Resolving

Seven

Letters All Around

Time passed quicker that Blaise had assumed, and the weekend came sooner than he expected. Saturday morning he woke up and immediately said a prayer of thanks that the classes for the week were over. He then rolled over and went back to sleep until, about an hour later, there was a knock on the door. Then another knock. Knocks continued until finally they became very loud pounds. Blaise got up quickly, already annoyed, and promptly walked toward his closet. He swore so loudly that the pounding on the door stopped, and he grabbed an over-robe and limped as fast as he could to the door, pulling it open and snapping, "What?" at the student in Quidditch robes standing there.

The student held out a form. "I'm Blaine Pierson, Professor. The Captain of Slytherin's Quidditch team? I was hoping you'd sign these forms that book the pitch for us."

Blaise glared at him, bleary eyed, for a second. "Fine. Wait here for a moment." He took the forms and went to his desk, grabbing a quill and signing his name with a flourish. Turning around, he saw that Blaine had followed him into his room and was now looking about, examining everything without actually touching anything. "Pierson." His head snapped back to Blaise, who held out the forms. "Now get out and go practice."

Blaine nodded, gave Blaise a tight smile, and walked out, neglecting to close the door behind him. Blaise did so, mumbling about the incompetence of youth and then stumbled back to bed for another hour's worth of sleep.

When he finally staggered out to breakfast, there was a note pinned to his seat. Reading it, he saw that the Headmistress wanted to see him at ten forty-five. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was fifteen minutes ago. He winced, grabbed a pastry and ran out of the Great Hall and up to her office.

McGonagall looked up from her papers. "Ah, Blaise. So nice to finally see you." The edges of her mouth were quirked up, almost in an amused smile.

"Well, you know me," he said, grinning at her, "always having to make an entrance."

She made a few disapproving noises, still rifling through her papers. He stood there impatiently for a few minutes until she looked up and began to speak.

"Blaise, I know that you've been away for a very long time. I offered you this job based not only on your qualifications - which are considerable, I will admit - but also because two of my most valued professors expressed their opinions that you needed to come home as soon as we could tempt you.

"I know you can guess - accurately, of course - at the identities of those two professors, but for appearance's sake, I won't name them. You are a very talented young man. You could have taken any job you wanted when the War ended, could have done anything you wanted. And, in the opinion of the public, you just ran away from it all." She eyed him shrewdly, and he fidgeted angrily. "This is your opportunity for you to say where you've been, young man. I can assure you, I won't give you another."

Blaise glared at her, and his fingers twitched involuntarily towards his wand. "I didn't tell anyone where I was going because I didn't want anyone to know," he said. "I went to extreme lengths so that no one could find me. I'm not sure now if I want to say where I was."

McGonagall pursed her lips again, her face the picture of irritation. "Then please just tell me about why you left. As the Headmistress, I have to answer to the Board of Governors."

He sighed and glanced out of the window. Clouds drifted by as he thought, twiddling his fingers randomly through his robes. A few minutes passed, and then he reluctantly spoke. "I left because there were people after me," he said, picking through his vocabulary carefully. "I left because I didn't want my family and friends to be in danger. This was my fight, and I had to do it on my own." He looked up and briefly met McGonagall's eyes. "I also left because when my sister died, something of her latched into me. I thought it died, but it didn't, really. It's still here, watching. Waiting. Waiting for me to break for just a second so it could gain control of me and begin the destruction she had just started when she died. When I killed her."

The Headmistress stared at him for a minute, whether it was in shock or horror, he didn't know. Then she picked up her quill and wrote something on a sheet of parchment. "So you left to further your education in Charms, Mr Zabini?" she asked him, a glint reminiscent of Dumbledore's in her eye. "To learn different techniques, you would say?"

After his own moment of shock, Blaise's face split into a huge grin. "Yes, you could say I did," he said. "With a bit of soul-searching on the side, but who doesn't do that nowadays?"

McGonagall nodded as she signed the sheet with her flourished signature. "Of course. Young people these days... they need a bit of a break before they begin the next phase of their lives. I myself took a six-month break after Hogwarts to go on safari before I took a teaching job." There was a pause and she looked back up towards him. "You are dismissed, Mr Zabini. Have a good day."

He nodded. "You too," he said, walking out.

As he walked out, he remained upright and composed, but the second the door closed behind him, he sagged against a wall and took a few deep breaths. It was incredibly close in that room, incredibly close to becoming real. He glanced about him, touched the walls, and felt their steadiness sink into him. The past week had been horribly jarring for him. The whole thing with Louise... He could hardly believe it. Though it did strike him that he should have known something like this would happen. It followed the pattern. Just as his life was beginning to be on track, it was blown apart by something. When he was a child, it was his parent's marriage; it was beginning to look like they would reconcile when the powers he had manifested themselves to them, finally revealing the secret he and his siblings had kept. Then it was going to school, followed by Hermione, followed by everything that had happened in the past five years. Why should it have stopped now?

Deciding that today was not a day to stay inside and be depressed, he strode back to his room and gathered up a few books and his satchel of papers to be graded then went down to the lake to find his favorite tree, a tree he studied under for the first six years of his school career. Just as he was getting settled, though, he caught sight of Hermione and two other people walking quickly towards him. They did not look happy. Within a minute they were next to him, and Hermione was shouting something.

"I cannot believe you would do this! Of all the things you are, I never thought that absolutely thoughtless was one of them!" She went on for another few minutes and then stopped, glaring down at him and breathing heavily. "Well?"

He looked at her, confused. "Well what?"

If it was possible, her expression grew even more infuriated. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?" she almost screeched.

Blaise set his book down and stood, brushing himself off. "I would," he said, "if I knew what I'd done."

Hermione let out an exasperated breath. "You signed off on the Slytherin Quidditch team to have the pitch on every available practice day from now until Halloween!" she exclaimed. "It's absolutely unbelievable that even you-"

"Is it against the rules?" Blaise interrupted.

Hermione, flustered, said, "Well, no, but it's clearly against all ethi-"

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Then I don't see a problem." He gathered up his books and papers. "After all, we are Slytherins, you realize. Ta." He left, laughing quietly to himself.

Glancing back, he saw them still standing by the tree, looking annoyed and glaring at him as they had a discussion. As he walked towards the gardens, Snape came out of a cluster of trees and joined him.

"I saw the other Heads of Houses converge upon you," Snape remarked, almost conversationally.

Blaise nodded, laughing. "Yes. They were annoyed that I'd signed the permission slip for the Slytherin team to have the pitch until Halloween."

An eyebrow of Snape's rose. "Did you now?"

One of Blaise's eyebrows rose in return. "Was I not supposed to?"

What could almost be called a smile flitted across Snape's face. "Generally speaking, no. However, I applaud your brevity. I never did, but that was because my... other business took me away so much, I found it convenient to not over-argue with my colleagues."

Blaise grinned. "I'm shocked, I tell you," he said. "Shocked that you wouldn't. Oh well, I suppose I am your student after all."

"After seven years, one would most certainly hope so," Snape said, clearly amused. "I must leave you now, Zabini; try not to annoy Granger too much in one day. Even if it is the most interesting thing that's happened in five years." Nodding to Blaise, he slipped down a side path and left him to his own devices.

For the rest of the afternoon, Blaise sat on a bench in the gardens, reading and grading assignments. He almost lost track of time, remembering - and only just - that it was dinner time. So he rushed inside and left his things in his chambers then dashed to the Great Hall, went in, and sat down. During dinner, nothing spectacular happened. Hermione and the other Heads of Houses were barely speaking to him; their entire demeanors were icy. Snape, too, was not in a talkative mood, so Blaise spent his entire meal thinking about his future.

After dinner, Blaise went back to his rooms. There was a roaring fire in the fireplace that took the chill he had developed during dinner off, so he sat down by the fire and stretched his hands to it. For a while, he stared at the flames, until suddenly, something clicked in his brain, and images rose up before him that he'd sworn to never think of again.

He'd been in Moscow for a while - almost a year - when they found him again. At first he didn't realize it was just one after him. He'd come to see that they'd split up, each gone to different cities. Rawlins had gone to Moscow. It was quite a shock to see him one day, to look up and see him sitting across the bar, staring into his own drink. It didn't take long for him to look up and spot Blaise staring at him, judging for the murderous grin that stretched across his ashen, sunken face before he made his move. Thankfully, the long months of cold in Moscow and his frequent use of caffeine had sharpened Blaise's reflexes to a fine point, though the downside was that he had developed a twitch to accompany the expanded sensory awareness.

He'd fled the bar at the first sign of Rawlins's movement. He ran down paths that he'd memorized, in case of an emergency, and finally ended up in the sewers. God knows how Rawlins managed to find him or follow him, but somehow he did. He'd made a wrong turn and he knew it. Ended up in a dead end, with Rawlins advancing on him. It was in that moment he decided he should fight, fight for his life and the life he should have had.

Fifteen minutes later, it was Blaise who was the one standing in the entrance to a dead end, clutching his wand and holding his burnt arm, which was literally dripping bits of melting skin off as he stared at the wide-eyed and terrified Rawlins.

He would never forget Rawlins' last words. They were almost inaudible not only due to fright, but also, to the broken jaw that he had acquired when he had last tried to get within three feet of Blaise. Blood trickling out of his mouth, he hissed the words, "Please... I don't want to die." He'd stared at him for a moment longer before replying, "I don't care," and casting a charm that sent flames all over Rawlins. He could still hear the shrieks of pain, the screams for mercy as he intensified the spell and the flames roared up through the drainage vent that opened onto an apartment complex. It would later be known as the worst fire in Moscow's history.

He still saw Rawlins in his nightmares. Except in his mind, the burning corpse was tottering towards him, the death-shrieks echoing off the sewer walls. Somehow he never dreamed of anyone else he'd killed, just that one. Whenever he had that nightmare, he woke up sweating and panting, clutching his blankets and disoriented.

Blaise had never told anyone about this nightmare. He never would, either. He never wanted to have anyone experience the pain and suffering that he had inflicted, that now lived on inside his mind and was on a loop progression in his mind's eye.

The morning of his departure to Hogwarts swirled into the forefront of his mind. The possibility that he had a child, however small in form, ignited a small flame in his heart. Something he had forgotten he had came to life, as if anew. He looked around him and - for the first time in five years - saw his surroundings through the eyes of someone who wasn't completely detached from the world. His fingers ran over the smooth wood of the table, and a slow grin lightened up his features as he stretched his fingers. Fatherhood. That sounded like a good idea to him. Sounded like something he could do, something that could be non-Earth shattering; a quiet thing. Private, even.

Moving around to his desk chair, he took out a quill and parchment. Nibbling on the end of the quill, he dipped it into the ink and began his letter.

My dear child, he wrote.

I don't quite know why I'm writing to you now. At this point, I am not even sure of your existence, not even sure if your mother is pregnant. But you are a possibility, a welcome one, in fact. I'm not entirely sure what I want to say to you. My parents were never completely parental, never quite reached that extra distance to become warm and loving.

Anyway, as I write this I fear for you. Fear that you, too, might be afflicted with the very thing that has tortured me my entire life. By the time you read this letter - if you ever read this letter - you will know that I am a mind-reader. The barrier of an Occlumens is nothing to me; it is as if it does not even exist. Your now deceased aunt, Lilithe, was also like me. But, unlike me, she could turn her power on and off - metaphorically speaking - but she chose not to, chose to keep harvesting the power acquired from the thoughts of others. This power seems to run in families - my second-oldest sister, Zel, also has minor mind-reading powers, nowhere near Lilithe's or mine, but still there. June, my younger sister, has empathic powers. I do not know if any of our cousins bore any powers.

I will admit I am very excited for your coming. I have done many terrible things in my life. Things no human should have. And somehow these things were not wrong, were not so wholly terrible - they were, in a way, purifying. I will never say that the world would be a better place if only our kind - Wizardkind - were the only inhabitants. I will say that the world would be a better place if wizards who advocate Muggle and Muggle-born annihilation were not alive. And, due inadvertently to me, it is somewhat less inhabited by those people. I have never wanted to kill, to murder another human being. But I did so for my survival. I am not proud of it.

Besides that, all I can say is that I hope I can be the kind of father you need, and that you will never lack anything I did.

All my love,

Your father, Blaise Zabini

He stared at the letter for a while, letting the ink dry, and then folded it, pouring a bit of melted wax on it and pressing his ring seal against it.

Blaise never put much stock into Divination. When he had taken it while in his school years, it had never made much of an impression upon him. However, he had always subscribed to the theory that you never know until you try. He glanced around, and his eyes searched the bookshelves lining the walls of the study until he found what he wanted. Pulling out his wand and flicking it, the grapefruit-sized crystal ball and stand floated over to his desk and set themselves down gently.

Closing his eyes, he tried to remember what he'd learned, what might've sunk into his subconscious. After a few unsuccessful minutes of this, he sighed and leaned back in his chair, thinking.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to him. He removed his necklace and placed his right palm over the crystal ball and focused his mind on it. Slowly, the clear glass fogged up and his arm began to give off sparks. He heard a voice, thin and whispering, in his mind.

Who are you? it said.

"My name is Blaise Zabini," he gritted out; the sparks were becoming more and more painful.

Zabini? Descended from Loren Zabini? the frail voice said.

"Yes." As soon as he uttered that word, his eyes closed without him exerting any thought, but before he could protest, he saw a woman within his mind's eye.

When she spoke, it was with the same voice that he had just heard a moment before. "This was my crystal ball, when I was alive," she said.

He stared at her. "So you did enchant it before your death."

She nodded. "Yes. It had been made by a wizard who 'specialized', if you will, in making enchanted objects. He charmed it to always show the truth." She paused. "My children had been fighting over it before my death, so I added another spell that ensured it would not be used by people who were seeking selfish gains." Another pause. "So what do you wish to know, Blaise Zabini, my descendant?"

Blaise paused. He had been so sure he knew what he wanted to ask. But did he want to know the future? Did he really want to know the outcome of this? "Yes," he murmured.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing. Just... talking to myself." He took in a deep breath. "I wish to know if I am going to have a child, if the woman who might be carrying my child really is."

The woman who was once Loren Zabini raised her eyebrows. She looked somewhat shocked. "That is what you wish to know?" she asked.

"It is."

She nodded. "Very well." She spread her hands. "Take my hands and I will show you what you desire."

~*~

Twenty minutes later his eyes snapped open, and he quickly looked at the crystal ball. It was clear again, no longer the instrument of his future.

He glanced at a picture he had on his desk, and for a moment, the glass reflected his face. He was grinning; he could even feel his cheeks aching with it. His eyes shone like they hadn't in years. He ran his hands through his hair and yawned.

With all the knowledge he had acquired, he suddenly felt extremely tired. He got up and went into his bedroom, shedding clothing and donning his pajamas. Before he got into his bed, he noticed a letter, sealed with black wax and ribbon, on his pillow. Picking it up, he opened it and read its contents.

Blaise Zabini, it said.

I am not involved with those you pursued during the last few years. Neither do you know me or my face. But I am writing to you for your own safety and I pray to God you heed my warning:

Not all your enemies are gone. Be careful. Watch everyone.

He sat and stared at it for several minutes and felt the muscles on his neck and back tighten in stress. Not all of his enemies were gone? Where were they, then?

And, an even more important question was: Who were they?