Chapter 51

Zoe

Vaughn's confession rings in my ears like a gunshot for the rest of the day. 

I'm just like him, I've realized. 

Grew up without my biological parents, had no idea of my true identity as a magical being. Lost a most beloved person to the cruelty of Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Wanted to stop breathing because of it. Forced myself to go on anyways.

For some reason, the whole thing has made me desperate for Blaise. I feel that no one and nothing else will soothe me the way his presence will. 

I'm tired of him walling himself off from me. We're in this together, so whatever shit's running through his head, he's just going to have to buck up and move past it. 

I know he craves me just as much as I do him in times like this. The distance may feel innately safe to him, but in reality, it's chipping away at both of us. 

Half an hour has passed since the sun melted into the horizon. The sky is thick with nighttime darkness now. I've been racing wildly, aimlessly, up and down the corridors of Beauxbatons in search of Blaise. When I checked his room, he wasn't there.

I soon realize that I won't be able to find him on my own. I hurry down to the headmaster's office, the back of my neck hot with sweat and something else. I'm hoping to find Ingrid. 

I nearly bump into her as she pushes through the office door. 

"Excu -- what are you doing down here so late?" She asks. Her eyes widen at my disheveled state. 

"Where's Blaise?" I breathe the words out between pants. "I need to talk to Blaise. Now."

Ingrid's lips press into a thin, sad line. "I'm sorry, dear, but I've just sent him to meet with his mother." She says. 

What?? No. 

"However, he did give me this note to give to you. Read carefully -- he said it was important."

I snatch the thing from her hands, my eyes darting over it.

My heart's barely had time to sink into my stomach before it's shot back up into my throat, beating vivaciously. 

***

Blaise

The Zabini family manor is all sharp edges and pin-prick points.

Razor thin double-gates greet you as you approach, swinging open in a way that's more taunting than welcoming.

The manor itself is a gothic victorian-era masterpiece. Nothing but dark hues -- icy blacks and stormy greys. Lots of turrets whittled down to serrated tips, and a widow's walk perched above the fourth story. 

It requires discipline to move my feet along the walkway that'll take me up to the front entrance -- I haven't had to do it since winter break. My stomach clenches and unclenches, a visceral fist.

I think of the list of questions Ingrid gave me to ask my mother. We ran through them ten minutes ago, yet it feels like it's been hours.

I don't know how I'll do it -- how I'll ask her. She's a cunning woman, my mother. She's not one to be manipulated or fooled. She'll see through you in an instant -- knows what you're going to say before you've even thought of saying it.

When I enter the manor, my mother is standing in the parlor, her back facing me. She's gazing out onto the back gardens through the pane of an elongated window. Tightly wrapped in a dark cloak, she looks like a vulture with its wings folded in upon its body.

"Good evening, Blaise." She says into the thick air, her back still to me. 

How did she know it was me?

"We need to talk." I say. 

A beat of silence. No movement from either of us.

"It's quite fascinating, isn't it?" She says loftily, ignoring me. "Thestrals are believed by most to be sinister creatures -- omens of the worst misfortune to whomever can see them -- but they're really quite gentle.

"I find that mine are best accustomed to spots of deep shade in the back garden. Under that Weeping Willow, there, you can see a mare and her foal. The young ones will eat dead birds right from my palm."

"Stop. I need to talk to you."  I say the words louder this time, packing more strength behind them. I know she's toying with me. If I can help it, I won't let her. 

She turns to face me in one swift and unnaturally smooth movement. A smile cuts at the corners of her lips, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

"You haven't been answering my owls. I've been asking for you home. Nor have you commented on my new phonograph. It sounds lovely, doesn't it?"

I'd been so tense I hadn't even heard the music seeping out of the thing. It's on the parlor desk, the black disc rotating beneath the thin point of a needle.

I smile coldly. "Chopin, Waltz Number Nine."

It really is a lovely piece of music. In this room, with this woman, it feels dark and rotten in my ears.

"I've not been answering your owls because I haven't been at Hogwarts. I've been busy with...other things."

My mother cocks an eyebrow. Readying herself to pull the verbal trigger.

"Well, I suppose you have the right to ignore me -- no matter how foolish of a decision I think it to be. You should know, though, that I've had to resort to other means in your absence."

"What are you talking about. What means?"

That knife slash of a smile deepens. "My work cannot stop simply because you fail to participate. Other arrangements had to be made. A lot of stress on me, it was, having to find a worthy replacement. Think, Blaise. Surely, I've raised you smart enough to figure it out."

The cogs of my mind try desperately to turn through the heat in my head. The answer snaps into place, and the bullet lodges in my gut.

"You -- you haven't been --"

"Yes?" She eggs me on. She wants to hear me say it -- wants to hear the rage quiver in my voice as I acknowledge what she's done aloud.

"Who." My wand extends in front of me now, clasped in sweaty palms, pointing directly at the spot between her eyes. "Who have you been using instead of me??"

"Ah-hah! There you have it, Blaise. Although I must say I'm surprised you hadn't thought of the possibility sooner. Don't you ever wonder what your mummy's up to while you're away, dear? I'd surely have thought so, but perhaps I'm mistaken. Perhaps I don't know you as well as I previously believed.

"I digress -- it's nobody you know. Mudbloods, muggles -- the likes. I'm afraid, though, that they haven't displayed the same level of tolerance to my experimentation as you have in the past. Most expire in a day, perhaps two if I'm lucky. I'm then troubled with the task of finding another. If only you'd answered my letters, Blaise, maybe their lives could've been spared."

My heart knocks so hard against my ribs that it shakes my arms. The list of questions Ingrid gave me have been lost in the midst of my fury. They sit forgotten at the bottom of my throat.

"Oh, stop. You're not going to hurt me, dear." She tantalizes. "Not right now, at least. Your coming to see me unprovoked means you need something from me. You need something desperately, don't you? It must be dire, for you to risk coming to me after ignoring my letters for so long."

My wand trembles in my hands before me, a flimsy twig in a storm. 

She's right -- I can't hurt her, not now. I need her answers, her insight. For Zoe. And as long as she knows this, she can dangle it above my head, swing it back and forth like a shiny toy. All while knowing I won't do a thing to her. I expect she'll have fun torturing me with it. 

"That's what I thought." A smirk twitches on her sharp jaw. "I daresay I'll see you again soon. I look forward to it."

Something very strange happens then. Her physical body disappears from the depths of her robes, and they collapse to the floor in a ruffled heap. 

My head jerks to the ceiling, following the sudden movement of something out of the corner of my eye. 

A fruit bat, eyes bulbous like a giant insect's, is disappearing through the now open window. 

She must've done it in one swift movement -- magicked the window open and transfigured herself into her animagus form. 

My wand still stretches in front of me , trembling on the spot where my mother had stood. The sounds of Chopin continue to circle the room, each subsequent note a taunting prick against my skin. 

Through the shock of adrenaline, a wave of rage surges forth. 

A grab the nearest thing within reach -- an ornate vase on a side table -- and launch it across the room with a yell that rips through my lungs. It explodes against a wall, shards raining to the floor.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

She escaped, and I failed. She's been torturing and killing others when it should've been me. My fault. All my fault. 

Not able to stand the dust-mottled air of my mother's parlor for another second, I whip around on the spot and apparate back to Beauxbatons.