Nighthawk

Chapter Nine

The grounds of Hogwarts were bare, a frozen December rain coating nearly everything with a thin sheet of ice, the gray sky lending a sharp, black fineness to stark tree limbs and the stone statues that guarded the gates. Blaise never liked going back to the old castle, and the weather seemed to obligingly match his mood.

Mainly, it was because the students - lively and carefree in a way that he'd never been able to be - always made him feel old. They hadn't had to suffer a war, nor nearly as many years of uncertainty, having been mostly babies when Potter had killed Voldemort for the last time. He suffered pangs of jealousy and nostalgia with a large dose of self-disgust.

Consequently, he walked up from Hogsmeade with a fatalistic air, dreading his meeting with Severus and hoping to avoid Dumbledore, as the man had the uncanny ability to know, just by looking at him, that he'd been up to no good. He'd always been able to do that, and Blaise had often, as a teenager, found himself confessing to any wrongdoings he'd participated in whenever he'd been cornered by the man's gaze.

He had learned how to hold his tongue, of course, but that didn't make him feel any less uncomfortable when in the old wizard's presence.

The castle was not quite as chilly as the outside, but dampness permeated the stones and Blaise shivered, keeping his cloak tight about him as he stalked down the familiar path to the dungeons. Severus opened the door on the third knock, one brow raised and somehow managing to look down his hooked nose at him, despite being of like height.

"You're early, Mr. Zabini," he drawled before stepping back and gesturing Blaise inside.

Blaise clenched his teeth in mute irritation. "Hope that isn't a problem."

"Not at all." Snape's black eyes seemed to say otherwise. "Tea?"

He nodded and followed Severus to a small sitting area in front of his brightly burning hearth, tea and biscuits already set out on the low table, as well as some toast and jam. He'd obviously interrupted the man's breakfast. It couldn't be helped, though, as Potter was covering his morning shift after a long night, and Blaise had assured the man he'd relieve him within the hour.

As he lowered himself onto a worn sofa, the Potions Master watched him with unnaturally hawk-like eyes, his mouth settled in a grim line, his disapproval blatant.

"What?" Blaise snapped, uncharacteristically nettled.

Both of the older man's brows rose, expression simultaneously questioning and mocking, and long fingers curled around his teacup, lifting it to his mouth for a leisurely sip. "What?" he echoed drolly.

Blaise sighed and sank down further into the sofa. "You don't like me. We both know this. I just," he waved his hand, "have no idea why."

A dry, un-amused chuckle slipped past Severus' lips. "And this bothers you? How disturbingly Hufflepuff."

Blaise snorted and rubbed a hand over his eyes. It wouldn't bother him normally, but his old Head of House had been a hugely influential figure in his past, and he couldn't help the raw feeling of failure that clawed at his brain. Obviously, he hadn't made this man proud. And, equally obvious, Severus' approval weighed a lot heavier on Blaise than his parents' ever had.

"So you want to know why, do you?" Severus murmured, swirling his cup and staring at him speculatively. "Perhaps because I see too much of myself in you," he went on with unusual candor. "You've let the choices you made rule your life."

"What?" Blaise asked stupidly, eyes wide. He never really expected Snape to explain himself. The dark man had always been deliberately laconic, and the rush of words caught Blaise off guard, to say the very least.

"Guilt," he snapped. "You feel guilty, don't you, for not taking more action before? And now you devote your entire existence to fighting Dark Magic. Yes, Mr. Zabini," he added when Blaise had opened his mouth to protest, "I know what you've been doing over the years, if not the particulars. Tell me, if you didn't find a compelling enough reason to fight in the War, what could possibly have changed, that you've so whole-heartedly thrown yourself into this cause?"

Blaise stared at him mutely. He honestly couldn't say.

"Exactly," Severus bit out derisively. "Guilt. You're wasting your life, just as I've wasted mine."

It wasn't true. Blaise knew it. He wasn't wasting his life on anything. He was living it. Adventure. Intrigue. And it had nothing to do with the war he hadn't fought in. If he felt any residual guilt for that decision, it didn't make any difference on the work he did.

"What drives you?" Snape asked, his tone genuinely curious if still edged with disgust. He shifted in the leather armchair, carefully placing his cup back on the coffee table and letting his hands fall on his knees, eyes locked all the while on Blaise. "I have my debt owed to Dumbledore. My sins to atone for. I was a Death Eater, Mr. Zabini, and I've paid for that mistake nearly everyday of my life. What are you paying for?"

The silence was tense and accusing. "Pansy fought with Potter," Blaise said finally, his voice low and thick. And Merlin, thinking back on it, how he'd admired her for that. He had. Pansy. Cutting and sarcastic and rude and hateful. She'd fought with all the anger and enthusiasm she'd exhibited in torturing first-years, surprising all with her vehemence against the Dark. She hadn't really believed in the Order, but she'd believed in the fight, in the immediacy of action.

"And she died for it," Snape pointed out bluntly, acknowledging the small phrase for the confession it was. "I suppose you think that made her better than you, boy, but she's dead. And you, Mr. Zabini, are most certainly not."

Blaise swallowed hard, hand tightening around his teacup. Guilt. Guilt had made him a recluse. A masked avenger. The concept really wasn't so foreign, not when he really thought about it. And neither was Severus' contempt for him because of it. Snape had made far worse choices than him as a boy. He'd killed and raped and done unspeakable things that would gleefully rip at his soul until the end of time.

"I... I was a child then," Blaise said softly.

"Yes," Severus affirmed. "Yes, you were." And Blaise knew what he was thinking; knew that children who lived through what they had, the first and second coming of Voldemort, were hardly innocents. And that Blaise's choice had been infinitely less damning than Snape's.

"No wonder you hate me."

"Hate is an emotion I can no longer afford." Getting to his feet, Severus paced the length of his room and came back towards Blaise with a small green bottle between his fingers. "Neither is envy." It had taken two weeks longer than anticipated for the older man to brew it, as it wasn't something either of them was completely familiar with, and Blaise took the bottle from him gingerly. "Be sure not to let Miss Granger swallow all of this at once."

"How did you--"

"She was exhibiting all the symptoms when she visited last," Severus cut in brusquely. "It wasn't a hard won conclusion."

"I see."

"I very much doubt that," he murmured, voice soft, then added louder, "You know the way out."

He did, of course, but it didn't make the words any less a harsh dismissal. With a bitter taste in his mouth, Blaise made his way slowly up the stone stairs, ignoring the few giggling students he passed as he walked through the Entrance Hall and out into the day.

The sun was struggling to break past the thick layer of storm clouds, but the air was even more frigid, a howling wind biting clear through his clothes.

******

By the time he reached Granger's flat, the sun had won its battle over the sky, and Blaise was minutely cheered by the slight increase in temperature. Normally he enjoyed the brisk cold, but he felt just a bit bruised, and was grateful for the warm light touching his body, even if it didn't quite reach inside.

With a curled lip of distaste, he shook off his dejected thoughts and approached Potter's car, finding the man half asleep and slumped down low in the bucket seat, his maroon skullcap folded up on his forehead and a Styrofoam cup of coffee balanced precariously on his thigh, hand loosely curled around it.

Potter yawned unapologetically and rolled down his window when Blaise tapped on the glass. "Had one eye open the whole time," he said good-naturedly. "You look like shit."

"Thanks," Blaise drawled, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

"Blaise, is that you?" Draco's voice floated out from the dashboard.

Blaise scowled. "I thought I told you not to remove that."

"Sorry." The brunette shrugged. "He's louder bouncing off the auto walls than snug in my ear. The acoustics are amazing in here."

One of Blaise's brows arched and his lips twitched.

"I needed to stay awake," Potter elaborated. "That," he pointed to the earpiece, "is almost better than caffeine."

"Potter, you ass, I'm not a fucking amusement for you."

"All I've got to say is 'bunny' and he goes off in a rant. He's been cursing nearly the whole morning." Potter grinned, taking a sip of coffee and then reaching forward to drop it in a cup holder. "I really can't wait to meet this bloke in person."

"You're getting along better than I'd anticipated," Blaise observed wryly. Potter would be meeting Draco soon, since he'd already left his job at the Ministry for them; it was a good week past the fourteen days he'd been given by Fitz.

Draco made a high-pitched indignant squeaking sound. "Getting along? You fucking call this getting along?"

Potter chuckled. "Takes some getting used to, but..."

"Amusing, yes," Blaise agreed, feeling his face break into a small smile. "You can take off now, Potter; thanks for covering for me. Any problems overnight?"

He shook his head. "Quiet as usual." Scratching his chin, he stared off blindly into the space between Blaise and the side-view mirror. "Can't help thinking it's leading up to something big, though."

Blaise shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "That's the point, I suppose."

"Yeah." Potter turned the engine over, the rumble under the hood a surprisingly soft purr. "Yeah," he repeated, voice thoughtful. "See you tonight."

Blaise waved Potter off, then turned to glance up at the windows of Granger's apartment, his hand tucked around the small potion bottle in his pocket. It was time to explain a few more unpleasant points to the woman.

By the smell, Blaise surmised Granger was cooking a late breakfast when she let him into the flat, her amber eyes not quite welcoming, but not entirely hostile either. He was heartened by the subtle melting of her anger, and, to be truthful, he was enjoying this composed Granger a whole lot more than he ever did the nervous, flustered one. Surprising, really.

"Do I get fed?" he asked.

She didn't answer, but their days were pretty much routine now, so Blaise followed her back into the kitchen and settled down at the table, watching as she moved in front of the stove, spatula in hand. He sniffed the air. French toast and sausage.

"You know I'm only cooking for you," she finally said, throwing an unreadable glance over her shoulder. Which was true. Granger often sat with just a bowl of cereal while he scarfed down eggs and toast or pancakes and bacon. He'd never thought much about it, though, since most of the time Alice, Dante and Ginny were sitting with him, eating just as much. But it was past ten already, Ginny and her son weren't around, and Granger was most obviously cooking only for him.

It was sweet, but really it was just Granger being Granger. Blaise hardly ever ate regular meals, and his forced proximity to the woman during the day pretty much took away all his personal time. She wasn't going to let him starve. This was reinforced by the fact that she never let him choose the meal; she just made it and put it in front of him. Whether he actually wanted to eat it or not was up to him.

He carefully placed the potion bottle on the table, working the stopper absently between his fingers. "I asked Severus to brew you something."

"What?"

"This," he said, tapping the bottle lightly on the tabletop.

She sat down and slid a plate of French toast in front of him, lightly dusted with powdered sugar. "Okay," she said slowly, flattening her hands against the cool wood. "What is that?"

He took a deep breath, then glanced up at her face, noting her nearly blank expression, her interest betrayed in the barely perceptible tightness around her mouth. He tried to ignore how incredibly worn down she looked, the shadows under eyes a dismaying shade of blue-black. "There's no way to reverse the Soul Displacement spell," he started, voice carefully modulated. "It has to be carried through to the end or you'll... well, you could probably guess, Granger."

She nodded curtly. "Insanity, right?" A hint of a dry chuckle left her lips, but it wasn't particularly funny, and Blaise gave her a knowing look.

"At the least. This will help with that, though. Stave off most of the effects, and you should be able to sleep again; won't be in quite so much pain. But..."

"But?" Granger prompted.

"Long term. Long term it won't do any good." The hot-sweet smell of breakfast made his stomach rumble, and he took up his knife and fork, slicing a link of sausage open and popping a piece into his mouth, while Granger sipped her coffee and gazed at him expectantly. "Of course, there hasn't been any incident documented where the Soul Displacement spell has been successfully stopped either, but mainly because, well. Voluntary," he went on. "There really wasn't a reason to halt it. There's a way, though. A loophole."

"And is this loophole proven, or just your educated guess?" Although the words could have been mocking, her voice was leaded with seriousness and her eyes were clear.

"Educated guess, unfortunately." He reached for his coffee. "But it's all that we have. You're just going to have to trust me on this one, Granger," he said, then bit back a grimace at his poor choice of words. Quickly, he continued, "The spell itself, the words, while completely different from Transference, essentially detaches the soul in a similar manner. Technically, as long as your soul leaves your body, the goal of the spell is complete. I'm working off the theory that by performing a second spell, a Soul Transference spell, the Displacement will be overridden. A willing Transference, a detachment of two souls, inherently claims a stronger hold than a Displacement of one, since the second step, the removal of Smith's soul, can't be performed until you're both together."

"In theory."

"In theory," Blaise repeated.

"Well," she said, circling her thumb on the table, eyes fastened on the green potion bottle, "I suppose there's no risk in trying."

On impulse, he reached out and covered her hand with his. "You'll be fine, Granger. I promise." The vow surprised him more than her, he could tell, as she merely drew her hand away and wrapped it protectively around her coffee cup. If the Soul Transference didn't work, he really wasn't sure if anything would.

"So. When?"

"Ah," he cleared his throat, "that's the thing. Smith, he'll be able to tell if there's something not right with the spell. Whatever preparations he's made... you've got an unmistakable link to him now. And if he knows we've tampered with it, managed to stop it..."

"He'd abandon this plan and start on another," she nodded her understanding, and Blaise let out a slow breath of relief that she seemed to be taking it all so well. Since her outburst of temper the previous month, she'd been thankfully rational about the whole situation. Well, except for her blatant upset with him, of course, and the frank way she tended to look at him nowadays, as if she could see all his layers and didn't like any of them one bit.

Which seemed to make her all the more appealing. He never claimed to be a smart man, nor savvy with the fairer sex. And, apparently, he was a bit of a masochist at heart.

"Okay," Granger said, squaring her shoulders and unstopping the bottle. She brought it to her lips, then paused and gazed steadily over at him. "Did Snape know this was for me?"

"It isn't poison, if that's what you're thinking." He nearly rolled his eyes, then remembered to add, "Drink it slow. You're so..." he trailed off, unwilling to point out her haggard state so plainly. "It could be a shock to your system."

"Shock. Right."

He watched the line of her throat as she tipped her head back, the slow swallow, the faint purse of her lips cradling the bottle rim. The silver scars that marred her neck stretched and pinked the surrounding skin slightly, and his hand unconsciously slid down to his hip. Some scars never faded.

Especially those threaded with Dark Magic.

His parents had never been necessarily abusive, but his sick fuck of an uncle... Yeah. A genius in experimental Dark Arts. And a skinny, book-smart little boy had been easy prey, no matter how vocally he'd protested his guinea pig status. Abusive, no, but the Zabini's had the art of neglect down pat.

Granger's eyes almost immediately started to droop and she dropped the bottle with a clatter. "Sorry," she mumbled, then pulled herself heavily to her feet. "Bed."

"Yep," Blaise agreed with a chuckle. He helped her into her room, past Ginny's practically spilled open trunk, and settled her under the covers, fully dressed. She was out cold before he even tucked the blanket under her chin.

******

Blaise was exactly the type of person who should have hated Christmas. A solitary creature with no family beyond his team, and no one to spend the holidays with beyond Draco. He should have hated the good cheer and warmth, the tin can Christmas music that blared in every store and spilled out onto the street in hums and whistles by nearly everybody in London.

But he didn't.

Blaise loved Christmas. It always seemed to surprise him, too. Catch him off guard. The buzz of happiness that filled his chest at the sight of the brightly garish decorations, the well of contentment that blossomed in his heart as his breath crystallized in the frigid winter air. Because he knew he should hate it, simply on principle.

He hummed under his breath as he trotted up the stairs to the Ministry, footsteps a rhythmic echo in the hallway leading to the Department of Mysteries.

Draco was visibly drunk when he stepped into the offices, sprawled on the couch with a dusty bottle of firewhiskey clutched in his hand, his face flushed and eyes wet and red-rimmed. Blaise blinked at him owlishly - Draco hardly ever drank.

"What are you doing?" Blaise asked, good spirits plummeting at the pathetic sight of his friend.

"Slow painful death by alcohol," he managed thickly, tipping the bottle up and taking a large swallow.

"Draco," Blaise started warningly.

"No lectures, Blaise," he cut in, only a hint of slurring in his words, and then his dull gray eyes welled with tears. "M'life's shit."

Blaise nodded slowly and approached the blond as he would a wary animal, reaching out and gently prying the whiskey from his grasp.

"Blaise," he gasped, wrapping a hand around his wrist. "Blaise. Blaise. If I could, I would. Y'know?"

He really hadn't a clue what Draco was talking about, but he sank down next to him and let Draco fall into his side, mashing his face into his upper arm.

"I would," he reiterated petulantly, voice muffled. "But then. 'Cause they all want m'dead. An'. She was always so pretty, Blaise. And he. He's mine."

Heaving a sigh, Blaise said, "Yeah, Draco," fairly sure that he was speaking of Ginny and his son. "I know."

And it was suddenly glaringly obvious. They couldn't go on like they were indefinitely. None of them could.

It was Christmas Eve, a time for family, or at the very least friends, and Millicent was out watching Bufford. Colin would take over at first light without complaint. Potter was bundled up in his car watching Granger, and would sleep through most of Christmas Day. Draco was too sloshed to do his job, leaving Blaise to monitor base relay, and the blond man practically lived in the Department of Mysteries offices.

They didn't have time for a life, and at the beginning it'd been because none of them had wanted one beyond the team, beyond their work. They were all orphans of the War, with the exception of Colin, who lived with his brother and kept one foot in the normal world by posing as Arthur Weasley's lackey. Still, that made the younger man's sacrifices that much greater, and Blaise couldn't really understand how or why Colin had even gone on this long with them.

What it came down to, though, was that Blaise was getting restless. He wasn't sure, but he was willing to bet Millie and Colin were past restless as well.

And Draco... well, Draco didn't have much of a choice in the matter, but Blaise wasn't going to leave Draco alone, no matter what happened.

Blaise played himself at Muggle chess, letting Draco snore on the small sofa for a few hours. Then he shook him awake, poured a sobering potion down his throat, and waited patiently for it to take effect.

Draco blinked his eyes rapidly and rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. "Fuck," he muttered softly. "What time is it?"

"Past three."

"Fuck," Draco rasped again, shoving his hair back with shaky fingers. "I don't know what to do."

It was, Blaise admitted to himself, more than a little unnerving to see Draco so close to falling apart. Even more unnerving than seeing him sloppily drunk, since the blond had always been the biggest bastard of all of them. Except, of course, where the littlest Weasley had been concerned.

"I think," Blaise said in a carefully neutral tone he usually reserved for Granger. "I think it's time we disbanded."

Draco's gaze was a little blurry, but direct. "What?"

"Disbanded. We've been at this too long, Draco."

He expected a rant, a loud rant, and was surprised that Draco merely shook his head and said, "Potter quit the Ministry for us."

"Since when do you care about Potter?" Blaise asked, incredulous.

"I don't. I... I..." And Draco was clearly lost. Floundering. Perhaps not completely sober yet. And his bleak face was almost painful to look at.

"Draco. Draco, listen," he said, leaning forward and catching his friend's hands, yanking at them until Draco turned dark, almost frantic eyes towards him. "We're going to fix it, all right? Millicent, Colin, Potter and whoever Potter trusts. We're going to fucking fix it," he said fiercely.

It was something, he realized, they should have done a long time ago.