Sunday, Bloody Sunday

Chapter Sixteen — River in Flames, Cities on Fire

"Now a glorious war draws to a close

The yellow winds blow, and I have to know

Oh, Industry, whatever will become of me?

Soon the cruel rains will start

Is it true we must part company?"

-Bette Midler, "Oh, Industry"

Thursday, November 6, 2003

Blaise fixed her hair one last time, flicking her wand at a stray curl of red before standing back to examine her reflection in the mirror. "Lovely, dear, simply lovely!" the mirror proclaimed. Blaise wasn’t sure if she agreed. Her dress was horribly out of date — though the retro 1450’s styles did wonders to cover her growing shape, the style had gone out of fashion once again in the spring. Everything possible had been done to minimize the appearance of her rounded middle, and though Greg Goyle and Vince Crabbe weren’t known for their ability to see the obvious, Davie Avery was much more observant. Davie was the true threat.

"Men here to see miss," a house-elf murmured, careful to stay out of sight and out of the way.

"I’ll receive them in the parlour, Minny," Blaise responded, smoothing down her gown once more. It seemed that the time had come to guard all knowledge.

She put on her most gracious smile as she swept in, which widened even more as she realized that David Avery was not in attendance. "Greg! Vince! How lovely to see you both, outside of the meetings."

Vincent Crabbe grunted loudly and grinned vapidly, which was more of a response than one normally received from the rather dull man. Gregory Goyle, however, was his normal, increasingly-charming self. "Blaise," he murmured, taking her hand and planting a gallant kiss on the back, "or should I call you Duchess Zabini?"

You should, she longed to reply, but gracefully pulled her hand from his grip to wave off the comment instead. "I think as much of the title as Draco does of his, luv. I seldom use it, but for being in the presence of the Dark Lord. I do believe he appreciates it much more than I."

"Of course," Greg went on, smoothly. "I was grieved to hear of your father’s death in the raid two months ago, and wanted to come to give you my regards myself."

Blaise dutifully shifted her face from beaming hostess to grieving daughter, silently amazed at how easy the transition had become for her. "Please, go on and sit, both of you. There’s not a need to stand on formalities with me. I’m the same Blaise Zabini who did half of your homework for you in seventh year." She slid into a chair herself, eager to shift to a position, which would most easily hide her advancing pregnancy. As they both complied with her request, Crabbe practically throwing his enormous girth into a precious fifteenth century heirloom — thank all the Gods for reinforcing charms, she thought to herself — Blaise continued on. "I thank you for your sympathy, my friends. Frankly, I was wondering why you announced a visit for today. I thought visits of remembrance were long over, though I had wondered why neither of you were at the funeral or wake."

The smile on Greg’s face stiffened slightly at the insult. "We were regrettably held away by the Dark Lord’s business. Well, I was at least. I can’t speak for my associate." Goyle turned his grin to Crabbe.

Crabbe looked at the predatory expression on his friend’s face blankly. "Funeral? Oh. I, um, I was in... Russia."

It was probably the only country he knew the name of. "Oh, Russia? I wasn’t aware our Lord was pursuing anything there at the present. I suppose you learn something new every day," Blaise beamed, sending a malicious smirk at Goyle. Voldemort wasn’t the least bit interested in poverty-stricken Russia, with the smallest population of wizards in all of Europe and Asia.

Greg turned a pale red in suppressed anger, and promptly ignored Vince completely. "Well, it was business after all. Mustn’t speak too much of it. However, I must admit that this isn’t purely a social call. I’m looking for Draco, actually."

"Draco?" Blaise made sure her puzzled expression was as honest as she could make it. "Why, I haven’t seen him since the Dark Lord informed us about what Fred Weasley was." The lies flowed smoothly, all of her emotions solidly walled away. "Isn’t he on business in Verona?"

"I thought that myself, but I can’t seem to get an owl through," Greg smiled. "I do know how much time he tends to spend with you, especially since your father’s death. I was hoping he’d sent a letter or something such?"

"No, no letters," was her calm reply. Maybe this day wouldn’t be nearly so bad as she’d anticipated. "Tea!" she called out, cutting Goyle off before he was able to begin his next question. A house-elf popped in and quickly served to the three present, gone in an instant. "Have you asked Mrs. Malfoy where he might be? She would probably be more aware than I would."

Vince took a break from gulping his tea in a rather barbaric manner to shrug. "She said he didn’t answer her owl either. And he didn’t go meet with some cousin in Rome. That’s what she said, wasn’t it, Greg?"

Greg’s glare was enough to silence him. "Indeed." He moved his gaze back to Blaise. "He seems to have simply disappeared."

"Blaise, my dear!" a voice called from the door.

She froze, unable to keep a bit of her dismay from her face in the shock of his arrival. Her hostess mask faltered for a mere moment before her previous smile was plastered back across her face, however. "Why Davie, I was wondering where you’d got yourself off to."

David Avery swept into the room, looking every inch the prince he wanted so desperately to be. He bowed low, taking Blaise’s offered hand in a kiss twice as charming as Goyle’s. He didn’t stop there, however. "Aw, Blaise, I know you’re a Duchess, but I’ve known you since you were still in nappies!" Ignoring her protests, Davie grabbed her up from the chair in a brotherly hug.

A brotherly hug which stopped short as he pushed her back to stare in shock. "Blaise, you’re pregnant!" His grip on her arm was deceptively light as his other hand went to rest on her middle. "Why didn’t you tell me? Who’s the lucky man that finally got into your knickers?"

She gave a snort of indignation, prying her arm from his fist. "It was a secret, until you went blurting it out like that! And your language could certainly use -"

"C’mon, Blaisie, don’t ignore the question! Who knocked you up?" The hand grabbed her upper arm roughly, cold blue eyes revealing the seriousness of the situation.

Blaise paled and blurted an answer — any answer. "Why, Draco, of course. Who else would it be?" Note to self, she continued to herself silently, tell Draco of this little bitty lie before he gets back home.

She heard a yelp of laughter from Goyle’s direction. "Draco Malfoy? You’re planning to drag him to the altar over that, right? Cause he owes me twenty Galleons if he gets married before me!"

"You let Draco knock you up while he’s been moaning about that Weasley tart?" Davie shot back, sending Goyle into stunned silence. "You’re trying to tell me he didn’t call out her name?"

Blaise flushed brightly, trying desperately to pull back from Avery. "She — he ran into her at the Ministry, one day, and he’s still fuming over the terrible things the Mudblood-lover -"

"You believe that lie?" Davie laughed, finally letting go of his vice grip on Blaise’s arm. She rubbed it, glaring at him darkly, though he didn’t seem to give it a second thought. "He’s after your Weasley-red hair, I’d bet! He can’t have the tart, but he can have a Duchess with a passing resemblance!"

"David Julius Avery -" she spat.

Davie kept laughing. "He’s a Weasley-lover, no doubt about it! And I saw the two of you with Fred Weasley all the time! Don’t think you can hide your friendship with the spy, Blaise. Or should I say spies? Is Draco Malfoy in with the Weasleys, after all the bad blood for generations back?"

Blaise froze, the blood draining quickly from her face. "He wouldn’t dare!" she stuttered. "He’s worn the Mark since the day he turned seventeen! Draco is loyal!"

"Of course Draco is loyal," a fourth voice put in. Blaise’s heart sunk even further as she turned to come face to face with Narcissa Malfoy. "I’m so sorry to drop in on you like this, Blaise, but David was under the impression you would know where Draco is?"

"I don’t know where he is, Narcissa." Blaise folded her hands, trying to keep her palms from sweating.

Narcissa gave her a long, searching look, her sculpted face slowly morphing to a frown. "You’re pregnant. Is that why you’re wearing out-of-style robes?"

Blaise panicked, opening her mouth to respond, but Davie was faster. "She says you’re to be a grandmother, Narcissa!"

The tension between the two women was nearly palpable. "Well, Blaise," Narcissa finally put in, her tone icy, "I suppose there will be a wedding to plan in the next four months?"

"We hadn’t... thought that far ahead..." Blaise choked out. "When he’s back from Verona, I’ll have to talk to him." Oh, yes, I’ll have to talk to him... and beg forgiveness...

"Well, then, you should get started on the plans. I’m just SURE he’ll agree with me on his point," Narcissa sneered, mouth a thin line of disapproval. "Why don’t we sit down and talk about it? I’d love a cup of tea."

Narcissa turned to the teapot, and Davie backed over to a chair, his face a smirk. Blaise sunk into her own chair, face as guarded as she could make it in her total shock. She had the terrible feeling that Draco’s response to her little white lie would be a great deal worse than his mother’s.