Footprints

    She, like so many like her had led a privileged life.

    A well-known family that lived in a big house. They were always invited to all the galas. Her father had considerable influence in high places… not as high as some people, but high enough.

    And her parents had been good to her. The word "no" was not something she heard often, and they'd loved her. They'd said so often. She was allowed to do almost anything she liked, and she was allowed anywhere in the house.

    Well, almost anywhere.

    You see, she was never allowed in the basement.

    She's never known why. She's never really cared. It was just, after all, a basement. They never put a locking charm on it. They trusted her enough not to need to. They made sure she had better things to do than lurk in the lowest room in their home.

    It's Christmas Eve, and she has seen much in her sixteen and a half years. But she still hasn't seen what's in her basement.

    Her basement. Now.

    The house is hers.

    Her parents have been found guilty of being Death Eaters. Supporters of Voldemort.

    She has no siblings. No other family to fall back on, except for a senile old aunt of her mother's, who is sleeping upstairs.

    She stares down the old, rosewood door for a long while. If someone had been watching, they would have thought she was trying to memorize every detail about the entrance in front of her.

    She reaches a long hand out slowly and wraps it around the silver doorknob.

    Brown eyes close and then open again and she opens the door.

    The stench that hits her is unbearable. She doesn't even know how to describe it, other than bad. Reflex takes her over and her hand shoots over her mouth and nose.

    The staircase is long, and it looks damp, as if it had been rained on. She takes her first step and nearly slips. It is wet. She carefully descends the rest of the stairs and the smell becomes stronger. She feels as though she might be sick, might have to turn tail and run for the bathroom, but she keeps it down. She won't be frightened. She won't lose her nerve.

    'Father would disapprove,' she thinks absently. 'But Father is an idiot.'

    When she reaches the bottom of the staircase, it's so dark that she doesn't see what she trips over.

    She lands on her hands and knees and the floor it wet. Sticky.

    She doesn't understand. Not until she pulls her want out and utters a "Lumos."

    Her hands and her jeans are stained red. All around her are human body parts. Some fresh, some old. Hands, legs, heads. Insides, are piled on a workbench in a corner. There are even a few bodies left whole, but dead none-the-less.

    And she can't be strong anymore. She throws up on the floor, and adds to the already agonizing smell.

    She gets to her feet, and looks around more.

    She doesn't need to question herself who all the people were. She knows they were Muggles. And she knows now, why her parents were carted off. How they got caught.

    She walks to the workbench in a daze, and stick a shaky hand into the pile of hearts, intestines and kidneys, and she doesn't know why.

    She wanders around the death for over an hour, before ascending back up the staircase.

    She's in such numb shock that she Forgets to be careful and slips on a step halfway up. She tries to grab the railing, but her hand is still slick from her first fall.

    She falls down backwards and she's out before she even hits the floor.

******

    She wakes up to the smell of cleanliness, which is a stark contrast to the last scent that reached her nostrils. Her eye focus on the ceiling above her and she immediately starts to shake. She feels cold, sick from what she's seen. It's all so clear even though she somehow isn't down there anymore.

    "Those imbeciles," a familiar voice growls. "They couldn't have used a bloody fucking locking charm?!"

    "Silence, Malfoy," an older, darker voice says. "Blaise?"

    Snape and Malfoy appear above her and then Harry. Her Harry. Has hasn't been hers for very long, but she's so glad he's here.

    "Blaise?" he asks. He looks so worried. It's the first time since he came back from Riddle house she's seen him show so much emotion.

    "Blaise, speak to me," he said shakily.

    She opens her mouth but she can't find her voice. She doesn't know what to say.

    "S'okay, Zabini," Malfoy says. "No worries, Love. We'll get you out of here."

    Harry gives the other boy a slight glare.

    She lifts her hands to look. They're still covered in slime and blood, and she whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut. She sees it all.

    "Oh, for Merlin's sake," Snape snaps. "Potter, get her out of here. Malfoy, find Dumbledore. I'm going to put a locking charm on that door."

*****

    Harry floos her to Headquarters and rushes her into the bathroom. He sits her on the closed toilet seat. The walls are a light gray, and the toilet seat, sink, and bathtub are a rich black; Typical decor for Grimaulde Place.

    "Do you want me to help you?" he asks, looking at her worriedly.

    She opens her mouth again, but still can't find her voice.

    He takes a hand towel and wets it under the sink, adding some soap to it. He kneels in front of her and gently begins to wipe her hands clean. She shakes a little again and he looks up at her.

    "Blaise," he said softly. "Blaise, it's okay. You're safe. You don't have to be afraid."

    Finally, she finds her voice and words. "T-they were dead," she croaks out.

    He nods. "Yes, they were." Nothing shocks him anymore.

    She nods back and tries to stop shaking.

    "Blaise?" Harry asks gently.

    She looks down at him.

    "Did… did you know?"

    She shakes her head, and feels warm tears slide down her face.

    She had no idea.

*****

    By dinnertime, she is composed. She's herself again. She wears a pair of Tonks' blue jeans, that she has so generously lent, and one of Harry's sweaters, which she takes without having to ask.

    The entire Order sits at the table, eating in silence, until Professor Lupin clears his throat gently.

    "Blaise?"

    She looks up at him, eyes curious.

    "We would like to speak with you after dinner tonight," Lupin tells her.

    She raises a perfect eyebrow at him. "And who might this 'we' be?" she asks.

    "Just meet us in the study after dinner, please," Sirius Black says calmly.

    She rolls her eyes. While she's glad to be apart of "La résistance," she isn't fond of the secrets. But she supposes that it's better than having to bow down to someone whose name is a word jumble.

    "May I be there?" Harry asks from next to her. He has a hand over hers on the table. He doesn't want her to face this alone. She takes his hand in hers and squeezes it gently.

    "No, Harry, we'd rather you not be there," Lupin says. "This is to be a private conversation."

    "Sod that," Blaise snaps. "He already knows. Why can't he be there?"

    Molly clears her throat, and the table turns to look at her.

    "Can't all this wait?" she asks, sounding tired. "It's Christmas eve. The girl deserves a little peace until tomorrow afternoon, don't you boys think?"

    The men look at one another, and Harry grips her hand tightly.

    Black nods slowly. "Alright. Tomorrow afternoon it is."

    Molly and Blaise both nod, and Harry's grip on her hand loosens.

    Merry Fucking Christmas.