The Undoing of Blaise Zabini

A blanket of treacherous ground claimed the dignities of many witches and wizards in the autumn of Blaise's sixth year at Hogwarts. Witches squealed when their boots were sucked into the thick mud as they slipped and slid across the school grounds. Many of the wizards, seeing their female counterparts in distress, made vein attempts to rescue them but only succeeded in falling prey to the muddy trap. The harsh wind would then batter against the mud-encrusted students, pinking their cheeks and toying with their cloaks and hair.

In the North Tower Blaise sat motionlessly on the stone bench that wound its way slowly around the bare floor, leaving only a gap in its path for the staircase that spiralled down away from the otherwise empty room. An open window traced the sharp edge of Blaise's shoulder with threatening clouds, dark and thick with harsh weather. The wind howled as it was sucked through the tower. It plastered Blaise's dark hair to his wan face and mottled his skin with the green of his spidery veins. Unperturbed by the weather, the wizard sat with his back rigid and his hands clasped grimly in his lap. He had been sitting there for quite some time, feeling the slight warmth that the rising of the sun brought forth from the deep chill of the night.

Blaise's muscles protested as he rose shakily to his feet and wandered down the curving staircase to the ground, the icy stab of the handrail cutting across his palm with every step. The corners of his mouth twitched.

Through the open castle doors Blaise passed, slipping out into the powdery fog that clung tightly to the sodden ground and dusted his clothes with miniscule droplets. The earth underfoot was less than firm, although the wizard picked his way across the churned grounds without too much difficulty. Cautiously he clambered down to the lake's edge and perched himself on a large rock that jutted out slightly over the silky black water. Blaise was sorely tempted to unlace his boots, dip his feet into the icy liquid and let the cold race through his bones like an unquenchable fire. He desisted solely because his attention was caught by a beacon of red as it flickered through the thick growth of trees of the Forbidden Forest. Blaise watched as the beacon grew closer, turning into a petite figure as it neared the edge of the forest, finally emerging through the undergrowth and tottering a few yards before collapsing in a swirl of heavy black material and fiery hair. Blaise drew himself to his feet and moved closer, pausing only to watch the witch dry retching and then begining to shake. And it was a witch, Blaise concluded at a safe distance. It was Ginevra Weasley, to be more precise. She lay sprawled on the ground, dark mud clinging to her clothes, face, and bare feet.

"We meet again," she laughed humourlessly, coating herself with more mud as she rolled over.

Unconcerned, Blaise turned away, staring out at the inky black water of the lake as it lapped against the shore. Dully he was aware of the witch getting to her feet and following his gaze out into the water. For a while they stood there, the light growing more and more steady as the morning took a firmer grip of the day. As the mist began to rise from the lake Blaise glanced across at the girl. She was shivering slightly but did not hug her arms about herself. Damp lines were drawn onto the mud on her cheeks as tears leaked slightly from her eyes.

"Blaise," the witch said, "you must think that I'm pathetic."

Blaise dug his hands deeper into his cloak pockets and didn't respond.

"Sometimes I think that I'm pathetic too." Ginevra gave a dark smile, "Have you ever thought that everything would be better off if you weren't there?" Blaise felt her glance up at him. "I want to know what goes on in your head," she said after a heavy pause. "You fixed the mirror in the bathroom, but you left me there."

The witch fell into a thoughtful silence, pulling her hair over her shoulder as she did so. For a moment she twirled a few of the strands between her fingers, dried mud flaking off as she did so. Blaise didn't make any movement as the witch thought. He was lost in his own thoughts which stumbled around his head, occasionally reminding him that he could clearly be seen from somewhere nice and high, such as a tower.

"I don't know anyone who would have left me in the bathroom," Ginevra said, breaking the silence and leading Blaise away from his own thoughts. "I like that, Blaise. You don't care about me in the least," her voice rang out in a peal of laughter, "and I like, Blaise, I really do."

The corners of Blaise's mouth twitched. He turned away from Ginevra, biting into the soft flesh of his lip until his mouth ran with the metallic taste of blood. Experimentally, he slid his tongue over the wound.

"This is the beginning of something, Blaise," the witch spoke in an ethereal voice.