sparrows singing in the trees, the same average brown birds that provided background noise for everything mundane.

Blaise remembered this because both he and Draco had been shocked by the normalcy of the world on display from their third floor window. There were people and automoviles, and they were walking around as though they were unafraid. As though they knew something that Blaise and Draco didn't.

Blaise knew it was off; he could smell it, he could feel it. The façade made his runes tingle as though someone were trying to conjure up what normalcy might've been and this was what they had come up with. Eighteen weeks of hiding out in a hovel in Stepney Green would've made anyone suspicious.

And Draco -- foolish, brave, idiotic Draco -- had decided he needed to get a morning paper from the shop on the corner, because in his words, "If the world has ended, and this is the Garden of Wizarding Delights, I should be all over the Prophet in my Quidditch glory."

Blaise had not been amused. It had been weeks since they'd had word of anything from anyone. The last owl they'd received hadn't even been an owl; it was a macaw from Blaise's mother in Trinidad with number Ten. "If you think I'm letting you go out there and get yourself killed after I've keep your infuriatingly pasty and boney backside alive for all these months, you are sadly mistaken."

"Blaise, I didn't know you cared," Draco mocked as he busied himself with putting on the least patched of all the clothes they shared and pushing his over-long hair behind his ears. His once luminous hair was lacklustre and tangled. It reminded Blaise of his Great Uncle Kwame who was a Rastafari.

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Do you think I kept you alive this long for the company?"

Draco made a dismissive wave. "As though you could keep a plant alive for longer than a week. I know you're only here for the sex."

"And you would know this how?"

Draco picked up one of the dusty, yellowing Muggle magazines that they'd shoved into the corners of the flat to keep the cold out. "I read it in Cosmopolitan; you should read it, they have articles on numerology."

Blaise snickered. "As though you would know numerology if it hit you on the head."

"I'll hit you on the head in a minute."

"Isn't that how we got in this mess in the first place? Because you hit someone on the head -- metaphorically speaking."

"Oh, shut up, Zabini," Draco retorted mildly.

"Make me," Blaise goaded, and then Draco was in Blaise's space, pushing him down on the stained, broken down mattress they kept in the corner, and touching Blaise with long, bony fingers.

For a flash of a second, everything was as it should've been. The bantering and light-heartedness, Draco's superciliousness and Blaise's haughty disdain. They could've been at the Manor or visiting Blaise's grandparents. They could've been at Hogwarts or on the continent with Theodore and Alexandria.

They could've been anywhere except some Muggle hovel in the East End of London, because Draco was wanted by the Dark Lord, and Blaise was doing everything possible to keep him alive. If that extended to refusing his grandparents' orders to come home, because Draco was hexed and his grandmother didn't want any hexed people in her home, so be it.

They were young, they were brilliant, they were together; they could survive anything. Blaise truly believed that somewhere in his mind, and belief was everything when you were twenty.

And then Blaise woke up, and Draco was gone.

Blaise tripped over his own feet all the way down the stairs, getting a splinter on the second landing because he was only wearing one sock. He felt the wrongness even before he touched the handle of the front door, the runes on his back and shoulder ached so badly that he felt it in his bones, and when he opened the door, the sky wasn’t blue at all. It was green -– dark, forest, Slytherin green, and a single body fell from the sky.

According to his chart at St Mungo's -- which Blaise threatened three Mediwizards at wand-point to read -- the Order found him in the middle of the street, screaming at the top of his lungs, with Draco's body in his lap.

He doesn't remember this except in his dreams.

Theodore was quite supportive about Blaise fucking up the best thing he had going. In fact, when Blaise walked through the door of 178 Glebe Place looking like a drowned rat and found Theodore had actually made tea for three, the only derisive thing he said was, "What else did you expect? Even I saw that coming."

Blaise said nothing, preferring instead to lock himself in the bathroom and smoke the cigarettes that Queenie left stashed behind the toilet for Arithmantical emergencies.

When Blaise finally emerged, feeling slightly ill after having smoked half the pack, Theodore had cleared away the tea and replaced it with a large bottle of Fire Whiskey, an ashtray, and his namesake's Lettres provinciales.

"He's just another boy," Theodore called down the hall as Blaise changed out of his wet clothes and into something that was not Quidditch-related. "He'll come round when he misses the sex, or he wasn't worthy of you anyway."

Blaise stalked back down the hall to the sitting room and yanked the sofa cushion directly out from underneath Theodore. "Are we done beating the worthiness horse to death yet?"

Theodore looked up from where he was now sprawled on the floor. "That must've been some fabulous sex," he said wryly.

Blaise scowled and stalked back to the kitchen, where he put the cushion on the floor, set the book, ashtray, Fire Whiskey nearby and sprawled out on his pristine linoleum determined to make up for all the time he'd lost by assuming that Potter was anything besides an egotistical, hypocritical, self-serving Gryffindor, who'd only wanted in Blaise's trousers for the novelty factor.

With enough Fire Whiskey and enough Pascal, the soothing properties of numerology began seeping back into Blaise's conscious. He had his Arithmancy, and it would never be so brazen as to announce that it loved him. Arithmancy would never announce that it had killed 53 people because it felt guilty over letting one person die, either.

Actually, Arithmancy was the perfect lover, except for the lack of sex business.

Lying on the floor of the kitchen, Blaise measured time by when Theodore came into the kitchen to eat, and when he substituted the whiskey for tea, juice, or water. If he slept, he couldn't remember. He was not in mourning, he was working. Potter had interfered with Blaise's brilliance; Blaise was just getting himself back on the right track.

He couldn't be bothered to get up and go across the street when everything he needed was right here; he let Theodore deal with the trivialities like Queenie and Pansy and the brunch he missed with his grandparents.

Or at least he thought Theodore had dealt with them, so it was a rather big surprise when his mother appeared at his feet while he was working on his qualitative vectors for inter-dimensional travel.

Wearing an extraordinary blood orange satin dress and red robes, Gemma Blavatsky was the pinnacle of pureblooded fashion, and she knew it. "Blaise Lorenzo Blavatsky Zabini, whatever possessed you to associate yourself with Harry Potter?!"

Blaise had been lying on the floor for so long that his entire body protested loudly when he sat upright suddenly. He wasn't fifteen anymore, clearly. "Mother!"

"Do not 'mother' me, young man," Gemma Blavatsky was an exceptionally tall and elegant woman as befitted the mass murdering daughter of an African princess and wizarding royalty; she tended to cow entire rooms just by breathing.

Blaise got to his feet hastily. "Whatever Theodore told you—" he began only to be cut off.

"Theodore didn't have to tell me anything. Father owled me when Theodore arrived alone for brunch; Maman did her own investigation into your 'activities'."

So that was where Theodore had gone; Blaise had thought his tea had been cold for too long.

"I can see why you would be reticent to tell your family you were in love with the scourge of wizarding kind."

His mother's sardonic tone raised the hairs on Blaise's forearms; he went on the offensive. "I'm not in lo –- I'm not infatuated with him."

Blaise's mother arched a perfect eyebrow. "Please, do not pretend you cannot say the word –- that would be insulting, not only to me, but to all the father figures I've provided you with." Blaise resolutely did not roll his eyes at his mother; that was asking for trouble. "You've been in love with Theodore since you were both in nappies, so I will assume you are now referring to Mr Potter."

Gemma looked moderately pained. "I don't know whether to be more appalled that you've become a Gryffindor shirt-lifter or that you haven't set Mr Potter straight on who is in charge in your... relationship. Why do you look as though you've been lying on the floor for a week? Have I taught you nothing?"

"It hasn't been a whole week." Blaise wasn't sure about that, but it didn't feel like it had been a week. Of course that was how he'd got in trouble last time, too.

His mother sighed. "I suppose I should be displeased that you haven't killed him for leaving you. We do have standards, Blaise."

"He didn't leave me; no one leaves me!" Blaise bristled at the thought until he realised his mother was messing him about.

"A Blavatsky through and through," Gemma said, a smirk turning the corners of her mouth. "Well, then what is all this nonsense about?"

Blaise rubbed his days-old stubble. "I attempted to drug him."

His mother scoffed. "Attempted? Is that all? I thought you'd done him real harm. If he's still breathing, you're obviously fond of him."

"I am not -—" Blaise's words died off as his mother's disbelieving look.

"I can fix this," Gemma said, producing a tiny doll from the folds of her robes. Blaise could just make out the lightening bolt scar on its forehead, which meant that his mother was in collusion with his grandmother. This meant business -- very serious, scary business.

"Do you want him to forget this matter altogether?" she asked, pulling a long gold pin out of thin air. "Or just that he's upset about it?"

"No!" Blaise held up his hands. "Don't do that!"

Voodoo dolls created more problems than they solved; Blaise had learned that when he was sixteen. You used one to give someone scabies, because they'd eaten the last of the Fizzing Whizbees and then they were impotent for two months and you couldn't get laid.

Blaise's mother waved the pin at the doll. "Then you will take care of this at once; I won't have you pining about like some lovelorn idiot."

She took a step forward, paused and took a half a step back. "And you will clean yourself up at once; the state you're in is appalling."

For the second time in a week, Blaise felt something a lot like shame wash over him. He was a Blavatsky -- there were indeed standards to uphold. "Yes, mother."

She shook her head, and with a snap of her fingers the doll and golden pin vanished. "Will I have to bring Hugo home with me for the duration, or will you handle this yourself?"

It was on the tip of Blaise's tongue to remind his mother that Hugo had been husband number Eight, but he thought better of it. "Of course."

Gemma brushed an imaginary stray hair out of her face. "Any man would be lucky to have you, Blaise. You are brilliant, and handsome, and you are my child -- remind Mr Potter of that."

Blaise felt the warmth when his mother reached out and patted his shoulder easily; he cleared his throat. "I will."

His mother nodded her head decisively. "Good, because if you don't, I'll send your grandmother after him, and no one wants that."

Blaise felt certain that the smirk on his mother's face perfectly mirrored his own, and with that Gemma Blavatsky Wilson Hammond Zabini Owen Szernick Musoke Ramos Smith-Smythe Missoni Woodson Ashby Bagot Disapparated with a crack.

Blaise starred at the space where his mother had been for a moment and then went off to prepare himself for battle.

Slytherins were nothing if not determined; it was time Harry Potter learned what he'd got himself into by taking Blaise Zabini home in the first place.

--On to Chapter V, Part II--

~~I'm going on holiday. You'll see the ending when I get back.~~

+ Beta and cheerleading provided by the fantabulous

oxoniensis

+ Art provided by

antheia

+ Soundtrack available here and casting here

Soundtrack Extras Here (mirror here, and here) because I can

Current Mood: jubilant
Current Music: Radiohead 'Bodysnatchers'

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

effervescent.livejournal.com

Ahaha, I havne't read this yet, but I had *just* clicked over here to see if I'd somehow missed an update, and now I see that you've just posted it. Good timing :D

From:

effervescent.livejournal.com

*bounces* Whee, that was wonderful. Just... wah, Harry. And Blaise is an idiot. But they're perfect together.

And I love Blaise's mother, and her string of names *amused* You write the most fascinating family members.

...which leads to the question, how long is this holiday? :P

From:

Educated Black Person, Esq., A.A., B.A., MBA, Ph.D., RN, NAACP, AAA

Twentysomething – Chapter V (Part I)

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