Resolving

Eleven

The Beginning Of The End

Mr. Zabini,

How odd it is for me to greet you in such a way even after these many years; one thinks we should almost be on a first-name basis, after all the events that have transpired between us. Almost. Think upon, if you will, your young niece, Blanche, the daughter of your late sister Lilithe. What a darling child, with her dark curls and bright eyes. So full of joie de vive.

Too bad she won't live long enough to enjoy it.

You see, Mr. Zabini, I cannot lay my hands upon your august person at this moment, so my deep desires to have you pay for your crimes personally will have to wait. However, I have the knowledge that you hold your family as nearly and dearly as you hold your own personal security. So, to have it breached... But, if you cannot pay, someone must.

It was not signed.

Blaise gripped the letter in his hand tightly and the edges crumpled slightly. While he did take it seriously, he was distracted by the sight of Draco Malfoy's hand curled around the base of Hermione's neck as he was whispering intimately into her ear. She was giggling. Blaise could hardly keep himself from leaping over the table and stabbing Draco with the shrimp fork that was clenched in his other hand. It had been two weeks since they had talked and Draco had still not been given the heave-ho. The fork dug into his palm. He ignored the pain.

Someone nudged him. He turned to see the slightly amused face of Severus Snape watching him. "If you squeeze that fork any harder, Zabini," Snape drawled, "I'll have to make up a healing poultice for you. And you do know how I hate being helpful."

Blaise scowled, an expression that he had not condescended to since his young days of pouting when not given a sweet or bought a toy at his exact moment of wanting the item. "You aren't the one being tortured by them," he said, sullenly picking at the surf-and-turf-like dish before him.

"On the contrary, boy, we are all being tortured by them," Snape said. He was not eating the shrimp. The house elves who worked in the kitchens had long ago learned that if any crustacean was put upon Severus Snape's plate, it would soon find itself back in the kitchen, in a state of distressing decomposition. Snape paused as he eyed a piece of his carefully sliced steak and then selected the most worthy to be eaten at this particular moment in time. "Do you think we all want to be witness to their particular and most disgusting brand of public declarations of affection? I much preferred it when you were dating her; at least you were discreet."

"We shared a suite of rooms," Blaise said, making an attempt of a subtle-yet-blatant way of suggesting that, while they were not particularly publicly affectionate, there was plenty of private affection going on.

Snape finished chewing and raised an eyebrow at his former pupil. "Do I look like I care what you and Granger did in your rooms - which I'm sure was nothing because the portraits in there are particularly chatty - as long as you did not do anything of the sort where I would be a witness to it?" He sniffed. "In fact, you won me quite a bit of money."

"...Excuse me, what?" Blaise said, finally startled into the real world. "Money?"

The Potions Master smiled. Like a crocodile. "Yes. I had a quiet, but substantial, regular bet with Professor McGonagall on your relationship with Miss Granger. She was convinced that every Slytherin boy was out to get as much as he could as often as he could - as she thinks of all teenage boys, which is a rather good suspicion, I think, as I can remember being one - and I knew you well enough to know that you would never do such a thing."

Blaise gave a grunt of disapproval and then fixed his gaze firmly upon the student population. This turned out to be a mistake. It gave him full view of the girls who were looking back and forth between him and Draco and - dear sweet Merlin - sighing. It made his stomach churn. He quickly excused himself and escaped back to his chambers to see Eve, who was being watched by a charming house elf by the name of Dobby, who was happy to sit with the baby as long as he was able to knit, and Blaise gave him all the yarn he desired.

He was greeted by a smiling baby, a happy house elf, and yet another half-done, all-the-colors-of-the-rainbow knitted jumper for Eve. He held it up, gazing at it in the firelight. "How lovely," he said, smiling at Dobby. "I'm sure she'll look quite adorable in it, won't you, darling?" he asked the baby, who gazed up at him, bright-eyed. She giggled.

"Sir is very kind," Dobby said, "thank you. Dobby must be going now."

"Oh, Dobby, wait," Blaise said. "I forgot to give you something; I picked it up in Hogsmeade the other day." He walked over to a drawer and pulled out a plastic bag and handed it to Dobby. "There were supposed to be matching sets, but people had already picked through them. I do hope you like them..." He trailed off, rather pathetically.

He liked Dobby. Dobby reminded him of his own nurse, who was living at the Zabini Manor in semi-retirement. That is to say, she only did her duties in his particular set of rooms there. When he was in "residence" as his family liked to call it - and he liked to say they had delusions of grandeur - she was at his beck and call and wanted to be summoned for his every desire. She was, in an odd sort of way, the only maternal figure he'd ever had. A strange thought.

Dobby pulled out the gifts, a knobby green sweater that read "Happy Christmas" in huge, bright red-orange letters with the 'i' dotted with a golden bell, and an orange-and-brown striped scarf. His tiny elf chin wobbled. "Oh, sir," he said. "Dobby loves them!" And, quite unexpectedly, he hugged Blaise's knees tightly.

Blaise turned red and patted Dobby's head awkwardly. "There, there, Dobby," he said. "You're welcome. Er... I'm sure I shouldn't keep you from your work."

Dobby moved away from him, already donning the garish sweater and scarf - for early June, it was still chilly - and smiled widely. "I will see Sir soon! Make something for Sir!" he said, brimming with pride. He vanished before Blaise could insist that he didn't need another hand-knitted sweater.

~*~

Dear Blaise,

I got your letter. Eve is so lovely! She's grown so much in so little time. I suppose I notice babies growing more, now that I'm not around this one on a permanent basis.

My son and daughter continue in the finest shade of health - though sometimes I find myself praying that they will catch cold, if just to slow them down a bit - and they have finally infiltrated their grandfather's last stronghold of solitude. Yes, they learnt to use Floo Powder to get to the Italy house.

In more urgent and very alarming news, our niece Blanche has gone missing from her place at the Isola. You may remember that, while Lilithe prevented her children from becoming mind readers in the way that you and I are, Blanche is a naturally gifted Occlumens, a power Lilithe forgot to screen for. Please look for her. I do not wish for someone to use her in the manner our sister was used, and I don't think you could bear to kill Lilithe twice.

Love,

Zel

He received this letter two days after the first. If the first letter troubled him - though, granted, not enough to distract him from his sulking about Draco and Hermione - this one unnerved him completely, especially in the wake of the first letter.

Blaise was not entirely fond of his late sister's children; they were rather spoiled and impolite little prigs, but they certainly didn't deserve to be kidnapped. Or killed. This is why he had left; so no one could find him and hurt him or his family in this manner.

Once you'd formed an acquaintance with Blaise, it wasn't hard to see that he adored his family. He loved all three of his sisters - even if the eldest had tried to kill him several times and then been killed by him - and his nieces and nephews, and even if he wasn't as close to Philip and Blanche as he was to Atton and Taris, he loved them dearly.

And someone was threatening Blanche. And now she'd disappeared.

He thought back to the letter he'd received at the beginning of the year. It'd mentioned something about not all of his enemies being gone. Perhaps this unknown kidnapper was one of those enemies. But he couldn't think of it here; not in the Great Hall with the groping clinginess of Draco and Hermione next to him and the ogling mass of the student body's roar of chatter closing in around him. He excused himself from the table.

As he walked down to the doors and was tucking the letter into his pocket, the Hall's doors opened and someone walked in. He looked at the figure, a tall, brown-haired man with a Roman look about him. Blaise gazed at him for a moment before the name sprang out of his mouth without his brain registering it.

"Octavian Yarrow. I'm surprised to see you here," Blaise said, trying not to wrinkle his nose in distaste.

"Blaise Zabini. I'm not surprised to see you. You've always come crawling back on your knees to beg for what you want," Octavian said, shooting a glance in Hermione's direction. "How it must burn you up, to see Draco lapping up what you can't have."

Though it did more than 'burn him up', Blaise did not let this show on his face. He really did not like Octavian Yarrow and did not want him knowing what his weaknesses were. "Yarrow," he said, copying the liquid, languid tone Snape used when in his most superior mode, "I can have whatever I want. Whenever, wherever." He let the edge of his mouth curl up into a slight smirk.

Several girls at the tables by them sighed. One said, quite distinctly, "But if only he weren't a teacher!"

Octavian's face began to screw up into a glare, but he caught himself. "As much as I'd like to continue this discussion about what you can and cannot have, Zabini, I'm due for a lunch meeting." He banged his shoulder into Blaise's as he made his way up to the High Table to sit by Draco.

At that moment, Hermione caught Blaise's eye with her own. He gave her his best impassive look and swept out of the Great Hall.

He hid in his office until it was time for his fifth year Charms class, which he tried to go through as quickly as possible without leaving anything out and even let the students out five minutes early. However, when he looked up from his desk after dismissing everyone, there was still one person there.

"Alastair," he said to the young man standing in front of his desk, "can I help you?"

"Yes," Alastair said. He looked fidgety. "You know that man who showed up at lunch? Who went to speak with Mr Malfoy?"

"Yes, Octavian Yarrow," Blaise said, marking a problem wrong on someone's test. "What about him?"

"My granddad says he's... well, he says that he's involved with the Wrong Sort, professor," Alastair said. Blaise could hear the capital letters.

"The 'Wrong Sort'?" he inquired, grading the paper. "And what sort, pray tell, is that, Moody?"

"Death Eaters, sir," the fifth year responded. Blaise's head snapped up at that. "Granddad says that he's still involved with the last ones, sir."

"And how does your granddad know that?" Blaise watched the boy carefully.

Alastair wasn't fidgety, Blaise realized as he was watching the boy. The boy was wary. As if something were going to pop out at him from the next niche in the hallway. He was his granddad, all over again. In a significantly less tattered body.

He gets top marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Blaise thought. But I never, ever see or hear of him studying it. Doesn't surprise me, considering...

"During the Easter holiday, professor," Alastair said, interrupting Blaise's inner reverie. "He was talking about the contingents left over and said that Yarrow was a big man among them. And then he spit after he said Yarrow's name," Alastair added. "Like it was something dirty."

"Oh, it is that," Blaise said vaguely.

"Sir?" Alastair said.

Blaise shook the memories of Octavian from their school days out of his head. "Oh, just thinking." He gave Alastair a sympathetic look. "I feel rather sorry for you lot, who were too young to know what happened, five years ago. Now everything's being run by us who were. And someday you're going to get into the world we've made for you all and wonder why it is the way it is." He patted Alastair on the shoulder. "Off you go, young Moody. Tell your granddad hello for me when you write him next."

Alastair nodded, slightly bewildered at Blaise's comments and left. Blaise leaned against his desk and thought about what the boy had told him.

Well. Octavian Yarrow was involved in the leftover Death Eaters, the ones mongering for a new Dark Lord to support so they could overthrow the Ministry and rebuild Voldemort's flawed vision. But, of course, they wouldn't see it as flawed. They would see it as great. For the good of the world. Stupid bastards.

~*~

The next day, during lunch, when the mail was coming in, Blaise was deep into conversation with Snape about the new theory of using minute amounts of powdered belladonna in healing potions when an unfamiliar owl dropped a square package, about the size of a Quaffle, in front of Blaise. There was only his name at the top. He shrugged and slit the brown paper of the package to reveal a Spellotaped brown box. He opened it. There was a folded note on top of a cloth-wrapped object.

As he picked up the note, he could feel Snape's inquisitive gaze on him, he could hear the sounds of people around him eating and talking. But... but, the thing he could hear above everything else as he unfolded the paper of the note to read it was the sound of Octavian and Draco laughing. He read the note.

There was a warning.

And now you have paid one-sixth of your due.

Bid farewell to your niece and nephews.

After them, we will come for your daughter.

He pulled out the cloth-wrapped object. He was numb as he unwrapped the object he now held. Even before the last fold of cloth fell away, before the scream of Hermione as she glanced over and saw what he was holding, before he had even touched the wrapped object, he had known what it was.

It was the severed head of his niece, Blanche.