Saving Face

Saving Face

Oversized black and red dining rooms are cursed with a type of resonance. Many scientific studies have been embarked upon in an attempt to discover if this is an irrevocable side effect of six tonnes of cherry red lead paint; a secretion given off by oak furniture; or a bi-product of the inhabitants themselves.

Scientists have also tried to deduce why eminent politicians feel the need for “a bit of rough” with an unsuitable partner when they know they’ll get caught, often quite literally, with their trousers down. Sadly I don’t have the answers to either question, and the studies are still ongoing…

Blaise Zabini had learnt the early on in his life that there was a time and a place for everything. For instance, socks went in one draw, and knives in another. You didn’t read Thursday’s paper on Tuesday. You didn’t sit Francis Zabini at the Malfoy family dining table tonight, for it was neither time nor place. It was as entirely preposterous idea an idea as leaving your Sunday dinner to cook on Wednesday in the library. Wrong time. Wrong place. Basic principles were being horribly violated by Francis’ very presence.

It wasn’t just Blaise’s intuitive ability to read a scene that announced the tension and the sheer wrongness of the situation to him. Nor was it the expression of distilled disgust on Narcissa Malfoy’s face; although certainly in normal circumstances this was an excellent indicator of social temperature. It wasn’t even Draco exhibiting a perfect example of the famous British stiff upper lip; the colour of his Father’s podgy blonde face; or the way Vanya Zabini was watching Lucius Malfoy like a hawk about to dissect it’s prey with a surgical scalpel. It was something far more disarming, sleazy, immoral, and just generally low

The pile of newspapers scattered purposefully on the side board to the left of Blaise’s chair seemed to hover fractions of a centimetre above the surface they lay on. Blaise wasn’t entirely sure whether this was an illusion produced by his own over desperate brain, or a fact, and the papers really had become imbued with some type of elemental life force by the strength of the allegations inside. Blaise was quite certain however that the headlines had been enchanted to sing into his ears. Broadsheet after broadsheet chanting:

“Eminent Ministry Member in Sex Scandal”

”Zabini Cover Up”

"Ministry Shock at Revelations"

And then worst of all, the single lone tabloid decorating the heap of papers like a cherry atop a cake, the headline screaming Exclusive! “Zabini Bares All! In A Bra! We Talk To Jilted Male Lover!”

Just below the bold black typeface, the picture. That first damning picture. Blaise’s Father’s fleshy white bottom waving jauntily in the air, attired only in pastel pink French knickers with a conveniently placed hole. Blaise couldn’t bare the cringingly awful, revolting, reviling site of it; yet was singularly aware of Draco Malfoy’s horrified eyes lingering on it. On him too.

Francis Zabini was from an old family, but not a terribly respectable one to say the least. The Zabini’s had earned their money in Muggle shipping and trafficking in the nineteenth century, buying their way into politics, and from there, high society. The Zabini’s traditionally were a well to do family, who could be relied on to spend money on lavish and tasteless items. It was acceptable to attend their parties, but not to marry your daughter to one, and especially not your eldest son.

That was aside from Francis Zabini himself of course. He had money alright, but none of the charm, wit, intelligence, beauty, that helped lubricate social exchange. Not to mention his unfortunate habit of…falling over, and landing in compromising positions under other men. He was a large, good natured man; flamboyant in the extreme, and dim as they came. Which amongst death eaters is an achievement indeed. The man had been accepted as one of the Dark Lord’s minions only because it was assumed that he would give generously, keep quiet at meetings, and be easily disposed of in event of problems requiring a scapegoat.

That had been arguing without Vanya. When Francis had been nominated she had been a generally unknown property. A stunningly attractive foreign wife or no notable breeding not being included in membership exchanges, obviously. When the stunningly attractive foreign wife had turned up at a party before a Death Eating conference, and turned out to be ferociously intelligent, frighteningly manipulative, and viciously sarcastic it had proved to be a shock for several people. It had been an even greater shock for several more when it turned out later than she had primed Zabini on what to say at the meeting, and terrorised him into following her notes to the letter. It was of course completely unthinkable to have a woman at a meeting, but over the next few weeks it was made abundantly clear that Vanya may have well as been.

Francis’ scandal was a perfect excuse, just waiting to be picked, ripe from the tree, for sacking him from his job at the Ministry. And if the fat boy was no longer of any worth to Voldermort as a conveniently placed leak, then the Dark Lord would “sacrifice” his services. The man knew, or thought he knew, too much already. Silencing was imminent on the political agenda. Vanya had stood on too many death eaters toes over the years, and most were eager for the Zabini’s to fall from favour. If there were a simple way for Francis’ death to be manipulated, it would be done. However, while the man still served a purpose Voldermort would keep him; and he was to rank heavy to be simply disposed of.

Which was why it was so necessary that he should…depart the ministerial fold.

Tomorrow a panel of eleven men; highly esteemed and moral men, would sit on the Ministry board and decide whether Zabini’s misconduct should end in “voluntary resignation.” Five were Death Eaters and would vote “Yes.” The other five were liberal fools to a man, and would vote “No.” The last man was Lucius Malfoy.

Blaise watched in dead silence as his Mother leant forward, showing a little more cleavage than she might normally in her dark grey silk evening dress, and enquired in her deep voice, the hint of Eastern European miscellaneous accent still easing through, if Lucius would “care to explain that fascinating glass item on the mantle piece over there?” Blaise was so engrossed in watching the movement of her breasts and legs that he barely even flinched when Narcissa’s fork hit the floor.