Chapter 40

Blaise's POV

When I wake up and find nothing but an empty space in my bed where Zoe had been sleeping the previous night, I fall into a state of panic.

My feelings aren't misplaced — since I've known her, Zoe's displayed an impressive ability to land herself in dangerous situations. Whether it be run-ins with Flint, the dementors guarding Hogwarts, or goblets containing poisoned drinks in the Great Hall, trouble seems to follow her like a lost puppy.

I waste no time readying myself for the world to see — the first steps I take this morning carry me directly to the Great Hall.

I'm looking for one person in particular — a person who's known for his ability to provide extensive knowledge on the life of any Hogwarts student at any given moment.

He also happens to be one of Zoe's best friends.

My knees feel shaky as I approach the Hufflepuff table.

"Eric. Where the hell is Zoe." The words come out more loudly and aggressively than I mean for them to.

"Jesus H. Christ, Blaise. If you want to blow out my eardrums, just use a hex next time. You're going to resurrect the freaking basilisk with that voice."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry." I say, feeling impatient. "But tell me where she is. I'm not fucking around — she fell asleep in my room last night and this morning — well, I wake up and she's just not there."

He must be able to see my heart beating out of my chest, for his pissy stare turns into one of concern as he gazes up at me from his seat.

"Listen." Eric lowers his voice as he stands up. "I wasn't planning on sharing any of the nitty gritties with you, but something about your cold, unfriendly demeanor has just really grown on me lately."

"Really?"

"No. But that's besides the point." He clicks. "Here's the thing — Zoe came to me this morning in quite a panic. She'd gotten a letter from her grandpa saying he was in trouble and he needed her to come home, pronto. She asked me if I could help sneak her off the grounds, and, well..."

I suck in a breath through my teeth. "Tell me you didn't."

"No can do, buckaroo." He says. "I gave her my old broom this morning and she skipped town. I am a little worried about her, though -- she seemed almost as nervous as I'd been that one time Pansy Parkinson found out I'd been hanging out with her boyfriend on Thursday nights. Not that we ever did anything, of course -- maybe an innocent flirtation here and there, but I'm no home wrecker -- "

"Eric."

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to make sure you know I'm not that kind of guy, okay?" He huffs. "Anyways, Zoe went home to Copenhagen. She's probably there now. But it would ease my nerves if someone would go check on her — and Merlin knows you won't be able to resist playing the knight in shining armor."

Eric pulls a wrinkled piece of parchment out of his pocket. "Here, I'm going to give you her address."

After scribbling a few lines with his quill, he passes the paper to me.

323, Crystal Gade 1052, Copenhagen, Denmark

My pulse races as I look down at the address.

Did Zoe make it home okay? What if I show up and she's not there? What will I do then?

The anxious questions bounce around my mind, clashing into each other and creating a dizzy mess.

Shut up. You don't know anything yet.

I silence the mental chatter with two simple sentences.

I'm very good at this — turning off thoughts and feelings, kind of like flipping a switch. The skill is rooted in trauma, of course — I acquired it as a means to endure the pointed hours of torture my mother and her companions put me through as a child.

I stare at Eric for a few moments, silent. I want to say something — utter a quick thank you, maybe — but the muscles around my mouth are paralyzed. My face is unstable, twitching, almost like the contents beneath my skin are wriggling back and forth, trying to break free.

I turn on my heel and stride off down the thin row between the tables, preparing to leave the school behind.

I didn't know it then, but this would be the last time I'd be in the Great Hall for awhile.

***

The wind shrieks in my face like a banshee. My hands blister in the cold, calloused and raw from gripping the handle of my broomstick so tightly. There's a light dusting of rain that paints the sky dull hues of grey. The skin around my eyes tightens as I try to see through it.

Three hours have gone by, and I've almost found my way to Zoe's childhood home in Copenhagen.

I know where the city is — been several times myself. But locating just one building among the hundreds standing below me has shaped up to be a difficult task.

When I spot the pier Eric had described to me — the one landmarked by a thick red lighthouse — I point the front end of my broom downwards.

Where are you, Zoe? Are you safe?

My heart has kept up the same fast-paced, frenzied rhythm throughout the duration of my trip to Copenhagen. My thoughts haven't once strayed from the girl with the doe eyes. It's like my body is working to keep me in a state of panic.

My feet brush the ground, and then clunk down in the middle of the cobblestone street.

Under different circumstances, the street Zoe grew up on would be a charming place. It's lined by quirky shops that I don't think could be found in any other corner of the world — a patchwork quilt store here, a family-owned business that only sells fruit-flavored jellies there.

Right now, though, the street seems to be void of human life. The air is unusually crisp — rich with oxygen, as though no one has breathed it in in years. It doesn't feel right.

I can't waste another second of time. I have to find her.

I push through the wind, into the flower shop, and up the staircase that lies at the back of the room.

***

I remember one time when my mother was experimenting on me, she pulled this thing out from beneath the folds of her robes. It was an instrument of sorts — thin, lethally sharp. About the length of a ruler. It reminded me of a human bone that had been whittled down by careful hands. Hell, maybe that's what it really was.

I took one look at the thing and began convulsing with fear. I squirmed and wriggled against the slim, feminine hands that held me down against the table, but it didn't help. My mother's friends had iron, skeletal grips.

All I could do was wait; wait for my flesh to be punctured, or perhaps carved into, my blood pooling out of me like paint.

I've never experienced fear quite like that again — up until now.

The upper level of the shop — where Zoe and her Grandpa must've lived — has been viciously torn apart.

It doesn't take me more than a second to figure it out: this was done by dark magic. I've seen plenty of dark magic in my life. Hell, I lived with dark magic, disguising itself in the form of a mother, for eleven years. Nothing else causes this kind of wreckage.

I tear through the apartment, my shrill voice cutting through the air like a blade as I holler out Zoe's name over and over again.

No response. Nothing.

Was she here when all of this — whatever this even is — happened? Or did she arrive afterwards? Where is she now, if not here?

I find two things in Zoe's room that turn my stomach to stone.

The first is a photograph of a man, rooted in a crack between two floorboards. It's small, and looks worn with age.

The man in the picture looks so much like Zoe that I almost drop it upon first glance. He's got several of her features, but the one that sticks out to me the most are the eyes. Shaped like a doe's, and colored just the same as Zo's -- watery blue with a little bit of green, like the ocean. This must be her biological father.

I find the note in the threshold of her door, lying in plain sight. I'd been too panicked to see it when I'd first come in.

The topmost point of the Caucasus Mountains.

Make it there quickly, and you might still be able to save him.

That's all it says, but it tells me everything I need to know about where Zoe is right now.

I'm flying back down the stairs to the shop within seconds of reading it, my heart still thumping like a bass drum in my chest.

I disappear into the night sky like a gust of wind, veering my broom in the direction of the Caucasus Mountains and praying to god that I won't be too late.