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crvdence · 7 years

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@snakepitnet event → winter challenge | first prompt ; location: hogsmeade thlaise drabble | 1133 words | read in ao3

blaise zabini hated winter, it was, definitely the season he hated the most. he didn’t see any thrill or beauty in snowed in white sceneries, or in a wind so cold you could feel it through your clothes no matter how many layers you were wearing. how the sun was barely visible and how the days were long, grey and miserable. as bloody miserable as winter made blaise feel.

you know what was truly beautiful for blaise instead? the south of italy, in summer. beaches bathed in the pinks and oranges and deep reds of the sun setting as he enjoyed a cocktail, lying on his back, basking in the sun, feeling the warmth emanating from the sand, being absorbed by any single inch of his skin.

the weather in england sucked, but winters were just something blaise didn’t even manage to tolerate.

and there was another thing than went all over blaise’s head, and it was hogsmeade in winter.

he truly, deeply, hated hogsmeade by winter, he simply just did. it was just a stupid little village with some shops and an inn, what was all about? he didn’t understand the tradition of going there on dates, either.

all the grumbling and the shivering and the freezing, just for enjoying an average cup of warm chocolate, or butterbeer (or firewishkey if pansy was with them), it wasn’t just worth the effort, it just wasn’t. couldn’t they just stay in? the dimness of the dungeons were much better than the grey and the white of the winter scenery of hogsmeade.

there was just this slight problem: theodore nott adored winter. pale faced, scrawny and clumsy theodore nott was in love with the snow, and the greys and the cold and the ice and all of the things blaise despised with all his heart. however invented the expression the opposites attract might be having a blast when it was about theo and him.

and then, there was this another slight problem: blaise zabini couldn’t really say no to theodore nott. so he bitched and complained about how much he hated hogsmeade by winter, but the moment a shiny eyed theodore nott asked him if he wanted to go to hogsmeade with him, blaise didn’t even waste a second to say yes.

pathetic, he admitted so himself. (draco just told him he was besotted, but blaise didn’t even acknowledge it).

so there he was, making his way into hogsmeade, shoulders brushing with theodore nott’s. the tip of his nose was icy and he hated he had to sniff every second, because that was neither elegant or beautiful. plus, his toes felt like they were about to fall from his feet the moment they stepped outside, no matter if he was wearing some of his best italian leather shoes, a birthday present from his mother. his hands felt uncomfortably clammy inside his wool gloves, but then things seemed to take a halt when he felt theodore’s mitten groping around him rather clumsily, and blaise’s head turned to look at him.

the tip of his nose was surely as icy as blaise’s, because it was red almost glowing against the paleness of the rest of his skin, he was wearing a long thick grey scarf all around his neck, barely freeing his mouth, around blaise could see little huffs of white air each time he inhaled and exhaled. fuck, theodore nott was beautiful even if he looked so wrapped in clothes he was wearing he was getting lost in them, and he knew that the way his pale cheeks flushed weren’t really about the coldness in the air, but the fact blaise was squeezing his fingers through the thick fabric of his black mittens.

theo smiled at him for the fraction of a second before he buried part of his face inside the thickness of his grey scarf, and blaise felt his chest contracting in pain, because that had to be the cutest thing he had seen in a while, almost if theo was trying to tuck himself in. he was about to say something when a ball of snow came out from nowhere, and it impacted between his scarf and his coat, and he was about to kill someone because that coat was straight out of the new madam malkin’s collection, thank you. when he saw pansy laughing and throwing another ball that, this time, impacted somewhere on theo’s legs.

“come on, love birds!” she called out, urging them to come where she was. as they approached her, blaise and theo could see that there was draco, and daphne and astoria as well, all of them preparing a literal arsenal of snow balls.

“stupid crabbe made a bet and we’re going to kick his bloody sorry arse.” it was daphne this time, and her words made theo chuckle, because daphne looked like this elite, posh princess, but she had such a potty mouth. she spent way too much time with pansy.

theo and blaise looked at each other for a second, before shrugging, and went on with the whole making snow balls plan, while listening to pansy who was, literally, planing a strategy.

the battle itself couldn’t have lasted longer than half an hour, when crabbe and goyle cried in agony about surrendering, which obviously, lead to pansy’s team (she claimed it) to win. they were all panting and sweaty and their hair were a mess when they removed their coats, and scarves and hats inside the three broomsticks, since grabbe’s bet was all about buying them all the food and drinks they wanted, something he was going to regret, since pansy and draco seemed to be sure they were going to eat all their body weight in pumpkin pasties.

around the table, theo was sitting next to him, in a turtle neck black sweater that framed nicely the features of his face, the hems reaching down his knuckles, as his hands held a cup of warm chocolate. blaise was staring again, and when theo notice with a tilt of his head, it was his time for his cheeks to flush pink.

“do you want to go to tomes and scrolls later?” blaise asked, almost brushing his question against the shell of theo’s ear, grinning to himself when he saw more of that pink hue over his cheeks, a little act of revenge; along with an enthusiastic nod, because books were something theodore nott liked as much as he liked winter.

blaise zabini still despised winter, and hogsmeade wasn’t really the place he would like to be in the most (italy’s beaches were still that place), but seeing theo’s face in the eerie atmosphere of the cold, the fabric of his mittens around his hands, was enough for making his hate falter, or at least pause.

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crvdence · 7 years

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@snakepitnet event → winter challenge | second prompt ; a friendship/relationship → pansy parkinson & draco malfoy | 1688 words | read in ao3

there had been this tradition in the slytherin house since the third year, that had been a constant no matter what was going on (what the stupid gryffindor gits were up to) which was: pansy and draco christmas party.

being rich (and spoiled, but mostly rich), and having your common room in the dungeons had really its perks, like throwing a party without the rest of the castle not knowing it and with snape running a blind eye because favouritism should be added to the list of the slytherin best characteristics.

the party was held in slytherin’s common room, and they all set the limits of not letting first years and second years because, they might be a tad too young for draco’s extensive christmas decoration and pansy’s creative potions, and all of them had more decency than they claimed to.

every single year draco demanded a fancy dress code that mostly everyone followed (and theodore nott hated, but blaise zabini was always there to make him change his mind), and pansy didn’t give any directions but to leave her alone to drink to her heart’s content, thank you. (and they all learned to let her be, after all, it was very easy to just drag her body to the girl’s room and make her sleep it over.)

with perspective, pansy thought this was the best party they had organized up to that day. it was packed, everyone seemed to wear clothes draco approved (theo was dressed in something velvety and sultry that had blaise zabini written all over it), and pansy had literal rivers of firewhiskey and one of her best potions at her dispense, all night.

it wasn’t often that she lost track of what she did, who she talked to, what were her surroundings or even how much she had to drink, but maybe her latest invention needed some refinement because the next thing pansy knew was that it was morning and she was awake, and she wasn’t in a bed that were hers. in fact, she wasn’t in the girls dorms at all.

she turned around and tossed with the blankets and the covers, feeling stuffy and hot even if she was wearing just her lacey black underwear, until finally a bundle next to her started to grunt as well, and pansy’s eyes widened.

well, it had to happen, and if it was a guy, and if she had to chose, she would say either zabini or even flint, but both of them were too preoccupied with other lads to pay attention to her, not what she cared, but she could still fantasize.

she was still lost in her own train of thoughts when the bundle next to her moved some more and blonde hair started to peek from under all the covers, and pansy’s heart skipped a beat, it couldn’t be. but the moment she was thinking that, draco emerged fully from under the covers, muttering something about a headache before focusing on pansy, and the two of them stared at each other for a good minute, their eyes so big they were going to fall from their face.

“bloody hell.” it was what came out of pansy’s mouth, as draco let out a high pitched scream of horror, taking a handful of the blankets to cover himself, while pansy just raised one eyebrow at him.

“oh my god, malfoy, stop screaming.” she grunted with closed eyes, pressing the pads of her fingers against her closed eyelids, feeling the headache against her temples like a pulsation, like millions of tiny hammers smashing against her skull, from inside.

it had been forever since she had such a hungover. no wonder she was half naked, in a bed, with an equal half naked draco. bloody hell. half naked with a half naked draco lucius malfoy. definitely the party of the year.

draco had, thankfully, stopped screaming, and pansy was truly thinking about what happened. she had no recall of the night whatsoever, her last memory was taking shots with blaise at some point, and gossiping with daphne and astoria at some other, but then some blackness, and then just half naked with draco, nothing to fill the void with.

“pansy?” draco, for mostly looking fancy and proper, was looking like a mess with bed hair, and blood shot eyes. if pansy wasn’t dying of her headache, she would be laughing at him. “have we slept together?!” but god, his voice was so high-pitched, pansy was sure it was going to reach point where it was only going to be heard by hyppogriffs.

“malfoy, do i look like i bloody know?!” her patience and her good manners were running short thanks to her headache, and the last thing she needed was a frantic draco demanding answers of things she simply didn’t know, because… it wasn’t possible, right?

draco and her had been friends literally forever, sure pansy thought he was pretty and everything, they understood each other well and their sassiness and sarcasm really were a good match, but it was simply impossible they had slept together, like… literally impossible.

“i doubt it, though.” pansy said with a shrug, sounding so sure of herself draco raised an eyebrow, and pansy had to raise his hand to make him shut up before he went all over one of his high-pitched howls of hell. it was too early for that.

“listen, it’s not that i wouldn’t shag you but…” pansy tilted her head to the side, wondering how it was the … nicest, way to say this. she knew draco and her were friends long enough for being used to her abrasive honesty, but maybe she was soft because it was christmas time. maybe she was just bloody hangover. “you’re probably the least heterosexual person i have ever met.”

draco seemed silent for a minute, as if he was pondering whether or not pansy was insulting him or praising him, until, also tilting his head to mimic pansy’s action, he shrugged. “why, parkinson, thank you.”

before pansy could say anything else, they were surprised by a click sound and a flash of light, and when they looked at the source, there was blaise zabini, grinning like an idiot, holding the fancy muggle-inspired camera his mother bought to him the past christmas. “bellissimo! this one is going straight to my favourite collection.”

theo was standing behind him, dressed in comfortable lounge clothes, looking between horrified and completely amused at the sight in front of him, and pansy was making sure he was going to bloody kill the two of them, or at least hex them.

“i have no time for you right now, zabini.” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, and she got up, ignoring the fact she was wearing just her underwear, her headache pounding again with every step she took, even if she didn’t know where the hell she was going.

a flushing theo passed her a robe, and she had to hold back her cooing before she covered herself with it, and she saw draco doing the same after leaving the bed, crossing her arms and looking at theo and blaise with a raised eyebrow. “are you just going to stand there being bloody annoying or are you going to tell what the fuck happened?”

“i saw you two snogging on the common room’s couch, but i decided to turn away because i was sure there were some things it was better if i didn’t see them.” theo said with a small shrug. he was being not helpful at all, and pansy sighed. but snogging was okay, pansy was okay with snogging draco. she was okay with snogging blaise as well, hell, she was even okay with snogging theo even if he was something between a younger brother and a small little kitten.

“but after that?!” draco was back to his high-pitched ultrasonics again, and pansy was sure she was going to hex him for real before they even know what really happened between the two of them.

this time, blaise shrugged, shaking his head. “you two disappeared, and i was in no mood to see what you were up to.” pansy looked at him with a deadpan expression, that was blaise zabini, always a delight. “but, let’s be honest, i highly doubt you slept together?” he offered, with a shrug. “i mean…” and he made a flourish wave at draco’s direction, making him theo giggle.

“what?!” the blonde protested, crossing his arms over his chest again, not really sure what he was getting offended about.

“yes, thanks, i reached the same conclusion zabini.” pansy just wanted to take a bath and do something about her headache and just forget about this all together, even if this was the slytherin house, she expected an intervention lead by daphne greengrass the moment she put a foot inside the girl’s dorm.

“can we just act like this never happened?” draco pleaded, and blaise just waved his camera in front of them with the best of his grins, and pansy took a deep sigh.

“listen, i don’t want to deal with this anymore, do whatever you want with the pictures zabini i don’t care, i am just going to assume nothing ever happened and you all got a flash of my madam malkin’s new set of lingerie, you’re all welcome.” she turned, full of dignity, to make her way to the girl’s room.

the other three were smart enough not to try to talk back to her, when pansy parkinson was set on something nothing and no one was going to stop her about it, even if blaise was still grinning, with his camera in his hand, to a very flushed and flustered draco.

but before she left, she turned around, her face lighting up with something, as she had a revelation. “oh my god… i can’t really wait to see harry’s face when he knows this.” it was what pansy finally said, followed by the laughs from theo and blaise, and draco’s his high-pitched noises, and pansy just laughed.

definitely, the party of the year.

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crvdence · 7 years

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tears are only water

thlaise drabble | 678 words | read in ao3

Every time Theo cried, he curled in a ball, wrapped up in himself, like he wanted to turn into something smaller than he was, until he disappeared. His crying was quiet and silent, simply tears streaking down his cheeks, as he was terrified of uttering any sound, the tears pooling on his chin until they fell on his fisted hands, curled on the fabric of his clothes.

And Blaise hated the fact he cried like he should be ashamed of doing so, but he understood, nevertheless. He knew they were raised differently in more than one way. He was raised by the most emotional, raw and strongest woman, his mother; but Theo was taught that tears equalled weaknesses and the real men didn't cry rubbish, and with punishments that went beyond reason when tears finally spilled down Theo's cheeks.

The funny thing was, Theo was much more of an emotional person than Blaise was, more emphatic, pure was the only adjective Blaise truly found to describe him. He was damaged, as most of them were, but Theo could have taken all that hatred and hurt he had raised up with and turn it into something evil, selfish or heartless.

But instead, Theo did the contrary thing, and Blaise always marvelled at how he grew up to be so understanding, and kind and nice, when he was raised by the monster his father was. A monster that made him self-conscious and dubious of the very things that made Theo what Theo was. The things that Blaise loved the most about him.

He was tired, and angry at seeing Theo struggling about his feelings, not at Theo but at his father. Every time Theo apologised for something he didn't have to, every time Theo stopped himself at talking about something he liked, with that shine in his eyes Blaise could lose himself into; every time he winced and stiffened when he heard a scream, or the sound of shattering glass.

Blaise didn't think a lifetime imprisonment in Azkaban was punishment enough, not when Theo woke up eaten alive by flashbacks and nightmares, shivering and chocking in his own breath, scared and teary, and even so, he still tried to hold himself back in the anticipation of something worse happening.

And while staring at the transparent streaks falling down his lover's face, Blaise's mother words echoed in the back of his mind. “Tears are like the showers of the soul, caro, they cleanse you inside out. They take all the dirt, all the sadness, the bad things, and they purify them in water, and salt. Do you understand? If someone is afraid of their own tears, or the tears of others, they are someone to be wary about.”

So Blaise always took Theo in his arms, rocking him as he would rock a child, and melting in the embrace of his lover, he could literally feel Theo relaxing around him. And with his head buried in the crook of his neck, he sobbed and sobbed until he just didn't have more tears left. Blaise would thread his long fingers through his black hair, stroking his scalp, whispering words of encouragement and solace against the shell of his ear.

And it took Theo a lot of time to calm down, to stop shivering, and crying and breathing heavily, to stop clinging to Blaise's body in pure fear. And he would always look up at Blaise when he was done, his eyes swollen, his long eyelashes damp and cluttered by the tears, looking between ashamed and exhausted, and thankful.

Blaise always kissed the last of his tears away, closed, chaste kisses against Theo's eyelids, and cheeks, and chin. The first times Blaise saw Theo cry, he used to apologise profusely when he was done, but these days, all he did was to look up to his lover with an expression of pure bliss, and gratefulness in his face, leaning his eyebrow bone against Blaise's forehead, mumbling a thank you he could feel more against the skin of his nose, than actually hear it.

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crvdence · 7 years

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love is a room, that’s what is it

blaise zabini & mrs. zabini character study 2527 words ; read in ao3

1980. blaise zabini was born during a rainy and humid day in the middle of november, his cries echoing through the zabini manor in the south east of london. his father was a ministry employee of the department of mysteries, and his mother was this beautiful and charming witch who had lived some of her life in a small town in the island of sicily, in italy.

1984. he knew, since the moment he had enough control of his surroundings, that his mother was different than anyone else. different than his father, different than him, different than the world surrounding her. not only she looked different, but the way she acted was different too, her magic, as well. it was almost like blaise could taste it in his mouth, and saw colours around her, so vibrant and strong.

she possessed knowledge of things lost, traditions rooted in the small towns of europe before things like hogwarts or the ministry of magic were even created. knowledge that passed from generation to generation, whispered between hearths, that never made it to books, or subjects.

his father, a dignified pureblood wizard from an elite family, had nothing to do with it, and while he tried to raise blaise in the way he would fit best the high end society that he was born with, his mother would whisper to him in italian about tales and traditions and secrets her own mother would have whispered to her when she was blaise's age.

and blaise listened and learned, italian becoming a secret language between his mother and him, used for learning the things he would never learn at school, for the advices she didn't want his father to hear, for the gossips she, and he, learned to cherish.

and also, blaise learned how to know and not to say, how the strongest move was sometimes, not let people see what you had, and what your knowledge was, was simply to wait until it was the best moment to voice it out, or use it.

1987. the first, and only time, blaise saw his mother crying was at the funeral of his father.

despite the rumours, unfounded ones at the most cases, his father didn't die because of his mother's hand, he died because of a mission that went wrong leaded by the ministry in coalition with the durmstrang institute. something about dark magic, blaise never asked, and if his mother knew, she didn't tell him.

she just cried.

and blaise, had attended too many funerals after his father's one, he never saw his mother crying as she did that day, her face, usually so beautiful and composed, distorted in the pain and the sorrow of losing him, her magic, always so strong and warm, coming to blaise in strong waves, was faltering and wavering like the fickle of a candle.

from all the things that blaise wished people could understand was the immeasurable love her mother had for his father, and that her mother had for him, and all the strength she displayed after his absence. and her strategies of surviving, too.

1989. his mother got remarried to a disgusting old man that never said blaise's name correctly, and always laughed after he or his mother would correct him. he was loud and fat and his breathing always stink, he liked to smoke and drink firewhiskey and talk to his mother in a way that it made boil all the blood running down his veins.

he simply hated him, and he had the feeling his mother didn't even like him that much. it took a few years for blaise to understand why his mother kept remarrying such disgusting, old and rude old men, to understand how a strong woman like she was, in the society they lived in, needed something else to hold onto.

“caro, mama loves you so much, you know that? mama will do anything for you.”

and blaise, endeared by the nickname, would smile with a nod, leaning forward to press a kiss to her mother's cheek when she demanded one.

(barely a year after she married, her husband was found dead after his sleep. blaise, as bad as it sounded, was happy to hear about that, and when he looked at her mother, he knew, he didn't know how, but he did, maybe it was in the way her eyes sparkled or she moved, or maybe because she didn't cry at his funeral like he did at his father's.

'acqua in bocca' his mother would whisper to him, and blaise would nod 'keep it to yourself')

1990. his mother, even with an army of house elves around her, never trusted anyone in cooking her meals, she didn't even use magic, and blaise remembered fondly to see her with a long knife in her hand, chopping and cutting and smashing and peeling, her italian strong and melodic as she spoke to him.

“kitchens are the hearts of places, blaise.” she would say, as she dropped swirls of basil, parsley and oregano in a boiling pot of water, in such an enthralling way blaise thought she was preparing a potion, or casing a spell. “the warmest, the busiest, the one concentrating all the scents, all the life.”

the noise she made while cutting mushrooms would never leave blaise's mind, a strong, curtly sound, of a metallic blade against a wood surface, with such speed and precision you would miss it if you blinked. “and your father always thought i was degrading our position for stepping here, and cook.” she laughed, but blaise could feel the bitterness in her mouth, he almost could taste it, as it her mouth was filled with bile and blaise could feel it too. “but he never understood.”

“sometimes, you need to feel things in your hands, blaise.” she said, looking up at her child with sparkly eyes, braided long hair falling over her shoulders. “feeling it's warmth, it's weight, to feel it's real and tangible, and not something fleeting, untrustworthy. when you're close enough to something, or someone, close enough for touching it, the more you can read to it, the more you can see if it's going to betray you, you understand?”

blaise would look up at her, her long knife in her hand, and he would just shake his head. and his mother would laugh loudly, patting his hand with her clean one. “one day you will.”

1991. waiting with his mother in the platform nine and three-quarters, blaise felt for the very first time the weight of the stares and the rumours, and once again, he felt the strength of her mother, her capacity to be over any kind of comment, or stare, or disdain against her.

the admiration he felt towards her grew up as each year passed by, as it did how close they became, they had no other but themselves, and one of the things his mother taught him was to be careful about where to put his trust, not to give it away easily. “your trust is even more important than your heart.” his mother would tell him once, her hand on his chest. “protect this, before giving it away, ask yourself if it's worthy, if you can give your trust to someone, if that someone would give their trust to you, you understand?” and that time, blaise nodded.

1993. his mother always wrote to him once a week, long and detailed letters in italian describing what she was doing, asking about his classmates and his lessons, wanting to know about his life in hogwarts. she never talked about her new husbands, and blaise knew it was a way to spare him, because they both know how the story was going to end anyway.

he wrote about his life at hogwarts, about quidditch, about the subjects he liked and despised, about annoying classmates, about the blokes he shared his bedroom with 'nott is quiet as a mouse, but he has nightmares by night'. he also told him about a fight he had with cassius warrington, a corpulent student a few years older than him, because he laughed about his mother and all the accidental deaths around her.

when she replied to him, she said she wasn't proud about him getting into fights, but that she was glad that warrington ended up with a broken nose.

she always signed the letters in the same way. 'cucciolo, ti penso sempre.'

1995. his mother married two times in the same year, and blaise though it was a stupid move, even for her. she always told him not to worry, and along with the letters she would send to hogwarts via his owl, she would also send new clothes she would buy in her trips to paris or milan, magazines, books and the newest and most expensive broom she could find, when blaise told her he wanted to give it a try at the slytherin quidditch team.

she would take care of him in the best way she could, using the ways she had, blaise knew all about that, and he loved her for it. she missed her sassy italian when she was talking about a party she had to attend, about the people talking about her when she knew she wasn't noticing, even if she did.

“take whatever people use to try to hurt you as your best armour, caro.” one of her letters said, and blaise read it lying on his bed, his wand illuminating her neat handwriting. “always raise above the comments, with a high head. let people babble like idiots, because the most important thing is that only you are the possessor of your own truth, you and the people you trust the most. you understand?”

and blaise nodded, even if she couldn't see him, folding the letter underneath his pillow.

1997. it was during a christmas break, of the calm before the storm, that blaise zabini found himself in the middle of his kitchen, his mother cutting, and slicing and smashing and peeling, while shouting orders to the house elves, that it almost seemed like time had passed by, even if it did.

blaise was much taller than her now, her braided head brushing his shoulders, and she had aged a little, rivulets of silver adorning her hair, but she was still as beautiful as blaise remembered her, as chatty, as positive, as strong.

“that poor kid, the one with the nightmares, talk to me about him.” she demanded, not questioned, not even looking up from the pot she was stirring in front of her, and blaise's eyes narrowed, trying to dodge her intentions, but he couldn't read anything.

so blaise talked about nott, about his nightmares, about his ability to see thestrals, about how he was brilliant but quiet as a mouse, about his screams piercing the night when he slept next to him in the dorms, about how he was scared of flying, about how they are together in potions and he was smart and efficient, about his pale skin and light eyes.

when he looked up again, her mother was smiling. “tesoro, do you trust him.” and blaise shrugged, before giving a tentative nod, so his mother talked again. “and does he trust you.”

and that time, blaise remembered theo's hands clinging to the sleeping draught he had made to him, soaking in the feeling of the weight and the warmth of his hands, that sensation of closeness, his eyes as he understood the luxury of a dreamless sleep and he gave a firm nod, that made his mother smile, but she said nothing more, giving a few pats to his cheek.

1998. his mother didn't pledge to anyone, she stayed neutral during the war, during the raising of lord voldemort. she was mourning her seventh husband, and at the same time, she was using all the resources she had, to make sure blaise was safe.

she left to italy, to her own family manor in sicily as soon as she knew the war was exploding around, that muggles were being hunted, that people were disappearing every day. and she wrote to blaise daily, her heart thrumming against her chest every time the owl would return to her, she always pleaded him to come back, to spend time with her in italy, to not to get involved, and not fight.

and blaise stayed as neutral as he could, he had nothing to do with the death eater business, and being pureblood gave him room enough for being more or less safer when hogwarts was taken by the carrows. days were long and silent, and there was this feeling of danger everywhere, even for slytherin students. but blaise knew he could make it one day at a time, focusing on that, surviving, relying on everything his mother had taught him about raising himself over the waters and testing the other's trust on him.

the battle was spent locked away in the dungeons, the body of a shivering, cold theodore nott pressed against him, and the warm hand of pansy parkinson holding tightly into him. it could have been seconds, or hours, or days... before the three of them ran away, until they were far away from the aftermath and the hogwarts castle to feel safe. theo was crying and pansy was holding back her own tears when they said goodbye, they all knew they had places to be, things they had to sort out before seeing each other again.

blaise zabini apparated to his mother's manor in italy, collapsing in exhaustion when he did.

1998. blaise didn't know for how long he had been asleep, but he felt it had been too long, because the sun was high in the sky, shinning through the curtains in his room. italy was so warm, and so bright, being there was the final understanding of how his mother was, how the energy seemed to pour through her like the light was infiltrating into his room.

his feet felt heavy as he made his way to the kitchen, to the familiar sound of cutting, peeling, smashing and slicing, and the strong, but fruity aroma of fresh made coffee. his mother smiled at him when he stepped inside, her petite figure taking him in a long, warm and strong embrace.

they both knew they had to talk about a million things, everything blaise saw, everything blaise didn't dare to say, the tongues of fire haunting him in the corner of his mind, but he also knew that they had all the time in the world to catch up, and he also knew what his mother was going to say before she did.

“you need food to live.” a mug of steaming coffee and a plate of bread and tomatoes and olive oil shining like gold was put in front of blaise whose stomach grumbled in hunger, and looked up to smile at her. “eat now, and talk later.”

and blaise smiled again, as she pressed a kiss to his temple, sitting down in front of him to enjoy the same mug of steaming coffee, and the same plate of food.

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