A State Where Everything's Passing

A State Where Everything's Passing

In the hazy afternoon sun, his sheets have the texture of rough wool. They remind him of winters in England, nights in the manor surrounded by the faint scent of his mother's perfume as she lulled him to sleep with the low cadence of her voice. Some nights, he'd sense his father standing in the doorway, watching them with a faint smile. But his mother would continue her stories anyway, telling him of the family's villa in Italy and his childhood there. And when Blaise finally fell asleep, he'd dream of sun-drenched earth and green.

The years have passed since those happy days. His mother is dead and his father is in Azkaban, rotting away for following a madman. Meanwhile, his dreams have turned into nightmares of blood and blackened skin.

He sighs, rubbing his hand over his tired face. He is Blaise Zabini, the son of Antonio and Victoria Zabini. Born on the 25^th of June, 1980, the life he entered was far easier than warranted for one so young. His father was the head of the renowned Zabini vineyards, whose wines graced tables the world over. His mother was the daughter of Andrew Haversham, the Andrew Haversham that owned nearly three-quarters of Wizarding London and all of Diagon Alley. His parents' marriage had initially been one of convenience, but they had grown to love each other by the time Blaise was born.

From the moment he was in nappies, he knew the path set out for him. He was to attend Hogwarts, his mother's alma mater, and graduate as Head Boy. Then, once he'd taken over the vineyards and learned all he could from his father, he would become acting president of the company and search for a suitable bride. He'd find a rich, pureblood girl and bring her to Italy so he could finally establish himself in the family seat. The manor would be reserved for occasional trips to London for business meetings, and he would bequeath it to his second son. His first son, of course, would follow in his footsteps.

Yet, by the time he entered his fourth year, Blaise's carefully mapped future was destroyed. The Dark Lord had returned to power and his parents had a difficult choice to make. Antonio Zabini had initially opted for the neutral road, but when he returned to his home one night and found Victoria dead on the foyer's slate flagstones, he'd changed his mind.

After he had graduated from Hogwarts, Blaise was faced with the decision of following his father's footsteps. His father urged compliance, but Blaise could see the terror and anguish in the older man's gaunt features. In answer to his father's unspoken plea, he refused to join.

There was little time to fear for his life, for the war came to its decisive conclusion three days before his birthday, in the year 2000. As he and nearly all of the Wizarding World had expected, Harry Potter had succeeded in killing the Dark Lord. All he'd remembered of Potter from Hogwarts was a sniveling, short boy with round glasses and an annoying owl. On the cover of the Daily Prophet, however, the little boy had matured into a war-weary man with a grim mouth and stubble, looking no better than the photo of Antonio Zabini in the far corner of the front page.

Once the celebrations and parties had abated, Antonio Zabini was finally brought to trial. No evidence, not even the fact that he had joined the Death Eaters only after his wife was killed, could persuade the Ministry to set him free. Blaise had employed the best advocates he could find, hoping in some way to avoid the inevitable. But the verdict on January 16, 2002, was final, sealing his father's pleading eyes in Azkaban forever.

He'd sold the manor after that, unable to return to a home so full of good memories. He moved to a flat in Diagon Alley and found a perverse pleasure in roaming the streets at odd hours of the day and night, letting his mind drift away where they please.

For at night, Blaise found no respite from the demons of his conscience. His dreams were filled with the screams of those his father probably killed. Sometimes the voices stopped pleading and started accusing, setting his teeth on edge with their cries of "Traitor!" and "Unworthy, ungrateful son of an honorable father, from an honorable home..." When Blaise woke up from those, he would walk for miles and miles as though he was running away.

During one of his rambles in Diagon Alley, Blaise collided into an exhausted Hermione Granger outside of Flourish and Blotts. The paleness of her skin and the curiosity in her eyes piqued his own, and they fell to talking. Unsurprisingly, their first conversation was filled with insults and bad feelings on both sides. But in the weeks following that incident, they found themselves crossing paths many times. He soon suspected that she was in a similar state, escaping the Furies that chased her.

He was right, of course. Nearly a month or so after their first spat, he invited her to join him in dinner at the Leaky Cauldron, and she'd accepted. During that meal, he'd discovered that her demons were memories of her deceased parents, killed as his mother had been. He still remembered the shock of seeing Granger's strong, impulsive, Gryffindor fingers trembling as she gripped her mug of tea, revealing a vulnerability that he'd never suspected beneath all that bushy hair.

They continued to meet for meals for weeks afterwards, discussing their personal tragedies and finding some comfort in each other. Soon their conversations strayed towards literature, art, wines, shopping, and a host of other topics that he'd never known he had an opinion on. She was a good conversationalist, always sensitive to the timber of his voice when he would say something intensely personal; she would glibly change the subject then, allowing him to keep the tatters of his dignity somewhat intact.

On February 5, 2003, he'd entered the Leaky Cauldron for their habitual dinner, and started when he saw Ronald Weasley in his customary seat at their usual table, gesturing as he spoke to Hermione in an agitated manner. Next to him, her face was grim and her arms were folded across her chest as though she was facing a firing squad.

Once Weasley had stopped, she opened her mouth and defended him. Blaise had never been defended before, especially by a Gryffindor. In the first impulsive move he'd ever made in his life, he strode over to her, pulled her out of her chair, and smothered her protest with a kiss.

The months and years with Hermione since that day blurred in his memory like a dream. She'd moved in with him nearly a month after their kiss, and they were content, almost happy, in each other's company. She'd taken to tinkering with an idea for a book while he'd drudged up information about the vineyards, remembering that he had inherited the lot the moment his father had set foot in Azkaban.

While it had been nice to a have a warm body in his bed, his dreams and nightmares had become worse since she moved in. For the first time, he had the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he really was a traitor to his family. He suspected that his mother would roll in her grave if she knew he was involved with a Mudblood.

He couldn't tell Hermione this, of course. So he tried his best to ignore it. However, despite his good intentions, she knew he was hiding something from her. His reticence and her stiffness began to slowly ruin whatever was between them. The dream-like quality he'd associated with her was fading away, leaving him cold with the wrench of reality.

When Hermione had suggested the stress of London was getting to them, Blaise agreed and immediately thought of the villa.

This is how he finds himself in bed now, attempting to nap in the warm glow of the late afternoon Italian sun. He had hoped to find some relief in Italy, drowning himself and his thoughts in sunshine and wine. But the nightmares are more vivid and the recriminations biting. It is already three days into their holiday and Blaise has barely slept for two consecutive hours at a time.

He's taken to roaming the house at night when the dreams left particularly restless. Yet the house seems determined to torment him as well. In every corner or open door, Blaise still expects to find his mother in a comfortable chair, her eyes glued to a novel in complete ignorance of the world around her. Sometimes, he fancies that his father is in the shadows, watching her with an amused grin as he waits for the appropriate time to pounce and tickle her.

When he turns his eyes outward instead, watching the grape leaves rustling through the window, he remembers how his mother's skirts would swish as she readied herself for a party. When he was too young to attend, he would lie on her bed and watch her charm her face and hair. Then, instead of sleeping, he would stay awake until the wee hours of the morning, when he would finally hear his parents return with swaying steps, whispered endearments, and soft kisses.

Before she would retire, his mother would always open his door and spare him a kiss on his forehead as she smoothed his hair back. He would shut his eyes tightly and feign sleep until that kiss, and then would dream of ivory halls and red skirts and his mother's laughter. Those dreams are long lost, however.

Feeling restless again, Blaise gives up all attempts at feigning sleep and sits up in his bed, his eyes shifting immediately to the window. Since last night, he cannot stop staring at the vineyards outside. They draw his attention more than any recognizable thing within the villa. He hasn't set eyes on this land since he was little, but now that he has returned he realizes that his childhood dreams were incomparable to reality.

The land through the glass, his land, is breathtaking in this slanted sunlight. Despite the late hour the cloudless sky still glows a vivid light blue. The western sun glints off of healthy, rich green leaves, shielding his and his family's lifeline. Rows upon rows of these vines stand in perfect lines, combing sinuously over the slight hill. Beyond, he can see a small clump of white homes shimmering in the summer heat.

The newly-revived rustic in him notes that if the heat continues, this year's vintage will be legendary in the years to come. The little boy in him, however, is still marveling at all the bright colors.

And there, as though sensing that he is watching, Hermione appears at the end of one of the rows. Her pink summer dress flutters around her calves, a surprisingly girlish touch for a London girl who was once too dead for anything bright. He watches as she turns slowly to enter the next row of vines, lightly caressing the leaves. It is a lingering blessing from a girl who was only perversely blessed by living.

Blaise feels the sudden urge to join her and decides to obey it. He hurries out of the room, taking the steps down two at a time into the backyard. He ignores the hot stone steps against his bare feet and moves quickly to the dirt. The sun beats down on him the moment he leaves the shade of the house, heating his skin and senses to a feverish pitch. The air is still heavy with warmth, but a slight breeze rustles his clothes as he maneuvers his way to the vineyard.

By the time he reaches the rows she was near, his light cotton shirt and loose linen pants are sticking to him. But Blaise doesn't care because the vineyard has him in its thrall. The green of the leaves peeking through the dust are even brighter than he'd imagined they would be from his bedroom window. The musty, sugary scent of grapes radiates like a pulsing beat from the vines. Flies buzz near him, as though attempting to tap that life for their own. And beneath, the dry loamy earth pushes between his toes.

His eyes are glazed with lust for this land when he sees her. She is still walking down a row by herself, hand outstretched and back slightly hunched as she brushes by. Her dress also clings to her, offering no cover and leaving little to his imagination. The downward tilt of her head and the way she bites her lip tells Blaise that she is deep in thought and probably oblivious to his presence.

Smirking, he tiptoes to her, trying to avoid the rustling leaves as he grasps her arm.

Her reaction is fast and instinctual.

Using a complicated maneuver that he has no time to observe properly, she has him on his back within seconds. His wrists are held above his head and her legs straddle him as she kneels over him. He closes his eyes momentarily against the sunlight blinding him above, attempting to catch his breath.

"Blaise?" Her voice is hoarse from disuse and surprise, but her grip is as strong as ever.

"I had planned on something along the lines of this scenario," he states in his best Pureblood tone, eyes still closed, "but I intended to be on top."

"Is that so?" There is humor in her voice and the sound of her smile made something in his chest burst. He is surprised that he missed the sound of it.

"Yes. Now, if you'd kindly let go of me, I might be able to put words to action." There is an answering smile on his face as he finally opens his eyes again, squinting up at her.

"Well," she lets go of his hands and sat back on her haunches. "Have at it, then."

Instead of doing as he'd promised, Blaise leans up on his elbows and studies her. She is shielding him from the sun, so he can count the new freckles that have appeared on her nose and cheeks. There is a slight flush on her skin from the sun, and when he looks back to her eyes he finds her staring back at him with the same intensity.

Blaise wonders if his father ever felt this strongly about his mother. There is a warmth spreading within his chest and he is well aware of what it means. But he doesn't want to love Hermione.

Instead of thinking about it, he lifts his arm to sink his fingers into her hair and draw her closer to him. Her hands slide up his chest, resting right above his heart. When her lips press down to his, he tastes salt and red wine. She is warm, so warm against the blaring sun that he is being burnt alive by her dark, wet kisses.

Finally, the crick in his neck forces him to end the kiss. He smiles at her and she smiles back, neither saying a word. His smile grows wider and hers became a full-fledged laugh, puffing warm, humid air against his sweaty skin, fueling his desire for her.

Moving his hands to her waist, he quickly flips her over so that her head rests on the warm dusty soil and his back is now to the sun. The soil sinks slightly beneath his hands and knees as though begging to be used for growth, for life.

The look on his face is enough to stop her laughter. She begins chewing her lip, and Blaise had to stop himself from biting her lips himself.

"Blaise," she begins with wide eyes. "We can't. What if someone sees us?"

"The house elves are busy, obviously," he grins. "Besides, I own this land. If I want to shag you here, I'd be well within my rights."

She starts laughing again, and Blaise takes this opportunity to really study her. The gleam of her teeth, the pink of her dress against her skin, the dirt in her hair - all of it mirrors that life that he'd always associated with this house and this land. There is permanence to this moment, and suddenly Blaise knows.

The villa and this land has been in his family for generations. However, this fertility wasn't meant for a Mudblood wife; it was all meant for a Pureblood, a pale imitation of the late Narcissa Malfoy that would have given him children. Instead, he is here with a girl as broken as he is, still searching for a way to reconcile the reality of her past with her new dreams for the future. She is not seeking permanence, nor does she desire money to gloss over her troubles.

He should be disgusted by her, or at the very least uninterested. But despite her bloodline and his opinions, this land will always exist. It is as rigid and constant as time, and will outlast them into the future.

There is no sense in following a tradition that only existed because of human desires. What they have is the here and now, and right now he loves her. He does not know if he will always love her, and there might be another woman in the world meant for him. But that doesn't matter, and it never has.

She has stopped laughing by now, and her sunlit skin is growing paler with the oncoming sunset. "You're mad," she says, rolling her eyes.

He watches her carefully, preserving this moment in his memory, for eternity. "Yes, I am," he finally responds before he presses his lips to hers.

Someday, Blaise, you will be master of this estate and the one in Italy... Yes, it's attached to the vineyards. You remember...? Yes, dear, it is very green... Tell you about it? I suppose... All right, but we'll have to be quiet so that your father doesn't wake... Here, I'll come under the sheets... That's it.

The villa. Well, the villa is a great stone house, light pink and grey and beige. There aren't many decorations about it, and the windows are rather simple. You didn't have such a wide window seat there, in your room... Hmm. You know, now that I think about it, I believe the Italians had it right all along... Oh. Well, I meant that we English enjoy decorating our homes with triangular roofs and window shutters and those shingles. The Italians don't bother with that nonsense - at least, the Zabinis never did. It's as though they knew that what truly made it a home was the family within it, instead of the archways outside... Blaise? Are you asleep?

Good night, darling.

END.