Venetian Glass

“Do you ever miss your parents, Blaise?” breathed Harry, his voice silky in the night air.

    Awkward silence penetrated the laissez-faire atmosphere. “Do you ever miss yours?” responded the other boy. Harry did not answer for a moment, captivated by Blaise’s voice. It was brassy, as stridently fresh as cool red wine. Some words rasped slightly in the back of his throat, others floated away on the air, almost non-existent.

    “All the time when I was younger,” he said finally, closing his eyes in sad remembrance.

    “And now?”

    Harry sighed to himself, a frown twisting his lips. “A lot,” he admitted. “But not as much as I used to.”

    “Why not?”

    He paused for a moment, unsure of the answer to that question. “I suppose I just grew up,” he said. “I don’t wish they were here to hold my hand, like when I was younger. Even if they were alive, I’d have already had to move away. To you.”

    “Yeah…” murmured Blaise.

    “You never answered my question, Blaise.”

    The other boy closed his eyes peacefully. “Same as you, I suppose.”

    Harry turned to look at him. Blaise was currently relaxed on a set of pillows, his hair curling against the white cotton. With a soft smile, Harry’s eyes traced his jutting jaw, sculpted nose, and smooth, angular cheeks. His olive skin contrasted beautifully with his medium brown hair, the sparse deep red and ash blonde highlights standing out against the dark hairs. Dark-lashed lids currently masked shadowy hazel eyes flecked in green and blue.

    “Sometimes, when I’m alone, I think about what it would be like if they had been different,” he continued, eyes still shut. “If they had been braver. If they had been stronger people. Better people.” His voice had developed a hint of a bitter tinge. “I wonder what I would be like if they hadn’t been cowards. If they hadn’t killed themselves.”

    “I’m sorry, Blaise.”

    “Don’t be,” said Blaise, all acrimony fading from his voice. “It’s not your fault.”

    There was a long silence. Harry relaxed next to Blaise on the pillows, and for a moment he thought the other boy had fallen asleep. The he spoke.

    “They were so deep in the inner circle,” said Blaise, eyes still closed. “So deep with no way out.” He paused, then continued. “I suppose it was their escape.”

    Harry tilted his head to the side. “I’m sorry I brought it up,” he said, but there was no response. Turning his head to face Blaise, he realized that he had fallen asleep. The candlelight shone on the pools of wetness below his closed eyes.

    “Sometimes, I wonder what the hell we’re doing,” said Blaise. Morning light shone on his skin, dark against Harry’s ivory, and he laughed slightly to himself.    

    “Me too,” said Harry, laughing as well. “It’s insanity.”

    “I like that,” murmured Blaise into Harry’s neck. “It’s fun.”

    “Sometimes it hurts,” said Harry bluntly, turning away.

    “I know.”

    “Sometimes I wish I didn’t know you. Sometimes I wish we’d never met. Sometimes, I’d die to forget you.”

    “Thanks,” said Blaise sardonically.

    “Sorry,” he murmured. “It’s just that sometimes it hurts more than not.”

    “I know. Love hurts.”

    Harry didn’t say anything, silence enveloping him.    

    “What’s wrong?”

    “You’ve never said that before,” whispered Harry.

    “Said what?”

    “That you love me.”

    “I never said that, Harry. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression-”

    “Don’t you?”

    “Of course I do, but now you’ve messed up my plan.”

    “Your plan?” asked Harry sagely.

    “Yes, my uber plan to confess my undying love for the Golden Boy, leader of us all.”

    “Shut up.”

    “I’m serious, Harry, I’m serious.”

    Silence.

    “It would have been romantic, but now you’ve ruined it…” He straddled Harry, grinning his wide, chiseled smile. “I love you.”

    He leaned forward, and they kissed.

    Harry opened his eyes, white morning light infiltrating the flat. The sunlight was too bright, and, squinting, he turned his head to face Blaise.

    “Morning, love,” he murmured into the Italian’s smooth neck.

    “Mmm?”

    “Good morning,” he said, louder this time, and Blaise’s hazel eyes opened slowly.    

    “Oh…morning,” he grunted, sleepy.

    “I thought that we could-”

    “I have to do something,” butted Blaise.    

    “What?”

    “Something for Draco,” he muttered, looking away and climbing out of bed.

    “Something for Malfoy?” asked Harry, the words twisting bitterly in the back of his throat.

    Blaise looked away, anxious. “Perdonare mi,” he murmured in smooth Italian.

    “Forgive you? Forgive you? How do you expect me to forgive you when nothing you say to me is true?” Angrily, he shoved the soft bedclothes off of his lean figure. “You tell me you love me, only me, and now you’re running off to him?”

    Blaise eyed him, tentative. “Lui intendere nienta con mi,” he said softly, switching to the language of his ancestors in Harry’s anger.

    Harry frowned. When he spoke, the words came out choppy and hesitant. “Voi - voi detto lui amor mi, quin - quindi voi bugie.”

    Blaise laughed despite himself, causing Harry to glare. “You certainly need help with those verbs, don’t you?” he chuckled. He grinned, but Harry merely glowered. “Sorry.”

    “Go - just go,” spat Harry, turning away. He seized the quilt and heaved it back over his ivory frame, closed his eyes, and pretended to sleep.

    Blaise sighed. Harry heard him dress slowly, methodically, and with a pop! Apparate away.

    As soon as he was gone, Harry found himself regretting his early-morning anger. With a frown, he made the bed and straightened the room, and left for the small kitchen.

    He extracted a pair of coffee mugs from the counter. With a flourish, he filled Blaise’s with coffee, added a small amount of sugar and cream, and situated it on a plate, both of which he magicked to stay warm. Groaning slightly in his compunction, he filled his own mug with coffee.

    Downing it in one gulp, he stretched, his hands behind his head. Early morning Harry tended to be a quite agitated Harry, and things were liable to get broken when subjected to early morning Harry.

    He frowned slightly, running his hands through his hair. An apology, perhaps? he wondered. For a moment he considered waiting until Blaise returned, but he knew popping in to Malfoy Manor would have a greater impression, especially if he kept his cool with Draco.

    He Apparated into the magnificent house with a small Pop!, losing himself briefly in a rush of wind.

    He blinked and looked around. He was in what looked to be the living room, but it was just about as large as his whole flat. Muffled voices were coming from the room next door, and, eyebrows running together, Harry turned to the door.

    There were three people in the equally large room beyond the door: Blaise, Draco, and one Lucius Malfoy.

    Draco was lying face down on the floor, his blonde locks messy and strewn about his head. His black robes were torn in two places, along his right arm and down the back. Blood, as red as some wretched cherries, was oozing into the white carpet, soaking in, and Harry knew that it was already too late.

    Lucius had not noticed Harry yet. He currently had Blaise pinned high up on the wall with Blaise‘s own wand. Blaise was squirming weakly, but a tear in his pants revealed a bloody gash along his left leg. He saw Harry, and their eyes met for the briefest of moments, hazel on green.

    It was enough. Lucius turned abruptly, wand still on Blaise, and grinned, all his pearly white teeth showing.

    “Potter,” he murmured.

    “Malfoy,” returned Harry, eyeing the cut on Blaise’s leg tentatively.    

    Lucius’ grin widened. “You must be very proud of yourself, defeating the Dark Lord.”

    Harry frowned, annoyed. “You must be very proud as well, Mister Malfoy, to have escaped Azkaban.” He rolled his eyes, irritated with the entire situation. “Though, I suppose it was no tough task without the dementors there.” Grinning sadistically at the way Malfoy’s face fell, he continued, “A true man could escape with guards on him day and night.”

    Lucius glowered, perfectly aware of whom he spoke. Then he regained his composure. “Well, Potter, you may have defeated the Dark Lord, but you would be foolish to find yourself invincible.”

    Harry rolled his eyes again. “I never said I was invincible. But if you plan on killing me, you are sorely mistaken.”

    Malfoy grinned. “Is that a challenge, Potter?”

    “It can be,” he murmured, boiling with anger.

    “Good, then,” said Malfoy, ducking his head in a false bow. “Crucio!”    

    Harry stepped out of the way in the ultimate in reflexes and sent the same spell back at Lucius, who writhed momentarily before righting himself.

    “Imperio!” he shouted, and Harry’s body was enveloped in blue light.

    Your wand is in your hand…Kill Zabini…

    Harry rolled his eyes yet again. When will they understand that this does not effect me?

    Lucius jerked his wand up in irritation, giving Harry time to send a new spell out. “Stupefy!”

    Lucius ducked that time, and the light came quite close to hitting Blaise. It bounced off the wall beside his head, leaving a filthy burn mark behind.

    “Incendio!” screamed Malfoy, and the hem of Harry’s robes caught fire. Casually putting it out with a bit of water from his wand, he readied himself for the final attack.

    Time to let him go, he thought to himself as Malfoy turned briefly to face Blaise. He sent a jet of red at him, and he writhed on the wall, eyes pinched shut, sweat beading on his face. Then he turned to face Harry, and grinned.

    “Avada Kedavra!” he yelled, and stunning green blossomed from his wand.

    Lucius smiled maliciously and ducked. This time, Harry’s aim was not so fortunate.

    The spell hit Blaise directly in the chest. There was a moment where Blaise’s terrified eyes met Harry’s horrified own, and then he fell.

    He crumpled in a broken, bleeding heap on the floor, his head resting on the foot of the Malfoys’ marble statue of Venus.

    Harry yelled once, an angry, horrid yell, and ran towards Blaise. Lucius laughed slightly, and, in a shower of emerald light from his own wand, plummeted to the floor.

    Harry threw himself onto his knees as he reached Blaise. He was still warm, his skin perfect save for the bloody gash on his leg. His eyes were open in shock, and sweat still shone on his brow.

    A sob racked Harry’s body. Gingerly, he brushed the soaked dark locks from his lover’s face, smoothed his robes, stroked his cheek, left the buttons of Blaise’s shirt undone the way they were. A tear slipped down his cheek and landed on Blaise’s chest.

    Beside them, Draco’s blood had saturated the carpet, scarlet on ivory. Turning him over, Harry saw that there was no mark on his forearm, no nothing, save for twin pearly scars on his wrists. In that instant, Harry regretted everything between them.

    Easing Blaise onto the floor, he rested his face in his hands.

    He was still crying, sobbing piteously, when the Ministry arrived. They took the son and father away first, but had to pry Harry’s pale fingers from Blaise’s robes.

~

    In a small graveyard in Ireland, there is a particular grave that Harry visits when he can. It is a white marble headstone, engraved, and there are white roses and lilies all around. When he can, he brings flowers to the gigantic marker two graves down. When he does, he remembers with a smile the trouble the burial here caused.

    The Malfoy Family Cemetery is lacking one deceased member, one son, and always will be. Somehow, Harry figures, Draco is happy here, near his best friend, and away from his family.

    His fingers brush the original headstone, the small marble one, and trace the words.

Blaise Zabini

1980 - 1999

Beloved Son,

Friend and Lover

Tu ci in i nostri cuares.

        Smiling to himself, Harry brings his hand back and touches the top of the stone. “You see?” he murmurs. “You see, Blaise? I finally learned my verbs.”