Art by Antheia



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 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 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 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.



--



Ninety percent of anticipation was the self-inflicted agony of suspense, Blaise knew this. He knew that, typically, things were never quite as bad as you'd suspected they were going to be -– with the exception of bodies falling out the sky and being kicked out of the house because you'd tried to drug someone.

The other ten percent of anticipation must've been frustration, because all three of Blaise's owls to Harry were returned still tied to Archimedes' leg. In fact, the third time Archimedes returned with his unopened missive, his feathers were distinctly ruffled, and he held a white feather in his beak that looked as though it came from Harry's ragtag bird.

Blaise was never going to win Harry back if Archimedes had assaulted his inbred owl, which was how Blaise found himself stalking up and down Harry's street, passing where Harry's house should have been, but wasn't visible to plain sight.

Aggravation began to wrap itself around Blaise's mind, and he wondered if this was how his grandpere felt every time his grandmother kicked him out of the house.

It wasn't enough that Harry had a warded, Unplottable house; now Harry had a warded, Unplottable house that was colluding to keep Blaise away, and that was uncalled for.

So, he'd thought Harry was responsible for Draco's death, and had attempted to poison Harry. What was a little poison between lovers?

It wasn't even as though Blaise had been trying to kill him –- he was just trying to get some information.

It crossed Blaise's mind as he made a fourth pass at where Harry's house should've been, that perhaps not everyone had the sort of family where poisoning someone could be considered a sign of affection. But other people were pointless and stupid, and Blaise wasn't going to put up with this sort of nonsense forever.

He stopped in front of the kerb he knew so well, leaned against a parked car, lit a cigarette and waited. And waited some more. He was this close to being seriously displeased, and no one wanted to deal with a Zabini who was displeased. As though sensing this danger Harry's house swam into view, and Blaise cleared his throat and tossed his cigarette away.

That was more like it.

He had one foot on the step when the door opened, and Ginny Weasley emerged looking far more well-kept than any Weasley had a right to be. Her ginger hair was just as appalling as it had been on her brother, but she had a presumption to her stride that was quite fetching; it was almost enough to make Blaise overlook the hideous violet-striped jumper she wore. For a moment Blaise recalled thinking her fit in school; being gay didn't mean he couldn't appreciate a good-looking woman when he saw one.

"He doesn't want to see you," she said coolly. "Something about you drugging him and being really bad in bed."

Blaise's eyes narrowed. He could just make out the tip of a wand sticking out of her sleeve. "Insulting my sexual prowess is feeble, Weasley. Try again. Did he send you to tell me this like a good little owl?"

Ginny smirked and crossed her arms. "I'm no one's messenger owl; I just wanted to see for myself if you were worth all the grief." She was a fair sight taller than Blaise remembered, but just as cheeky.

Blaise raised an eyebrow at her appraising look and took a step forward. If it came to a duel Blaise felt sure he could take her, but you could never count out a Gryffindor -- they were rather devious. It was almost endearing.

"People seem to be tremendously hung up on worth these days," he said. "I thought your lot were supposed to be above such trivialities."

Ginny snorted and shut the door behind her. "Come off it, Zabini, we both know that the only differences between Slytherins and Gryffindors have to do with what face you show the public."

Blaise snickered. "I'd heard you were the smart one," he said taking two steps up. "Of course my reports are slightly outdated."

Ginny scoffed. "I'm smart enough to know that you've lost whatever chance you had with Harry when you decided to poison him –- so what are you doing here?"

Blaise narrowed his eyes. Everyone was being histrionic. It was so Slytherin. "I didn't poison him, stop being dramatic. Furthermore, if he doesn't want to see me then he can tell me that himself."

Ginny laughed at Blaise's brazenness. "I thought getting kicked out of the house was a pretty telling statement. What more did you want? A shoeprint on the backside? An Unforgivable Curse in a love letter?"

Blaise made a dismissive wave. "Par for the course."

Ginny rolled her eyes as reached into her back pocket and pulled out a red packet of cigarettes. "Marlboros. Muggle. You want?"

Blaise wrinkled his nose. "Those things will kill you."

"Please, spare me the lectures." She sat down the porch and lit her cigarette before looking at Blaise curiously. "I'm not letting you in this house, you know that, right? All things considered, you're lucky I don't hex you where you stand."

Blaise set his jaw. "I want to see him."

"Yes, well, like I said before, he doesn't want to see you."

"I feel as though we've had this conversation already."

Ginny puffed thoughtfully as Blaise stood there. "I used to fancy you, you know," she said exhaling a cloud of white smoke.

"Yes, well, you're not exactly hard on the eyes yourself," Blaise said graciously.

"You're quite the sweet talker, aren't you?"

"I don't believe in excessive pandering if that's what you mean."

"And blunt too –- is this what you're like in bed?"

Blaise closed his eyes briefly and pretended he hadn't cleaned himself up and put on his favourite jumper for this nonsense. When he opened his eyes, Ginny was still sitting there, elbows resting on her knees and giving him a moderately amused look. Clearly she was another one who'd been mis-sorted by the hat. "Spare me, I can only take so much Gryffindor inquisitiveness at any given time."

"We're just getting started." Ginny offered him another cigarette. "You should have one; you look as though you need it."

Blaise waved her off and pulled his own stash from his back pocket. "He really fancied you," Ginny said as Blaise lit his cigarette. "It's a shame you fucked it up, because Merlin knows he needed a good seeing to."

Blaise did not cough. "Who died and made you a Seer?" he asked, sitting down next to Ginny when she patted the space beside her. He could feel the wards from the house brushing against his runes; it was like being rubbed down with a warm towel. It was almost a bit dirty.

"Being a Seer is a lot better than being Tom Riddle's bit on the side," Ginny said dryly.

Blaise choked on his inhalation, and out the corner of his eye, he caught Ginny giving him a penetrating look. "You make jokes about it now?"

"Shit happens," she said with a shrug. "You move on."

Blaise sighed and looked around. Birds were singing, there was a woman across the street pushing a pram and cars passed by on their way to wherever – life was indeed moving on.

If he was sitting on Harry's porch, making jokes about Ginny Weasley working as a vessel for the Dark Lord, with Ginny Weasley, times had changed.

Ginny bumped her knee against Blaise's; it reminded him of Theodore, and for a moment he had the strangest vision of Ginny and Theodore together, but that was really too much for one day.

"I want him back," Blaise said to the filter of his cigarette. "'No' is not an acceptable answer."

Ginny snorted softly beside him. "I've yet to meet a Slytherin who knew how to accept defeat gracefully."

"Defeat is boring."

"Is this your way of saying you're terribly sympathetic about my horrific childhood, and this Slytherin/Gryffindor tête-à-tête is your way of fostering better understanding?" Blaise gave Ginny a look. "I speak Slytherin too," she said matter of factly. "Possession by Voldemort: it's the gift that keeps on giving."

Blaise couldn't contain his snicker. "You are exceptionally droll for a Gryffindor –- I thought Harry was an anomaly."

"He is unique," Ginny said ruefully. "I used to date Harry, too."

Blaise made a hmming noise.

Ginny made a hmming noise of her own. She reminded Blaise of Pansy. "You can figure out for yourself why it didn't work out, but I'll give you a hint, it has to do with him liking boys."

"I hadn't noticed," Blaise mocked.

They sat in almost-companionable silence. "He's not that easy to get on with, but he's honest, and he's loyal, and he can't be with someone who won't be loyal to him." Ginny tossed the butt of her cigarette down the stairs and onto the pavement.

"I don't think loyalty was the problem," Blaise flicked ash on the steps. "I think it was a question of who I was being loyal to that caused the problem."

"You think it was the loyalty and not the poisoning." The hilarity was evident in Ginny's voice.

"It's not as though I did him any damage," Blaise said irritably. "Hurting him would only have messed up my sex life; I can't have that."

Part of being an adult was growing up and getting over yourself. It was knowing that you were going to fuck up, so that when you did fuck up, you could admit it.

Ginny craned her head to look at Blaise. He resolutely did not meet her eye, because the woman pushing the pram was wearing the most hideous mauve dress. Muggles had no fashion sense; it was really quite sad. "I feel as though you're telling me something important, but for the life of me I don't know what it is."

Blaise rolled his eyes. Harry had the most trying group of associates Blaise had ever had the misfortune to come across. "I didn't do it to hurt him. I wouldn't do that."

Ginny exhaled softly. "Merlin's goolies, you actually do fancy him, don't you?"

Blaise flicked his cigarette in a high arc. It bounced off the side of a parked car. "I didn’t realise this was a 'state the obvious' sort of conversation."

"Be careful there, I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself by admitting you had feelings."

Blaise snorted derisively.

"Do you love him?"

Blaise stood up; he wasn't interested in submitting himself to this sort of abuse at the hands of any Gryffindor that wasn't giving him orgasms. "I can see this was a waste of time," he said crisply.

Ginny stood up next to him. "Stop blowing hot air; I'll let you see him."

Blaise eyed her curiously. "I though you said—"

"What I say and what I mean have nothing to do with each other. Didn't they teach you anything at school? Tsk tsk, Zabini."

Blaise scowled at Ginny's enormous grin. "It's women like you that make me thankful that I'm gay."

Ginny's laugh was entirely too loud as she opened the door and motioned for Blaise to follow. "I bet Harry's thankful, too. C'mon on, Slytherin menace, don't make me regret letting you in the house."

Blaise stepped forward -- and was promptly repelled back. He blinked and pushed at the empty entryway where his hand pressed against an invisible barrier. "You cannot be serious," Blaise snapped.

Ginny stood on the other side of the entryway with raised eyebrows. "It's not my house," she said.

Blaise scowled at her. "A little help would -- never mind I'll do it myself." He pulled out his wand and pointed it at the doorway.

Ginny pressed herself flat against the door and well out of Blaise's line of fire. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Blaise blinked and recollected himself. "The wards."

"I mean if you want to be blown to griffin fodder then that's your business, but if you get bits of your brain all over the pavement and I have to clean them up -- that's my business."

Blaise could feel something horrible and unnatural coiling in his stomach. He hated despair. "So, what do I do?"

Ginny shrugged. "Come back tomorrow and try again."

"Try again?" Blaise parroted.

Ginny smirked. "If you want him back, looks like you're going to have to work for it."

Blaise channelled every fibre of his being into the glare he shot at Ginny. "I hate you people."

"Aw," Ginny mocked, "Isn't love grand?"

Blaise turned around sharply and stalked off.

When he got home, Theodore was sprawled on the sofa, eating cake that Blaise presumed was from brunch with his grandparents. Theodore took one look at the expression on Blaise's face and arched an eyebrow. "I believe now would be an excellent time to point out that you don't actually have to put yourself through this nonsense, you know."

Blaise felt his scowl on every inch of his face. "Capitulate to a Gryffindor? Over my dead body."

Theodore smirked; he had blue icing on his upper lip. "Did you have an epitaph preference?"





The next day Blaise arrived sharply after breakfast. He'd left the house to go to work and instead found himself Apparating to Clapham in broad daylight. He'd arrived right outside Harry's house and scared a Muggle with a yapping dog, but at least the house was now showing itself to him without a fight.

He stalked up the steps, drew the equation to open the door and actually cracked a smile when the door dissolved for him. "That's better," Blaise said, only to stumble when the entryway physically propelled him backwards.

"By all that's precious to Salazar," Blaise hissed, "I am getting in this house."

Ginny chose this time to materialise in the hall. "Bright and early today. Don't you have work?"

Blaise glared hard.

Ginny smirked and sipped from the glass in her hand. "Careful, Zabini, or your face'll freeze like that."

"I want in," said Blaise.

"Yes, well, I want to stop babysitting Harry and go home and have sex with Neville, but we can't always get what we want, can we?"

Blaise twitched. "Please never speak of copulating with Longbottom again, Weasley."

Ginny scowled. "I'm not the one who drugged the owner of this house."

"It's not like it worked," Blaise retorted.

"I don't think that that's the point," said Ginny.

Blaise sighed. "So, what do I do now?"

"Try again tomorrow."

Blaise looked down at his shoes. He'd worn his favourite loafers and a jumper Harry had left at his flat. "I can't keep doing this forever," he said simply.

"Hey," Ginny's voice lost a little of its edge. "Don't give up on him now."

Blaise turned around and left again.






That afternoon at 181 Glebe Place Blaise completely ignored his Descartes and Euclid in favour of summoning some of the books his grandmere had given him when he'd moved into his own flat. So, when Queenie returned from her lunch with Luna and Theodore she found him ensconced on the sofa reading from The Witch Doctor's Guide to Vodun, Shrunken Heads and Blood Magick.

"Do I want to know why you're researching blood magick or am I supposed to pretend that that's an unpublished tome from Pythagoras?" she inquired.

"Harry's warded me out of the house," Blaise spoke to the yellowing pages.

The sofa shifted as Queenie sat down next to him. "So, you finally can admit that you're seeing Potter -- it only took you two months to get out of denial. I'm impressed."

"I wasn't in --"

Blaise flinched when Queenie dug her nails into his forearm. "Don't tell me lies, Blaise, it's insulting to both of us."

Blaise sighed and closed the tome. There was no way he was going to sacrifice a goat on Harry's front steps and salt the door. All that fur and blood was too messy for his tastes. "Fine, I was -- am -- I put Veritaserum in his tea and he took it badly."

Queenie arched a pale eyebrow. "Did it injure him at all?"

"No."

"Did you find out what you needed to know?"

"Yes."

"So you've done nothing wrong."

"Harry disagrees."

Queenie scoffed derisively. "He's a Gryffindor -- of course he disagrees."

"I feel I'm supposed to take great offence at that," Blaise said placidly.

Queenie just laughed. "Stop acting like you have no sense. You're a Slytherin; if you want something you go and take it. Have you been emasculated by his sexual prowess?"

"Now, I really am offended," Blaise snapped.

Queenie just smiled. "Good."





Blaise looked around from the porch of Harry's house and tried to figure out how he'd ended up there for the third time in two days. This was intolerable. He didn't have to put up with this nonsense. He was a Zabini -- he could get any man he wanted. He was going to win the Paracelsus if he could manage to focus for longer than an hour on anything not related to Harry bloody Potter.

"Are you going to stand there all day?" Ginny asked.

Blaise's head snapped up when he realised she was standing in the open doorway. "I'm coming in," he announced.

Ginny looked him up and down and then cocked her head to the side. "Okay -- Alohomora."

The entranceway glowed golden for a moment and Blaise narrowed his eyes. When he reached out his hand met no resistance. "You put a lock on the door," he enunciated sharply. "You put a fucking lock on the door?!"

Ginny grinned. "It doesn't have to be complicated to do the job."

"I hate you," Blaise spat.

"Aw, Zabini, if you keep flirting with me I'm going to tell Harry."





When Ginny had announced that Harry was in the back garden, Blaise had foolishly taken that to mean that Harry was visible to the naked eye. Instead, however, Ginny had led him through the house, to the garden, and then pointed to the bastardised version of the Forbidden Forest and given Blaise the sort of toothy grin that made Blaise realise how hard he was going to have to work to get Harry back.

"If you're not back by tomorrow, I'll send out a search party," she said with a wink.

"Tomorrow," Blaise said flatly. "If you're not taking the piss, we're going to have a problem."

"I'm sure nothing that bad will happen to you." Ginny's sunny tone was somewhere past worrisome and well into creepy. "I'm sure Harry cleared away the giants and the manticores. I don't know about the griffins. He's become rather partial to them."

Blaise glared. "Very fucking funny."

Ginny gestured for Blaise to step into the foliage. "I try."

Blaise swallowed. He hated the outdoors. He still had nightmares of hiding out in the countryside with Theodore and sleeping in ditches. "He's really in there, is he?"

Ginny gave raised a eyebrow. "Think of it like a Muggle fairytale where the dashing prince has to defeat the evil dragon and get through the thorns to rescue his princess in the castle."

Blaise's left eye twitched. "That's no fairytale," he snapped. "Everyone knows that story about Great Salazar bewitching Rowena Ravenclaw with a Sleeping Draught and locking her away when Gryffindor announced that he was leaving Salazar for that harridan."

Ginny shrugged. "Some people don't take being dumped so well, what can you do? Anyway, off you go. If you get in trouble –- real trouble –- send up blue sparks."

"Did I mention that I hate you?"

"Watch out for the dragons," Ginny called.

Blaise exhaled a shaky breath, threw a haughty glare over his shoulder, and stepped through the hedge. The sunlight died away when Blaise was hardly a dozen steps into the forest, and he would've gone back but without proper light he couldn't even make out the backdoor anymore.

Shaking his head, Blaise moved forward, stumbling over tree roots and ducking when he heard the flapping of what could've been bats or owls or hippogriffs. He was not going to die the way his father had. Pulling his wand out of his pocket, Blaise took a deep breath and soldiered on.

He resolutely did not think of dragons. Harry was crazy, but no one was that crazy.

Blaise walked for some time, ignoring the eyes he could feel watching him. His runes would keep him safe –- he had an implicit trust in his grandparents' handiwork -– and eventually the thick bushes and trees started to thin out.

Sunlight began to trickle through the canopy of trees, and a giant rustling above him distracted Blaise enough that he stepped in a hole and almost twisted his ankle. Three steps later he slipped on some leaves and fell in the mud.

"You're not worth this, Harry, really you're not," Blaise muttered, yanking off his ruined jumper and carrying on. "No one is worth this ignominy, no matter how well they suck cock or look half-dressed."

Something rustled the bushes nearby, and Blaise turned sharply. His wand did not quiver in his hand. "If this is your idea of a joke, I'm missing the humour," he said, refusing to feel relieved when two small rabbits emerged.

They eyed him curiously, and Blaise let loose a snort of derision. "Are you going to take me to your leader?" The larger rabbit of the two winked, and Blaise pinched the bridge of his nose. "I was joking, you do understand this, right?"

"Hey, if you don’t want our help, just say so," the smaller rabbit snapped.

Blaise closed his eyes. He was hallucinating. That was it. He'd fallen and hit his head in Harry's backyard, which was only slightly smaller than all of Scotland. He was going to have to be rescued by flipping Ginny Weasley -– the shame would kill him first.

"Any day now, mate."

Blaise opened his eyes, and the rabbits were still there, with their arms crossed. "This is not happening."

The larger rabbit turned to the smaller rabbit and shook its head. "Didn't the swallows say he was supposed to be the smart one?"

Blaise waved the muddy jumper in surrender. "Fine! I give up! Take me to your leader!" He knew it was a bad sign when rabbits were rolling their eyes at him; nevertheless, he followed them across the forest floor. They hopped and Blaise walked, keeping his eyes on the ground and trying not to smush them. Somehow that seemed like a bad idea. He stopped when they got the edge of a stream.

"This would be lovely if I were a centaur desperately dying of thirst, however-–" Blaise's words died off when he looked up and found the edge of the forest, and beyond it, a large, green, sunlit meadow.

"I dunno how humans are running business when they're this thick," one rabbit told the other. "Do you want a diagram, mate?"

Blaise sighed. It was all too saccharine for words -- if there was a dragon in the meadow, Ginny Weasley was in so much trouble. "Right, of course, so now I'm supposed to walk into the innocent looking clearing and get eaten by a dragon. Fabulous."

Blaise heard the rabbits whispering as he walked into the clearing. "He's off his rocker."

The sun was bright and the grass was perfectly green. It was too perfect to be real. And then Blaise saw the Quidditch hoops.

And then he was buzzed by a flying Harry.

The tailwind from Harry's broom made Blaise's eyes sting, and he dropped the muddy jumper as Harry made another pass. "I can see that you're enjoying this, but now that I've tainted your inner sanctum, you might as well talk to me," he called.

"Go home, Zabini!" Harry hollered hovering twenty feet above Blaise.

"So, how does it feel to be the dictator of your own country?" Blaise replied.

Harry hovered in the air and glared; Blaise ignored the ground trembling underneath his feet.

"Surely you can do better than that, Harry," Blaise tapped his throat with his wand so his voice would project. "Surnames are so passé after you've had sex in someone's kitchen." Blaise craned his neck to look up; Harry was backlit by the sun like an enormous eclipse.

"It took you a whole fucking month to even call me by my name!" Harry spat.

"Yes, and I can't go back I'm afraid. I signed an accord of fraternisation and have been properly disinherited by everyone I know; you're stuck with me now."

"I can't believe Ginny let you in!" Harry snapped. "Which part of Hex on Sight did she miss?"

"Probably the part where you love me," Blaise retorted, stumbling back when Harry dropped suddenly, hovering low enough so they were almost eye to eye. Harry wasn't wearing his glasses; his face seemed naked.

"I don’t love you," Harry said coolly. "I love some idea of you that doesn't exist. I'm still hung up on Malfoy; I thought that was your tack."

"That nonsense?" Blaise wrinkled his nose. "Don't believe everything you hear—"

"No, I just believe what I taste in my tea," Harry's voice was low and scathing.

Blaise's gut churned; this shame business was going to give him an ulcer. "I would never let anything happen to you," Blaise said calmly.

"Nothing that you wouldn't do yourself, you mean." Harry narrowed his eyes. "I mean look at Malfoy –- he's dead -– that's not confidence inspiring."

Every muscle in Blaise's body quivered, and he dropped his wand on the ground. "Touché," he said icily. "It turns out that I can bleed, though perhaps not so messily as others. Would you like a point for your direct hit?"

Harry starred at him piercingly; Blaise resolutely didn't blink. Harry's hair was everywhere, and for the first time Blaise properly looked at the faded scar on Harry's forehead.

"All you had to do was ask me," the pleading note in Harry's voice made Blaise's teeth hurt. "I would've told you anything. Why couldn't you just believe in me?"

"Because belief implies faith, and faith is for other people." Blaise did nothing to conceal his bitterness. "When you believe in people they have nasty habit of getting themselves killed."

Harry's scowl seemed more pained and less menacing. "I'm not trying to get myself killed anymore, you know."

Blaise scoffed. "Anymore? Really? I feel so much better now."

"I still don't understand why you didn't just ask."

"Because people like you don't end up with people like me!" Blaise snapped. He'd been through mud and leaves and rabbits and Weasleys for Harry; what more did he want?

"What the hell is your problem?" Harry exploded off his broom, and Blaise saw stars as they hit the ground, rolling in the grass and dirt and twigs. "I have done nothing but try with you!" Harry hollered. "I trusted you! I told my friends about us! I fell in love with you, you fucking ass! Why the hell did you think poisoning me was a good idea?"

They came to a stop with Blaise on his back and Harry kneeling over him. Harry's hands were fisted in Blaise's undershirt, and Blaise could taste the dirt in his mouth. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"But why?" Harry had a fresh scratch on his cheek and leaves in his hair.

"Because people don't tell the truth where I come from! That's what got Draco killed in the first place. He didn't want to tell the truth about the Dark Lord's hold over his mother, or that he didn't kill Dumbledore, or that he was afraid!" Blaise shot back. "Fear gets you killed! The truth is an expensive commodity where I come from!"

Harry stared at Blaise for sometime until Blaise began to grow uncomfortable. "You're afraid," Harry's seemed intrigued as though he were trying the concept out for size. "You're afraid of me."

"Don't be ridiculous," Blaise said evenly.

"You're afraid of moving on -- with me," Harry corrected.

Blaise shoved at Harry to push him away and instead found himself pinned to the ground by the wrists, his fingers brushing against the grass fruitlessly. Harry loomed over him, eyes large and his cheeks full of colour. This was insufferable.

"Is it really so bad to be in love with me?" Harry asked simply. "I know people keep dying because of it -–"

Blaise cut him off. "You really are full of yourself, Potter. Shut up and kiss me, before you say something even more idiotic—"

Blaise was moderately surprised when Harry actually did kiss him. Thankfully it wasn't sweet and poignant or Blaise might've gone into cardiac arrest.

Harry bit and licked and tangled his fingers with Blaise's, stretching along Blaise's body like an oversized cat. Harry kissed like –- well, like Harry, as though he couldn't decide between aggression and lassitude and would just keep going until someone came along to rescue him from himself.

They rubbed against each other on the ground, back and forth and side to side, legs twisting and sliding and mouths wet and slick. Blaise could feel Harry's erection bumping against his own as Harry ground his hips against Blaise's own.

The grass tickled the back of Blaise neck, and he pushed with his feet until they rolled over and Harry was on his back. Considering it was November in London, Blaise felt rather sure that Harry pushing at his shirt and urging him to take it off was a bad idea, but it seemed warm enough in the clearing.

Every time Blaise pulled away to look at Harry, Harry would follow him blindly until Blaise kissed him again. It was stupidly endearing and Blaise's breath caught in his throat; eventually he stopped pulling away, because he didn't need to look anymore.

Harry wasn't Draco; he was never going to be Draco. To compare the two did a disservice to both.

Blaise sighed when Harry kissed his cheek and his jaw and the side of his neck. Harry's hands were everywhere at once, and the sun was warm on his back. It was too much like happiness, and Blaise pushed himself upright to get his bearings.

Harry's eyes were bright, and he licked Blaise's fingers when Blaise touched his mouth inquisitively.

"Tell me about your runes." Harry's fingers mapped Blaise's forearms and biceps, coming to a stop on his shoulders as his fingers traced the thin line of runes that wrapped around Blaise's shoulder like a strap.

"They were a gift from my grandparents, before the –- ah --" Blaise twitched as Harry's fingers slid over his collarbone, and he rode out Harry's reflexive upward thrust. "War. They're protective."

Harry splayed his fingers over Blaise's heart for a moment. "I figured as much –- what are they supposed to protect you from?"

"Harm. Gryffindors. Insipid nonsense like falling in love -– I suspect they're not working properly at the moment."

Harry raised an eyebrow and pushed himself upright until they were chest-to-chest. His eyes were bright green and he showed too many teeth when he smiled. Blaise pulled a leaf out of his hair as Harry's fingers mapped his lower back. "Insipid nonsense?"

"They're very interested in you -– my grandparents." Blaise continued on as though Harry hadn't interrupted. "Or should I say they're interested in the fact that I'm interested in you."

"Just interested," Harry teased. Blaise rolled his eyes at the size of Harry's grin.

"I'm not supposed to be in love with you," Blaise said pointedly. "It's all very exasperating and challenging; I suspect all my friends have disowned me by now for succumbing to something so trivial as emotion."

"That's all right. You still have me; I'll share my friends with you."

Blaise dropped his head onto Harry's shoulder theatrically. "Great Salazar save us all."

When Harry kissed the top of his head, Blaise pulled back and glared. "Such demonstrations of affection are intolerable you know—"

Harry snorted. "Shut up, you know you love it."

"I do not!"

"Do too."

Blaise narrowed his eyes. "Insufferable, unkempt Gryffindor tosser."

"Drugging Slytherin inbreed."

Blaise paused. "You say the nicest things."

"I try."

Blaise nodded. "Yes, I know."

"And you try, too," Harry said with a smirk.

Blaise sighed. "Yes, but don't tell anyone, some of us have standards to uphold."

Harry kissed him on the shoulder this time and Blaise couldn't even be bothered to stiffen slightly. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me."

Blaise smirked as his fingers slipped inside the neck of Harry's shirt and rubbed his neck. "Yes, that's what I'm afraid of."

Harry gave him another toothy grin, his hand sliding under the waistband of Blaise's trousers. His fingers were warm and damp, and Blaise shuddered when Harry thrust his hips against Blaise's own suggestively. "You do realise I don't know where the Mythical Last Death Eater is, don't you? Sucking my brain out through my cock isn't going to change that."

Harry groaned. "Blaise, your paranoia is truly a credit to you. Now are you going to get me off or not?"

Blaise pretended to think the matter over. "That depends, what do I get for it?"

Harry's fingers slid further down the back of Blaise's trousers slipping into the damp crease and Blaise twitched. "Ah, now you're speaking my language."

Harry laughed. "And you thought we couldn't make it work –- you were so wrong."

Blaise scoffed derisively. "I am never wrong –- I was just mistaken."

"Whatever you say."

"And they said Gryffindors couldn't be taught."

Harry narrowed his eyes, and it was Blaise's turn to chuckle. It had been a long time since he'd laughed, and it felt a bit strange, as though the muscles had atrophied. Maybe he would work on that. He was alive, content, and sitting in sunlit meadow with Harry Potter; anything was possible now.



--end—





+ Beta and cheerleading provided by the fantabulous [info]oxoniensis

+ Art provided by [info]antheia

+ Soundtrack available here and casting here

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

-----

+ First of all, I would like to thank [info]literaryll for her relentless enthusiasm and wheedling for a Harry/Blaise story. It only took a year and a half for me to capitulate, but this story is proof that even I can be worn down eventually. This story is for you, Ash, I hope you've enjoyed it.

+ Second, I would like to thank the absolutely brilliant artists who made art for a series they hadn't even read just to inspire me. My most profound thanks and gratitude go out to [info]dopplegl, who was patient when I didn't know what the hell I was putting on the soundtrack; [info]antheia, who inspired so much porn; and [info]mellafe, who touched me with her giving nature.

+ Third, as always the soundtrack is available here (Soundtrack Extras Here (mirror here)) and casting here, because music makes everything possible.

+ Last, but never ever least in my heart, are my betas, because you are only as good as the people you have telling you that you're fucking up. [info]serialkarma, who always supports me, even when she had a thousand other things to do; [info]ethrosdemon who has betaed part of every series I've ever written; and the truly appreciated and adored [info]oxoniensis, who cheered and supported and rocked hardcore. Thank you, ladies.

Also, thank you to everyone who has read and commented and supported this story, I have appreciated it immensely. Don't let the happy ending go to your heads.