Suspicions
Blaise wished he was back at home the moment he set foot in the school. He suppressed a deep sigh of weariness and dusted himself off as he stepped out of the fireplace and into McGonagall’s Office. She was, of course, awake and seemed to be expecting him, and he wondered for a second whether he was the only one that blasted house-elf Tinky was running to with the latest news. But no, he was no Lucius Malfoy and he was sure the house-elf would never have any reason to betray him to the Headmistress or anyone else.
He was merely a queer Slytherin seventh year to her, and anyone who had a properly functioning brain in their head would be suspicious. He knew he must be prepared for anything, so as he sat down on the stiff chair McGonagall motioned to he was tried to fix the image of mother (with a very red nose and a few green pimples here and there) in his mind. She didn’t use Occlumency, though, he was sure, because even Snape’s invasions on the mind were easy to sense and he did not feel a thing during the entire ‘conversation’.
She wasn’t very good at making conversation, he realized (not that he was helping at all), and he allowed himself an inward smile at the ease with which he could read her expression. Oh she was very good, it must have taken years for her to perfect that impassionate face and blank expression, but she was a Gryffindor and some things just stuck to you.
On the one hand he could sense a fear, a little bit of pity for him and though Blaise’s blood almost boiled at the thought, he pushed the feeling back and concentrated on her face as he spoke, “Yes, Professor, she will be fine with a little rest.”
“What is it Zabini, is it dangerous?” McGonagall was clearly trying to sound worried, but he knew that no matter how much she pitied him for being a poor impressionable Slytherin who could so easily follow in Draco’s footsteps he knew there could never be any feeling other than hate between the Headmistress and Aveline Zabini.
He smirked. A very Draco like smirk, he would tell himself later, but it did the job. He did not want suspicion, but pity was also one of the last things he needed. “Will there be Quidditch this year, Professor?”
“Of course Mr. Zabini,” her voice was dripping with confusion, “I didn’t know you were interested in the game.”
“I usually settle for watching them make fools of themselves, but I reckon I’ll have to participate this year,” he would need to tone down the attitude a little, he thought, even if it was a little too late and he had already implied that he was a good player.
“Besides,” he continued, “I’ll probably be hanged by the five or so other Slytherins if I don’t participate this year.”
He knew that McGonagall had not expected this. He was acting too much like a typical seventh year, as if nothing was wrong with the world outside. But he was confident that it eased her worries a little and that she would not watch him too closely until he made a mistake. He probably would, he thought wryly, as soon as the Quidditch season began. He wondered if they would make up songs about him, just like the ones they’d made up about Weasel that year.
Blaise smiled to himself as he walked out of the room. That was one of the few days that he had enjoyed being in the Common Room when it was full of students. Suddenly Blaise stopped dead in his tracks. Out of all the faces he could remember from that day one had suddenly jumped out at him.
Theodore Nott.
He searched his memory for something, anything, but he could not recall hearing anything about the boy after that day. He had seen his father at Death Eater meetings, but he would have known if Nott was initiated as well. Nott senior’s face flashed before his eyes, if something had happened, though, he wouldn't be so calm would he. Blaise suddenly felt sick and turned off the lights. It was long before his tired brain defeated his upset stomach and allowed him to get some rest. Classes could go to hell, he wasn’t getting up until he’d had enough sleep.
………
Of course he couldn’t practice before the try outs; that would not only be showing insecurity, it would also show that he actually cared. He did, of course, care, whether he made a fool of himself in front of all those people or not, but no one had to know that. Besides it wasn’t like he actually had enough time to train properly. Between his actual NEWT courses and the stupid new Career program Blaise had spent his days in a whirlwind of essays and smudging ink and worst of all, endless numbers upon numbers upon blasted numbers.
He would kill the idiot that had come up with the idea of making him a ‘future spy in Gringotts’. By the second lesson he had reached the conclusion that the only purpose of this chosen career was to drive him mad. By the time the Goblins finished half of this sort of calculation they wouldn’t have enough brainpower to devise a revolution against the Dark Lord, it was a stupid excuse to get him to agree. He snorted as he took the broom out from the bottom of his trunk; it wasn’t as if he could say no in the first place. Perhaps some fresh air would help clear his head even if he made a fool of himself.
It was only when he reached the pitch that Blaise realized he didn’t actually remember how to get onto a broom properly. He watched them do it before him, but he knew that once he tried to perform the seemingly simple task it would look much more awkward than agile.
“Heeeeeeelp!”
Blaise flinched at the horrifically shrill noise and chose the moment when everyone was busy getting the silly sixth year down to mount. It was awkward, but now that he was on the broom he thought he could stay on without any disasters. Of course that was not counting the balls.
“STOP! STOP, JUST BLOODY STOP!” he was loving the captain already; such a kind, soft spoken, respectful boy. Not that he would even dare talk to Blaise like that, it was some stupid sixth year that had dropped the ball from a very easy catch.
“Zabini!” Blaise almost felt sorry for the boy. It was a bad team as most of the athletic types had left to pursue their interests through Death Eating and the ones left were mostly the studious, stringy type. He tried not to think about Nott again and took a deep breath.
Five near-falls and three bad passes later the captain whistled again and began waving his arms around his head comically. By the time Blaise got close enough to hear him he had cooled down and was calling out the names of the chosen players. As soon as he heard his name called Blaise flew off towards the lake. Of course one had to get down once they had mounted and he knew it would be equally awkward. Luckily the only person around to see his amazing landing was a sixth year Ravenclaw boy, Adamson, and he was far too busy sneaking (rather obviously) into the forbidden Forest. Blaise stared after him and wondered what devilry he was up to. He had seen the boy’s father at the Death Eater meetings; a man who had once been as handsome as his son, but was now stuck with an ugly sneer on his scarred face. But Blaise had also seen the boy walking the greenhouses with that dimply Hufflepuff girl…a Mudblood.
After the boy had disappeared into the forest Blaise dropped his broom beside a large tree trunk and sat down to rest. He summoned his bag and took out the small notebook to talk to Celeste. He had barely had time to register that she was demanding more explanations about Draco “or else I’ll find out my own way” when a shadow fell across the page. He slammed it shut and looked up at the perplexed face of the youngest Weasel.
She was staring at him with a frighteningly set expression on her face, but she didn’t seem to be able to bring the right words out. He knew she had some sort of Gryffindor speech to make, though, that much was clear, so he just waited for her to make a fool of herself without his help.
She opened and closed her mouth several times and cast sidelong glances at the notebook in Blaise’s lap. Finally, she strode towards the bench and sat herself down at the other edge. “Listen Zabini,” her voice was so viciously strong that Blaise didn’t dare interrupt her, “I noticed that you were missing for a couple of days and I’ve seen you write in…that!”
Finally, now he knew what she was on about. For some reason, though, Blaise found himself waiting patiently for the rest of the speech instead of interrupting.
“He’s using you,” she entreated, “He only ever does that to people, and you’ll regret it one day-”
“What are you on about Weasel!” one thing Blaise couldn’t stand was a silly little Gryffindor girl telling him he was being used, being weak.
“Listen, I…”
“Why don’t you just get your Gryffindor ass back to your Potty fanclub before you embarrass yourself even more,” he spoke harshly before she had time to continue her stupid rant, “I left to see my sick mother that night, and what I choose to do with my own bloody stationary is my own business.”
There was a short silence in which Weasel’s face turned many different shades of red. Finally, she was able to compose herself and she stood up. She did not snap back or speak in a biting manner, all she said was “I’m sorry about your mother,” in a tone that indicated she wasn’t leaving the other matter alone.
As soon as she had entered the castle Blaise opened the notebook again, but his mind was not on explaining things to Celeste now. He was thinking about the Weasel’s words. Blaize Zabini did not allow himself to be ‘used’ by anyone, no matter what happened, and he had to prove that…perhaps even to himself. So he took out a clean piece of parchment and his self-inking quill and began to write.
