WISHLIST: Princes among Paupers [Blaise/Justin]
Author: Anonymous
Recipient: too_dle_oo
Title: Princes among Paupers
Pairing: Blaise Zabini/Justin Finch-Fletchley
Request/Prompt Used: really, really rich boys divided by blood status
Rating: G
Word Count/Art Medium: ~1500
Summary: When finding a prince in a world of peasants, what's a boy to do?
Notes: It's closer to pre-slash, to be honest, because the hurdles between them are too big to remove them in under 2000 words. But I hope you'll enjoy it anyway, too_dle_oo.
Could be canon-compliant, since neither Blaise nor Justin appear in Deathly Hallows.
Mark Twain helped with the title. I chose Oxfords, because they're pretty. Blaise himself is the kind of person who would wear lots of douchy loafers and drivers.
1 9 9 6
It wasn't his fault, really. The shoes made him do it.
Blaise didn't believe in the saying No one looks at a man's shoes, because he always looked. He knew what kind of shoes his fellow Slytherins wore, he knew which girls at Hogwarts had some resemblance of taste - very few - and which boys couldn't even discriminate between black and brown. When it came to the ability to dress themselves, the average Slytherin was sadly just as inept as everyone else.
It was heartbreaking to watch his dormmates mutilate their bodies with subpar footwear every morning. The most tragic figure among them had to be Draco, however, who always acted as if he knew everything about the finer things in life, when it was obvious he didn't have a clue. About anything. One of these days, if or rather when Draco annoyed him enough, Blaise would tell him that he wore the same model as Longbottom.
It happened in Herbology. They were standing around the long greenhouse tables, watching Professor Sprout demonstrate the correct way to harvest Snargaluff pods, when he caught a glimpse of them in the bustle of shuffling feet and shifting fabric. They kept peeking out of some Hufflepuff robes, rather cheekily, Blaise thought. Oxfords, nice ones, at that. Well made and well taken care of. Casual enough for class, but they were like a whiff of originality in the vast sea of mediocrity, like a breath of fresh air among this boy's painfully middle-class housemates.
But who was the boy? Blaise had watched the intriguing legs for some time, before he reached the face at last. Finch-Fletchley. James or Jonathan, or something like that. Muggleborn.
Blaise would have left it there, if his study of the boy in the following days hadn't been so promising. Despite his lamentable heritage, it was clear that Finch-Fletchley didn't lack breeding. It was in the way he moved, in the way he ate and spoke. It was in everything he did. That he didn't lack funds either was obvious from the material of his uniform to the cologne he wore or the way his hair and nails were cut.
Blaise didn't have anything against poor people as such, but trying to befriend them was inconvenient. You couldn't ask them to meet up in Geneva over the holidays or invite them for an airing in the countryside without creating a fuss. Even paying their way wasn't an option, because it would only make things awkward.
He couldn't deny his own discomfort at the thought of getting involved with someone of that kind, but he was no fanatic firebrand either. He could make an exception under the right circumstances.
After the decision to approach Finch-Fletchley was made, a new problem arose. Blaise couldn't get him alone. Hufflepuffs, like a swarm of co-dependent bees, moved only in large chattering gaggles, and while rejection was unlikely, it was much harder to be charming in front of an unsophisticated audience.
It was after another - now infinitely more interesting - Herbology lesson, when his luck changed. Finch-Fletchley had stayed behind to talk to Professor Sprout, and by the time they were done, the rest of his housemates had left.
Blaise stepped into the boy's way, his back straight and his hands casually tugged into the pockets of his robes.
"Finch-Fletchley, isn't it?"
"Yes?" Pale eyes scanned their surroundings as though expecting an ambush. "What do you want?"
"Come to Hogsmeade with me on Saturday."
Finch-Fletchley's brow furrowed. The long, slender nose twitched. It was a good nose.
"What? Excuse me, what? Why are you even talking to me? Shouldn't you be with your junior Death Eater squad?"
"Are you trying to insult me?"
Blaise didn't like where this was going. He liked the waves of stiff hostility radiating from the other boy even less. He would have given up right then, if only Finch-Fletchley hadn't been the only person who promised to be interesting in months.
So he let his body relax and gentled his voice.
"You don't have to worry about Draco and his cronies. They're idiots, but mostly harmless."
"Harmless?"
Blaise liked the sound of his voice deepened with anger.
"You call that harmless, do you? They want us all dead."
Blaise sighed. "It's nothing against you personally. It's a matter of principle, nothing more. Anyway, politics are so incredibly tedious, don't you think? Let's talk about something else."
Finch-Fletchley looked at him, and Blaise was sure there was a spark of attraction in his gaze. But then Finch-Fletchley only scoffed and walked around him to head back to the castle.
"So Saturday?"
Finch-Fletchley looked back over his shoulder and glared.
"You never said you that you don't want to go."
"Leave me alone."
That Saturday Blaise hung back, watching the different groups of students flood down to the village. Finch-Fletchley - or Justin as he knew by now - swarmed by too many Hufflepuffs, walked by and ignored him.
"Whatever happened to never touching blood traitors or Mudbloods, no matter what they look like?"
Pansy's voice irritated him more than usual. Everything about her looked sharp, ready to pounce, as if she stood a chance of rattling him.
"You've got lipstick on your teeth."
The barb hit its target, but there was little satisfaction in that. Blaise was tired of people.
1 9 9 8
For once the day looked promising. The rare relief of finding no news from home on the front page of the Global Gazette was even better than his first espresso. Sometimes being a Brit was nothing short of embarrassing.
He thought about the Slytherins sometimes, wondered if they were satisfied now. If the needy little boy Draco Malfoy used to be finally felt like he was someone, if Nott had decided to put his brains to better use than his father or not. He hadn't told anyone that he would not come back for his final year, and there had been no letters inquiring about him after September 1st. It didn't matter. Blaise didn't need them. Ennui wasn't loneliness.
He didn't think about all the others.
The city didn't feel as small today. It still bustled with too many people and voices and Muggle cars, but the sky was open and the waves bluer than they had been in days. The Wizarding quarter in La Rousse was hardly less busy in the winter months. Blaise lingered on a bench in front of his usual café and watched the world go by without hiding behind sunglasses.
A glimpse of a familiar face caught him off guard. He followed before he was aware of having decided anything. Then he was close enough to touch a shoulder but didn't.
"Justin."
The boy turned around and froze. He seemed a little worse for wear in the way he carried himself, but who wasn't. His Chelsea boots looked as light as air.
"Hello."
"I didn't know anyone else was here. When did you arrive?"
"November, actually. I convinced my folks to stay awhile."
"I haven't seen you before."
"No, you wouldn't have. I only come here, when I need something I can't get anywhere else."
Something convinced Finch-Fletchley not to run off, although Blaise couldn't tell what it was. Shortly after they were sitting in a small deserted basement restaurant ordering soup, and Blaise watched Justin smile as he levitated his coat to the coat rack.
Looking at him and talking was strangely difficult, when they were so close. Justin chattered about his family and finishing his Muggle education, and how everyone expected him to go to the same Muggle university as his father and grandfather. The guilt he so obviously carried added a sour note to the air around them. Blaise couldn't begin to fathom why he would even want to go back like a lamb to the slaughter.
Justin dried his napkin with a spell, after using it to wipe the condensation from his water glass, and smiled weakly as he caught Blaise's glance.
"I miss magic."
Blaise wasn't the same boy he had been when they had talked last. Back then, what he had felt for the Slytherins and the old families had only been distaste, because they let their sons play foot soldiers for an unworthy nobody with no breeding, who looked as though he hadn't taken a bath in decades.
By now, however, that contempt had mixed with fear, shame and anger. Blaise was still picking at it, turning it over and over in his head without getting anywhere concrete. He couldn't voice any of it. He couldn't apologise, because whatever he said would be too empty in its confusion.
"You don't have to give it up," Blaise said instead. "There are many places, where it's not as bad as it is at home. Where people don't think what they think at home. There's a whole world, where your blood doesn't matter so much."
He only looked up, when Justin shifted in his seat and sighed.
"I know. But I'd still like to go home. Wouldn't you?"
Blaise nodded, because he could at least stop pretending indifference.
When he left La Rousse, they had agreed to write and talk and meet again. Blaise knew it had less to do with him and more with the other boy's need for something magical and familiar, but he felt lighter somehow and he imagined that perhaps Justin did, too.
Recipient: too_dle_oo
Title: Princes among Paupers
Pairing: Blaise Zabini/Justin Finch-Fletchley
Request/Prompt Used: really, really rich boys divided by blood status
Rating: G
Word Count/Art Medium: ~1500
Summary: When finding a prince in a world of peasants, what's a boy to do?
Notes: It's closer to pre-slash, to be honest, because the hurdles between them are too big to remove them in under 2000 words. But I hope you'll enjoy it anyway, too_dle_oo.
Could be canon-compliant, since neither Blaise nor Justin appear in Deathly Hallows.
Mark Twain helped with the title. I chose Oxfords, because they're pretty. Blaise himself is the kind of person who would wear lots of douchy loafers and drivers.
1 9 9 6
It wasn't his fault, really. The shoes made him do it.
Blaise didn't believe in the saying No one looks at a man's shoes, because he always looked. He knew what kind of shoes his fellow Slytherins wore, he knew which girls at Hogwarts had some resemblance of taste - very few - and which boys couldn't even discriminate between black and brown. When it came to the ability to dress themselves, the average Slytherin was sadly just as inept as everyone else.
It was heartbreaking to watch his dormmates mutilate their bodies with subpar footwear every morning. The most tragic figure among them had to be Draco, however, who always acted as if he knew everything about the finer things in life, when it was obvious he didn't have a clue. About anything. One of these days, if or rather when Draco annoyed him enough, Blaise would tell him that he wore the same model as Longbottom.
It happened in Herbology. They were standing around the long greenhouse tables, watching Professor Sprout demonstrate the correct way to harvest Snargaluff pods, when he caught a glimpse of them in the bustle of shuffling feet and shifting fabric. They kept peeking out of some Hufflepuff robes, rather cheekily, Blaise thought. Oxfords, nice ones, at that. Well made and well taken care of. Casual enough for class, but they were like a whiff of originality in the vast sea of mediocrity, like a breath of fresh air among this boy's painfully middle-class housemates.
But who was the boy? Blaise had watched the intriguing legs for some time, before he reached the face at last. Finch-Fletchley. James or Jonathan, or something like that. Muggleborn.
Blaise would have left it there, if his study of the boy in the following days hadn't been so promising. Despite his lamentable heritage, it was clear that Finch-Fletchley didn't lack breeding. It was in the way he moved, in the way he ate and spoke. It was in everything he did. That he didn't lack funds either was obvious from the material of his uniform to the cologne he wore or the way his hair and nails were cut.
Blaise didn't have anything against poor people as such, but trying to befriend them was inconvenient. You couldn't ask them to meet up in Geneva over the holidays or invite them for an airing in the countryside without creating a fuss. Even paying their way wasn't an option, because it would only make things awkward.
He couldn't deny his own discomfort at the thought of getting involved with someone of that kind, but he was no fanatic firebrand either. He could make an exception under the right circumstances.
After the decision to approach Finch-Fletchley was made, a new problem arose. Blaise couldn't get him alone. Hufflepuffs, like a swarm of co-dependent bees, moved only in large chattering gaggles, and while rejection was unlikely, it was much harder to be charming in front of an unsophisticated audience.
It was after another - now infinitely more interesting - Herbology lesson, when his luck changed. Finch-Fletchley had stayed behind to talk to Professor Sprout, and by the time they were done, the rest of his housemates had left.
Blaise stepped into the boy's way, his back straight and his hands casually tugged into the pockets of his robes.
"Finch-Fletchley, isn't it?"
"Yes?" Pale eyes scanned their surroundings as though expecting an ambush. "What do you want?"
"Come to Hogsmeade with me on Saturday."
Finch-Fletchley's brow furrowed. The long, slender nose twitched. It was a good nose.
"What? Excuse me, what? Why are you even talking to me? Shouldn't you be with your junior Death Eater squad?"
"Are you trying to insult me?"
Blaise didn't like where this was going. He liked the waves of stiff hostility radiating from the other boy even less. He would have given up right then, if only Finch-Fletchley hadn't been the only person who promised to be interesting in months.
So he let his body relax and gentled his voice.
"You don't have to worry about Draco and his cronies. They're idiots, but mostly harmless."
"Harmless?"
Blaise liked the sound of his voice deepened with anger.
"You call that harmless, do you? They want us all dead."
Blaise sighed. "It's nothing against you personally. It's a matter of principle, nothing more. Anyway, politics are so incredibly tedious, don't you think? Let's talk about something else."
Finch-Fletchley looked at him, and Blaise was sure there was a spark of attraction in his gaze. But then Finch-Fletchley only scoffed and walked around him to head back to the castle.
"So Saturday?"
Finch-Fletchley looked back over his shoulder and glared.
"You never said you that you don't want to go."
"Leave me alone."
That Saturday Blaise hung back, watching the different groups of students flood down to the village. Finch-Fletchley - or Justin as he knew by now - swarmed by too many Hufflepuffs, walked by and ignored him.
"Whatever happened to never touching blood traitors or Mudbloods, no matter what they look like?"
Pansy's voice irritated him more than usual. Everything about her looked sharp, ready to pounce, as if she stood a chance of rattling him.
"You've got lipstick on your teeth."
The barb hit its target, but there was little satisfaction in that. Blaise was tired of people.
1 9 9 8
For once the day looked promising. The rare relief of finding no news from home on the front page of the Global Gazette was even better than his first espresso. Sometimes being a Brit was nothing short of embarrassing.
He thought about the Slytherins sometimes, wondered if they were satisfied now. If the needy little boy Draco Malfoy used to be finally felt like he was someone, if Nott had decided to put his brains to better use than his father or not. He hadn't told anyone that he would not come back for his final year, and there had been no letters inquiring about him after September 1st. It didn't matter. Blaise didn't need them. Ennui wasn't loneliness.
He didn't think about all the others.
The city didn't feel as small today. It still bustled with too many people and voices and Muggle cars, but the sky was open and the waves bluer than they had been in days. The Wizarding quarter in La Rousse was hardly less busy in the winter months. Blaise lingered on a bench in front of his usual café and watched the world go by without hiding behind sunglasses.
A glimpse of a familiar face caught him off guard. He followed before he was aware of having decided anything. Then he was close enough to touch a shoulder but didn't.
"Justin."
The boy turned around and froze. He seemed a little worse for wear in the way he carried himself, but who wasn't. His Chelsea boots looked as light as air.
"Hello."
"I didn't know anyone else was here. When did you arrive?"
"November, actually. I convinced my folks to stay awhile."
"I haven't seen you before."
"No, you wouldn't have. I only come here, when I need something I can't get anywhere else."
Something convinced Finch-Fletchley not to run off, although Blaise couldn't tell what it was. Shortly after they were sitting in a small deserted basement restaurant ordering soup, and Blaise watched Justin smile as he levitated his coat to the coat rack.
Looking at him and talking was strangely difficult, when they were so close. Justin chattered about his family and finishing his Muggle education, and how everyone expected him to go to the same Muggle university as his father and grandfather. The guilt he so obviously carried added a sour note to the air around them. Blaise couldn't begin to fathom why he would even want to go back like a lamb to the slaughter.
Justin dried his napkin with a spell, after using it to wipe the condensation from his water glass, and smiled weakly as he caught Blaise's glance.
"I miss magic."
Blaise wasn't the same boy he had been when they had talked last. Back then, what he had felt for the Slytherins and the old families had only been distaste, because they let their sons play foot soldiers for an unworthy nobody with no breeding, who looked as though he hadn't taken a bath in decades.
By now, however, that contempt had mixed with fear, shame and anger. Blaise was still picking at it, turning it over and over in his head without getting anywhere concrete. He couldn't voice any of it. He couldn't apologise, because whatever he said would be too empty in its confusion.
"You don't have to give it up," Blaise said instead. "There are many places, where it's not as bad as it is at home. Where people don't think what they think at home. There's a whole world, where your blood doesn't matter so much."
He only looked up, when Justin shifted in his seat and sighed.
"I know. But I'd still like to go home. Wouldn't you?"
Blaise nodded, because he could at least stop pretending indifference.
When he left La Rousse, they had agreed to write and talk and meet again. Blaise knew it had less to do with him and more with the other boy's need for something magical and familiar, but he felt lighter somehow and he imagined that perhaps Justin did, too.